Little Red Riding Hood

Blood is in her mouth, salt is on her tongue,
And she retches once, twice, body convulsing
As she falls to her knees, dizzy for a moment.

Bare skin scraped by needles hidden among the dirt. Hair matted with filth.
Her chest burns, labouring with the shuddering sounds of one
Who’s run too fast, too frightened.

High-pitched gasps as she picks herself up,
Lithe body slowly bending upwards with only slightly broken form.
The vigor of youth existent even in her current state -
Toes sliding against fallen pine, brushing against roots and rocks and stones.
Cuts and gashes. The stinging whips of shame and humiliation.

She should have taken the path of pins.

And hot breath is on her neck, loud growls are in her ears.
And claws are at her arms, pressing into the soft of her skin, faint lines of -
And she can’t breathe.
And still she runs. Always running, running, running
With the phantom pull of a string at her heel.

There’s the door -
But this time, it’s open. This time her mother’s lying on the floor, throat torn out,
Bread burning on the fire, blood soaking into the wooden floor.
And he was waiting for her here, all along, all along -
And she wakes up, choking. Asphyxiating into her sheets. Paralyzed.

Crying.

And this is the fourth time now, one for each night that has passed.
The door is shut. He can’t get in.
But she can hear it, the sound of his pacing, sometimes the eerily
Familiar voice of her mother calling out to her.
Of her neighbors.
Of her friends.
He can’t get in, he can’t get in, he can’t get in…