It is not incorrect to say that she is just bones. In fact, it is almost certainly the first thing to notice about her, the way her translucent flesh wraps around her bones, like glass or like a jellyfish drifting through the dark sea. Sintra thinks she would know if she was dead because she thinks that her sight would be restored, but more than that, the red splash of her heart clenching and twisting in on itself between the blades of her shoulders is a constant reminder that this is not the Afterlife, it is the meadow, instead.
In the autumn meadow, the girl stands apart from the others, wary, nervous. She does not trust any of them now, keeps well away from the twisted and the normal alike that mingle and graze and that sometimes copulate shamelessly now that the year wanes. She watches, though her head must turn left, then right, to see them, sweeping the meadow with one violet eye while her animated ears twist and pivot. The ragged, empty, socket with its pink scar leaves half her world plastered with darkness and the meadow feels full of that shade, full of the crooning of monsters. Everything else is stained the sallow color of fear. The world is full of horror. It is full of trickery and nightmares that make the familiar into the strange. It is full of predators who will not wait until you are dead to steal your eyes. It is full of the wicked who twist all the rest until they can tell you that the day is darker than night and you nod in agreement because you can't remember anymore.
This is what Sintra knows of the world. When the star-cloaked filly shivers out of nothing - a ghost come to life - she only freezes, as if by not moving she might become fully invisible. It has never worked before.
She has no other defense. This is a world designed for monsters, not stupid girls.
In the autumn meadow, the girl stands apart from the others, wary, nervous. She does not trust any of them now, keeps well away from the twisted and the normal alike that mingle and graze and that sometimes copulate shamelessly now that the year wanes. She watches, though her head must turn left, then right, to see them, sweeping the meadow with one violet eye while her animated ears twist and pivot. The ragged, empty, socket with its pink scar leaves half her world plastered with darkness and the meadow feels full of that shade, full of the crooning of monsters. Everything else is stained the sallow color of fear. The world is full of horror. It is full of trickery and nightmares that make the familiar into the strange. It is full of predators who will not wait until you are dead to steal your eyes. It is full of the wicked who twist all the rest until they can tell you that the day is darker than night and you nod in agreement because you can't remember anymore.
This is what Sintra knows of the world. When the star-cloaked filly shivers out of nothing - a ghost come to life - she only freezes, as if by not moving she might become fully invisible. It has never worked before.
She has no other defense. This is a world designed for monsters, not stupid girls.