Running. It feels like all we ever do is run. Run from a bright yellow, to large for life bird. And no that isn't a metaphor.
It started a year ago. He mainly targets the kids. I think he finds them the easiest to get. Makes sense. They dont stand a chance. They're small little legs. I knew someone who met him, but now their just another body in his kill streak. And now he's after me. I run. I don't know if he's still behind me. I don't care. I have to keep running. I look back. A mistake. He's not there. I think I'm safe. A mistake. I slow down. A mistake. I jog down an alley way and he's there. His once yellow feathers now stained red. '1844' he says slowly. His voice like harsh jaggered scratching on a chalkboard. I say nothing. '1844' he pulls something from behind his back. I scramble away realising what it was. A knife. It glittered sinisterly under the moonlight. '1844' I try to stand only to be pulled back by my feet. He plunges the weapon into my chest, a red liquid dripping out of my mouth. I try to get away but I know it's too late. A laugh escapes his mouth filling the air. As i feel my self dirt into an endless slumber I hear his scrambled voice '1845'.
