His footsteps follow me through moonlit backstreets, ever gaining, into the woods.
He shoves me against an old oak, tearing at my pretty dress, exposing the swirling, black tattoos beneath. Then the ink crawls and he halts, confused. He yelps as the black writhes up his arms, flowing from my flesh to his.
Later, when he is nothing but pulp and bone, the twitching tendrils slink back beneath my skin. They burn incessantly, day and night.
I take no pleasure, watching that show of slow laceration. I am grateful only that I am allowed to live, while I remain useful.