Her body lie, sunken into the snow like a twig in moss. She is vulnerable—sprawled like a cat sun bathing—her chest rising. Up. Down. Up. Down. It’s rhythmic, soothing, and timely. There is nothing but a cool breeze to rattle the dead branches of naked trees, not a soul nearby to rake her ears.
She looks peaceful, quiet, and home.
But she isn’t. She is Brine.
Inside she is a stir of emotions, a whirl wind of internal chaos. She is neither sane nor insane, she just is. Her reaction depends on how she feels, whether her heart is bleeding or her mind is spinning. Brine is unpredictable, and impulsive.
But for now, she remains quiet.
The sky is blue for the first time in days. Snow doesn’t fall, or turn into ice. In fact, ice melts; slower than ice cream but faster than cubes in iced tea. Brine is placed delicately on the edge of the meadow, shadowed by ebony branches that hang over, brittle and exposed.
Eyelid opens, long black lashes opening like the drawing of a curtain to showcase hazel brown eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Her nostrils widen and soften, the long drawn moan disappearing into the darkness of the forest. She is distracted by the numbness of her left leg, when the soft swoop of a bird tingles her ears. The sound just irritates her, reminding her of something she used to be able to do but no longer can.
Like an adult who grew up being able to walk, only to have it viciously taken away, and strapped to a wheelchair the rest of his or her life. Like a dog playing fetch, only for the ball to disappear behind the hedge and never chase again.
Ears pin back in sign of frustration, before outstretching both her front legs and lifting herself to all fours. Brine reaches around herself, putting stop to the explosion of an itch behind her shoulder when the sudden rustle of bushes captures her attention.
- Brine -
