She ran like all hell had broken loose.  Her feet barely touched the ground, but when they did they felt all too dangerous as they pounded the earth.  There was a hard hunger in her lungs as she flew through the woods, knowing that she was going too fast for her own good.  One small slip, one small pebble in the way, and she might fall flat on her face and all of this would be for nothing. 

  She was screaming through these woods in the middle of the night, the only sounds she made were the sharp, deep breaths and her feet pounding against the underbrush.  All she was was lungs and legs and sight and sound.  She was adrenaline.  She was open pupils and open mouth and the crushing pressure of running.  She was the wind she was sucking away from the night.

  If it wasn't deathly silent in these trees she wouldn't hear the soft slithering whispers of the shadows following her.  They were why she was running.  No, she wasn't running. She was flying, and her legs were only there to keep the earth from trying to raise and swallow her up. 

  Their warm and wispy tongues flickered in her ears as the peach-fuzz pads of their fingers tugged at her clothes.  They were a strange warmth in the cool night air that she was ripping into.  They wanted to hold her gently, soothe her aching lungs, feed sweet, hot fruit to her, let her sleep in peace with them.  She wanted none of that.  She knew what they were.

  They wanted to sip her blood chilled as they sat and talked, popping smoky bonbons of her muscles into their warm, flickering mouths.  They wanted to use her eyelashes to make dainty paintbrushes to paint up their shimmering eyes.  They wanted her purple irises to be set into their finest jewelry, to show off at the next gathering.  They wanted her soft skin to cover their throw pillows on their cozy beds.  They wanted her bones to make shimmering chandeliers with candles made from her fat.

  She'd rather swallow icy air from dark, sleeping woods than be lulled in their arms.

  This part of the forest felt more green, more alive, than the forest she'd pushed behind her.  There was a sultry spice in the air, one of the harmless mischief of beings she'd always believed were there.  As she bounded over a felled branch she took in a huge breath and she knew what trees these were.

  One who had been silently pounding the earth beside her, watching her every sharp breath, finally threw itself at her and she slammed into the cool ground, the too-familiar smell of dirt bringing all of her senses fully back.  It pulled her up by her coat to look into its shimmering dark eyes, its hot, sweet breath curling into her face.  Her arms were squeezed by strong but delicate fingers. 

  "You're fresh," it whispered huskily, sending a sickly ripple through  her body.  "Full of fight.  That's good."  She managed to violently wriggle out of its grasp for only a second, but it grabbed her even harder.  White sharp tingles met her forearms.  Her blood no doubt was starting to soak into the ripped fabric.  She felt the warm tongues at her cheeks, begging her to come with them.

  Her legs shouted and hit it harder than they did the ground while she'd flown.  There was a smoky cough, and the shadows sizzled with whispers.  It wasn't until she was ripped open more that her body decided that it had to scream with energy at this solid shadow.

  All she knew was bright light and power and her body flickered with the lust of release.  The wispy tongues and fingers peeled away, and melting howls woke the forest.  She felt her energy slip away from her, the energy that had let her fly here, but she knew that they would come back as soon as her burning light was out.  She wouldn't win.

  She was in a forest of shadow and things that shouldn't exist.  She was bleeding and cold, but hot and sweating, and she felt her body shudder with an endless ache.  Her mind was clouded but crisp, and she would end up with them with cabernet blood.

  A new warmth pressed against her.  It wasn't their foreign, lulling warmth, but a strangely familiar, invigorating warmth that made her sit up straight.  It was skin of a close male friend, a heat that sunk into your bones and held you close.  Soft skin of a ghost pressed up against her neck, whispering into her ear to go on.  He said that he was told to take care of her.  He pushed her to her feet and said that she had more than enough energy to live.

  She flew again.

  The tongues didn't lick.  Nothing pulled or tangled into her hair.  Her lungs cried but she kept going.  She was to live.  The dead told her that she was to live.  Her palms stung with the new sweat on burns.

  When she saw the warm lights behind windows she somehow sped up.  She threw herself into the yard, coughing dry spit into her mouth.  She fell into the cool grass and cried.  She knew she was safe here.

  She'd passed into well-deserved unconsciousness when the back door was thrown open.  A group fell to her side, peeling off a sweat-soaked layer trapping her skin, inspecting her spent body.  She was brought into a warm, bright escape, and everyone silently understood that she had finally become more than she'd ever expected.