Past Live Are a B*tch

I remember my first life so well. The crowded dark forests under which a maze of caves grew were my home. Oh how I exalted the run through the winding paths, chasing my prey with infrared sight fit for a superior predator such as I. The shadows hiding my form gave me shelter, and my foot steps were mutes by the abundant moss. There, ahead in the near distance, ran my prey, my future mate. I just had to catch her. And catch her I did, arms wrapping around her waist as I twisted and fell bringing her down with me. When I leaned over her, the soft smile let me know: She was mine forever.
The second life turned the tables. I became the hunted. My movements were too loud, too clumsy. My ears strained to hear over the pounding of my heart. Tree branches scratched my face and arms. The moss caused me to slip, stumble, trip. Too well did the darkness hide my hunter, and the silence aided them in their pursuit. A tradition of decades demanded I run. My future mate had to catch me. An underground stream wove across the cave floor. I jumped nimbly across, for once my natural grace serving my purpose tonight. Warm air brushed against the back of my neck. I felt myself lifted off the ground, then falling back towards it as my capture became final. My lips curled up at the corners. I was hers, for the rest of our lives.