•    The young girl, covered in dirt and in threadbare jeans and t-shirt, both too large for the small child, skittishly eyed everyone as she walked barefoot through the streets and flinched whenever anyone got too close. Her emerald green eyes were wide, terrified. Haunted. Her raven black hair fell messily around her face and down past her shoulders, a stray lock (one of them, at least) clinging to her forehead.
    Her movements were quick, wanting out of the crowd as fast as possible (despite its safety) without drawing attention. A voice in the back of her mind was telling her to run. To run as fast and far away as possible. She knew she had to listen to that voice, no matter what, didn't --couldn't -- remember why.
         Of course, she did remember why...she just didn't want to; didn't want to remember her parents death and how it was her fault; didn't want to remember her two month old baby brother's wailing cries (that still rang in her ears, six days later). She didn't want remember the blood. (Oh, not the blood! She felt sick at the mere thought!) And she definitely didn't want to remember who -- what -- was hunting her for a few sick kicks, had told her to run and is now treating her life like a hellish game. She didn't want to remember the chilling cackling, the terrifying, bloodthirsty crimson eyes, or the bloodcurdling roar that haunted her tortured sleep.
    "Run! Run for your pathetic life!"

         A lone tear ran down her cheek as she tears into a run, dodging people making their way through their lives (through the peace and the average hustle and bustle she could no longer have) and never giving her so much as a second glance or a single thought, just writing her off as just some street urchin and seldom caring or pitying her.
         But, probably most of all, she didn't want to remember that she had no hope...
    "You have seven days. Then, the hunt begins..."
    "...If you last that long!"

    And how little time she had left...