The Mating Run by Leeka

Weakness

Anger is like a flame, they say.

It flickers, it burns, and it engulfs everything in its path. But as I watch Zeke down there, pacing with that twisted grin and a menacing machete in hand, it’s not heat that I feel. No, it’s an eerie coldness that wraps around me like a ghostly

shroud.

You see, they tell you that anger makes your temperature rise, your blood boiling beneath your skin. But right now, in the heart of this forest, surrounded by towering trees that seem to witness every breath we take, I can’t help but shiver. The chill isn’t just in the air; it’s seeping into my bones, settling in, making me question everything.

Maybe it’s the fear. Fear has a way of sending shivers down your spine, they say. But this isn’t just fear. It’s a bone–deep coldness that goes beyond the natural apprehension that anyone would feel when faced with a man wielding a machete and sporting a grin that belongs in nightmares.

I wrap my arms around myself, attempting to ward off the cold. It’s not the kind of cold the

a jacket or a warm embrace can chase away. No, this cold is different. It’s the kind that seeps into your soul, making you question the very essence of warmth you thought you knew.

The forest, once alive with the symphony of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, feels muted. It’s as if the very essence of life has taken a step back, leaving room for this unnatural coldness to take center stage. The trees stand tall, their branches reaching towards the heavens, but their usual comforting presence feels distant, almost aloof.

I glance at Victor, who’s huddled beside me on this high tree branch. His brows are furrowed in concern, and I can see the tension in his eyes. I wonder if he knows just how much trouble he’s in right now. I wonder if I will do anything to stop Zeke. I wonder if I will do my best to save him.

.87%

Weakness

The coldness intensifies, and I find myself rubbing my arms, trying to generate some warmth. It’s not just a physical chill; it’s a psychological one, creeping into the recesses of my mind and leaving a lingering sense of unease.

I steal another glance at Zeke. His movements are erratic, and the unsettling grin never leaves his face. It’s as if he’s dancing to a tune only he can hear, a melody that sends shivers down my spine.

Everything freezes as Zeke begins to ascend the tree with an eerie ease that defies gravity. Panic clutches at my throat, threatening to choke the breath from my lungs. Victor, usually the epitome of composure, looks at me with wide eyes, desperation etched across his face.

“Fuck! What do we do, Alina? What the fuck do we do?!”

Victor’s voice trembles with a fear that mirrors my own.

I want to answer him, to provide a solution that will magically whisk us away. from this unfolding horror, but my mind is a chaotic whirlwind of confusion. Zeke, his eyes glinting with madness, inches closer and closer, each upward movement sending shivers down my spine.

“Think, Alina, think!” Victor’s urgency pierces through my mental fog, but my thoughts remain muddled, trapped in the labyrinth of fear. Zeke’s laughter, a disconcerting melody, reverberates through the air, filling the forest with a sense of impending doom.

“He’s climbing,” I mutter, my voice barely audible even to myself. It’s a statement of the obvious, a futile attempt to articulate the sheer horror of the

situation.

“I can see that! He’s climbing alright! We can’t stay here!” Victor’s panic rises, mirroring the surge of dread within me.

The tree branch, once our refuge, now feels like a precarious ledge suspended between life and the malevolent force that is Zeke. I search desperately for an escape route, my eyes darting between the surrounding branches as if they hold the key to our salvation.

1/7

Weakness

Victor clutches my arm, his grip a desperate plea for guidance.

we can’t just wait for him to

grip with each passing moment. I rack my brain for a plan, any plat, but the panic has rendered my thoughts

almost here! Alina, do something!” Victor’s voice cracks, his eyes. reflecting the terror that has consumed us

“I…… I think-”

your fault, Alina! If you hadn’t

this mess!”

every breath feel like an effort. Panic tightens its grip on my chest as I try to find a way out of this

“How would your prefer to meet your end? Quick and easy, or slow

sign of resilience, a glimmer of hope that we might find a way out of this dire situation. But his eyes,

a maniac, waving his machete as he

in the air. “You did this, Alina! You destroyed his shack,

it!”

more ominous. The forest, with its ancient trees as silent spectators, seems to bear witness to

377

9 Mar

Weakness

now.”

out together. Blaming each other won’t help us

1. me.

Victor’s anger only deepens, his frustration finding an outlet

our fraught exchange, “Tick–tock, Victor. Time’s running out. Choose

mounts as Victor glares at me, his accusation lingering in the air like an unspoken verdict.

within. The decision to jump, to escape the clutches of Zeke, hangs in the air like a precarious balance between life and a precipitous fall.

“Victor, wait! Don’t!”

Zeke, swift as the shadows cast by the dense foliage, closes in with an uncanny agility. My scream

wood. As Victor stumbles backward, teetering on the edge of the branch, Zeke lunges forward with a ferocity that mirrors the primal instincts of a predator. The machete gleams in the moonlight, a cold glint

from him!” I scream, my voice raw with

in his pursuit, launches at Victor,

above his head.

relentless assault with a desperation born of

machete arcs through the air, a lethal dance of metal

3/7

holding us suspended between life and the

“Victor, watch out!”

he once stood. Victor, agile and quick, darts. around Zeke like a shadow avoiding the light. His movements are a blend of desperation and determination, a silent vow to defy the

represents.

with a menacing presence, wields a machete stained with blood, Victor, fighting with a cunning ferocity, employs dirty

in frustration, swinging the machete blindly in Victor’s direction. The clash of steel against air becomes a dissonant melody within. the

man. What

hits, and I gasp. Zeke, blood streaming from his split lip, staggers backward. Victor, though wounded and hobbled, fights with a determination that defies the limitations imposed by Zeke’s

elicits an involuntary flinch from Zeke. The machete, once wielded with malicious intent, hangs at

menacing glare never faltering, tightens his grip on the machete, ready to defend himself against the approaching threat. As Victor nears, Zeke’s. demeanor changes. He doesn’t swing the machete in a direct assault;

a glinting menace in the dappled sunlight

4/7

Sat, 9