Her breathing was deep and steady when she run through the dense forest holding her grandmother’s kitchen knife in her hand. Her red cape was torn up, also her legs, hands and her face were cut by the tree brunches.
Stop you are the victim, said the forest while burying its thorns in her.
Stop and wait for the big brave man to save you, shouted the animals in the forest.
Go back to be the naïve little girl, the readers whispered with an outrageous mumble.
It was wrong, she knew it, they knew it even he knew it.
That is the only way the story goes, smart men told her. Don’t ruining it for all of us, they warned her.
You need to wait for us to save you, said the hunters with a commanding voice.
You don’t have the right to change anything in the story, her grandmother waves her finger in front of her face.
You are wearing red, you know what it means right? Blamed her the wise owl. You are the one that brought the wine in your wood splints basket. You asked for it, stop complaining and carry on with your part of the story.
And she listens, for so many years and for so many times that this story was told.
She didn’t want to disappoint them, make them mad angry or sad.
She did her part in the story, she played the character that was made for her for too long.
He was not far away from her. She could see him running for his life. He was panicking, hysterical. His breathing short and fast. A white foam was accumulating around his mouth. His big impressive eyes were now nothing but sheer horror.
She was faster than him, stronger then he had never been.
She was the predator he was the prey.
Can you hear me know with your big ears? She screamed.
Can you see me with your big eyes? She roars as a lioness.
He falls down exhausted, nothing has left in him. She looked at him, he was weak pathetic.
Around them the forest was quiet, nothing and nobody ask her to stop anymore.
They all knew. It’s a different story.