The Rain

Into the woods,

Trying to escape,

Tears in her eyes,

Running, running.

She fell.

The arms of the thorn bush

Consumed her.

Behind an old oak,

She crawled,

Bruised,

Bloody.

Footsteps

Coming.

It was him

Looking for her.

The footsteps drew

Nearer.

Her heart raced

Faster.

The leaves rustled.

The steps stopped on the other side

Of the tree,

Paused,

Continued further.

She relinquished her hiding spot,

And ran,

Deeper,

Further,

Into the woods.

The wind blew,

As if to warn her,

Of his presence.

Thunder crashed.

Lightning flashed,

Setting a tree,

Inches from her,

Ablaze.

She ran,

Past the fallen branches.

Footsteps,

Behind her.

The leaves rustled under his feet,

Telling her to give up,

To turn around.

She ran between two bushes,

And knew she was doomed,

Fore behind the bushes,

Was emptiness.

A spot neglected by God,

Where everything was dead.

She saw a tombstone,

And walked toward it.

She was wrong.

It was not a stone,

But a mere piece of pine,

 With a name:

Sandra Colt.

Her mother,

Whom had befallen the same fate.

She turned around,

To face the man whom had killed

Her mother,

And was going to kill

Her.

Tears streaming down her face,

She knelt before him,

As if to surrender.

A scream.

A gunshot.

The footsteps retreated.

The fire stopped popping.

A curtain of silence,

Separating her body and the forest.

One sound could be heard.

The sound remained forever.

The pitter-pattering, deathly sound of,

The rain.