Poetry Story 2

Hours, turned days, turned weeks, turned months, turned years.
The girl blossomed.
There were suspicions of her origin.
Whispers followed her every step.
Superstitions played a hand.
Paranoia was conceived – blame point fingers.
Always led back to her.
Regardless of her prettiness or kindness the rest of the village grew wary of waiting.
Always her fault.
Her adoptive mother – *even carried her own theories of her origin* – kept her safe so long needed.
But time ticked away too fast.
Patience was not a thick barrier.
On the night they came for her, her adoptive mother packed a sack of food, thrust it in her arms.
“Run”, she had commanded.
And so the girl fled – never looked back – into the trees of the mountains.
Where animals hunt, and the night is cold.