The steady beat of flapping wings is the first thing I hear, and considering the fact that I’m currently nestled somewhere in a forest, I’m not inclined to any initial alarm. I keep my head low, eyes half-lidded until my vision is distorted to blurry smudges of color, listening to the sound of my breath as it rasps from my lips. Thoughts tumble and leap and twist through my mind—both rational and irrational fears, worry for both the past and future, and the ever-present turmoil of self-inflicted doubt that manages to linger behind everything. I try to numb my mind, not focusing on any particular train of thought as I simply exist against this large tree.

When the stallion’s words reach out to break the silence, I am noticeably (embarrassingly) startled; I feel the ache in my muscles tighten as I jump away, a gasp hitching in my throat while I blink furiously to peek through the mental blinders I had subconsciously raised against the world. Hairs that had stuck to the backs of my thighs from sweat are now torn free as my tail flicks twice in agitation. I tear my gaze away, trying to steady my breaths with measured inhales and exhales.

Finally, (as the milliseconds seemingly turn away into hours) I have enough composure to face the taller stranger. I am aware of every muscle in my face as I appraise him, trying to keep my expression into something of neutral amiableness, though even I can feel the hollowness in my gaze. With a twist in my gut, I notice his appearance is reminiscent of many of those in my homeland, but I am sure he was never a patron of mine (‘how?’ one might demand, because there have been countless men in my life, but let me assure you, I could never forget a face—even if I wanted to).

Shifting the weight of my body away from the stallion (and ignoring the fact that my weary legs have begun to tremble again), I clear my throat before speaking. “Hello,” I respond awkwardly, exhaling heavily from my nose as I press my lips together in a stiff, half-hearted smile. The familiar aroma of liquor clings to the stranger, stirring horrible memories of the balmy nights at home, when drunken men had not been so cordial. “You’re very concerned for a stranger. Is that normal in these parts, or for you?” Worried now that I’m making too much eye contact, I force my eyes to wander, lingering on the tree I had been resting against.

I don’t intend to sound accusing with my observations, but perhaps the tone of my voice is too flat to convince otherwise. After all, for my entire life thus far, very little good has come from a stallion expressing interest in my attention, casual or otherwise. Part of me (beaten, broken, trained) is already expecting his gold and bed—or perhaps more accurately, cold pleasures in exchange for warmth from this winter. Considering the damage already done, I wait uneasily for his response, counting my breaths to pass the time.

-Breathe in- one, two, three -breathe out- one, two, three, four…


“Speech.”