Little Nymph

I am the nymph. He is the satyr.

He forgot to lock the door, but I still don't feel free. It's been five minutes of running through the streets, skewing my bones past dead ends and boulevards as he chases after me. I'm half-starved and exhausted, and all I want to do is curl up between the warm sheets that I knew so long ago.

He's far behind me, but he's gaining speed with every passing breath I take. I turn down an alley, the kind of place that inspires morbid thoughts and tell-tale hearts. Newspapers are scattered beneath my muddy bare feet. I can feel the damp ink smudging under my soles, and for one insane moment I want to know which headline is bleeding beneath me. It's been so long since I last read a newspaper.

My breath is strenuous, and I'm drenched in sweat and rain and fear. I can hear his screechy voice beckoning me back. Little nymph echoes through my consciousness.

I miss my real name; I miss being human.

I'm an alley cat's shadow, cowering behind a dumpster. He is coming for me. I can hear his heavy boots scuffing the asphalt. He's laughing malevolently. I think he left the door unlocked on purpose. This chase is only a game. I'm a little pawn, a little nymph, and he's the king.

My thousand-track mind is bursting with old memories of an old life of an old me: A smiling star with hopes and dreams and convictions.

“Hiding down here, little nymph?” he mutters, and I know he’s smiling just by the sound of his voice.

Just pass me by, please. I'll melt into the world of silhouettes and vignettes, and I'll be free. I want to scream for help, but I know it will all be in vain. It's too late and dark, and if anyone was coming to my rescue I'd be safe by now.

"Little nymph?" he hisses questioningly, inches away, still blind and unknowing.

I close my eyes and wish for wings.