Hunting

In a world of dreams, you become someone else, and rarely by choice. This evening, you step into the body of a small girl, defenseless in her seventh year, feeling as worn and old as the tattered dress and theatre beads around her neck.
You don’t know why you’re running, but you can feel the urgency as you grip the hand of a boy. He’s your brother, and he looks upon an upright man with trust and awe. The man has no name, but he holds you both tight as you run for a broken down sham. He seems to know you, because he calls your name as you lag behind.
Bullets whip at your heals, and you try not to scream as terror floods your body.
Hovering under the strong arms of the man who holds you and your brother to him, you all squat against the cracked wall. The dark oak planks allow light to seep in, and you press your eye to one of them, looking out into the dawning beams.
A rich man laughs as he hangs his rifle over his shoulder. His head tips back and the slobber of too much drink runs over his cheeks. His body is swollen with depravity, and you call him Narcissus.
The women on his arms dress in the velvety colours of deathly greens and reds. They goad the man on with their flattering words and suggestive eyes. They are the harlots of Malacandra.
The nameless man pulls you and your brother down as Narcissus swings his rifle in drunken arcs. The bullet holes made in the wall planks come so close to hitting you, you can feel the air moving.
You cannot breathe as you lay beneath the protection of the nameless man, gripping the hand of your brother. When the cracks of the rifle stop, you can hear the harlots croaking: “It is nearly morning. Let us be done with our sport. Who enjoys hunting children in the light?”