Re: Hunt
The yowl was her barometer of success and while she couldn't stop how she smelled (blood and adrenaline and fear), or the seeping crimson freed by knife blade claws that turned her midnight blue uniform purple and wet, she knew then that he couldn't see her. All her life was movement, flips and leaps and kicks and swishes of her skirt around sun darkened thighs. She saw the coiling of those muscles and rolled fast, agony around her middle, a last ditch prayer of prey that didn't have enough sense to give up and die yet.
"Fuck you," she snarled at the orange shaded beast, no longer the sweet tongued girl that had gestured the killer with padded feet closer. Instead she tried to get unsteadily to her feet, a clump of grass and dirt still in one hand. If she made it up, what then? Run? Surely it would follow her, wouldn't it? There was only one way to find out as she attempted to straighten, her glaring gaze on the temporarily blinded cat.