some like beautiful, perfect and pretty,
but i see the good in the bad and the ugly.

Rain ticks against the forest floor with a calmly feel—the distant sound of drops slipping past tender leaves, breaking the wall of ebony bark and casted shadows before tumbling to a death filled with chocolate stained soil. The clouds are hung with depression and tears, mirroring the same effect of dark lights in a white room. Her coffee creamed coat is a dampened, toasted version of it’s dry self with her subtle grassy spots stained with drops of water and rubs from spoiled dirt. She looks serene, almost—lanky limbs curled beneath her maturing body and a tail a mess of wind knots and broken branches twirled in mats dragging out like a wedding veil.

Tick, tick, tick.

Hazel eyes flutter at the distant coo of a raven, ears instantaneously bursting forward in motion before swiveling like radar dishes set to high frequency. A soft exhale releases trapped air from her lungs and her stomach sinks with the motion, the relaxation in her legs cause a slight stir of fallen leaves around her to shift. Another coo before a black shadow the size of a baseball glove glides over her head with a distinctive whisk in it’s wings.

With a dismantled, irritated grunt her two front limbs stretch far beyond her to aid her body in rising. She is skinnier, you can see so in each and every rib along her side and the small hip bone that lingers beyond lusciousness along her hindquarters. Along the top of her rump reaching just beyond the center of her back and stretching as low as her gaskin is a snowy white blanket of colour decorated in her grassy dots. She is pretty, quaint, but pretty. Not old enough to be beautiful, too old to be cute. Her face is beginning to refine itself in the bones that have developed in and along her cheek bone, the way that her eyes gleam with an intensity of curiosity, and how her ears have begun to suit her frame.

Her walk—trot, arguably since her pace was never comparable to slow—has a long float that carries her elegantly—in her mind, but in reality more of a distasteful march—across the forest floor like she had done so many times before.

Eberley’s talent was not in socializing but in being content in any situation. She truly is, in a house full of sisters, the sister who spends a majority of her time listening to music and wearing her hair in long waves. Her room would be decorated in bands and music labels, her computer just a mess of homework and her book shelf filled with authors of all genres and generations. In a home full of chaos and dramatic exits, she would be the one to bake dinner and go grab a movie. Nothing deters her, nothing angers her. Her personality is as easy going as John Lennon after a rolled joint.

That is if she was human. Here, she might be an odd duckling in a very carbon-like world.

Identical.

Cloned.

Her pace slows at the break of the tree line, the soft spit of rain still tainting her coat, more so now that the thin liner of leaves don’t break the fall. A chilled breeze nips at her skin and a slight shiver trickles down her spine. The cover of the forest had clearly been taken for granted, and the new found freedom was paired with a heavy blast of reality.

So similar to life.

Part of her hesitates, feeling torn on the brink of adulthood and childhood all at once. So she stands there, stuck like a sparkle on black pants, wavering, indecisive.

Where to next?