each time the tree falls, the thud reverberates through her, stretches all around. and then it is silent, but the silence is so much worse than the sound of it. it stretches on and on, and each time she is forced near, until suddenly she's by her mother's side and her eyes stare into hers, and again and again does she whisper those two words, as if they're supposed to mean something, as if they're supposed to make things make sense.
every night she stands here again, sees, in perfect clarity and yet distorted, her mother's body. the pain she feels here is so much worse than any physical one, it pulls her tight into its embrace and has her feel unimaginably small, suffocated—
loud, clear, so much more real than the dreams she wades through. she blinks open her eyes, utterly still, certain someone has come across her thrashing in her sleep. her gaze flicks across her line of vision, utterly vulnerable, wanting to see whoever spoke before they see her.
there is nothing but the clearing, which feels oddly warped. then a wolf, dark and sharp and smelling of cass, but she can see right through her eyes, see all that lies beyond them. she stares into the eyes that aren't really eyes at all, wants to move, the run to or from the figure, but she can't, she's trapped.
her gaze blinks open for real, this time, and she lurches from the den, making straight across the clearing, through the underbrush, not stopping, until her walk turns to a trot turns to a run and she's flying.
every night she stands here again, sees, in perfect clarity and yet distorted, her mother's body. the pain she feels here is so much worse than any physical one, it pulls her tight into its embrace and has her feel unimaginably small, suffocated—
stop.
loud, clear, so much more real than the dreams she wades through. she blinks open her eyes, utterly still, certain someone has come across her thrashing in her sleep. her gaze flicks across her line of vision, utterly vulnerable, wanting to see whoever spoke before they see her.
there is nothing but the clearing, which feels oddly warped. then a wolf, dark and sharp and smelling of cass, but she can see right through her eyes, see all that lies beyond them. she stares into the eyes that aren't really eyes at all, wants to move, the run to or from the figure, but she can't, she's trapped.
wake up, daughter.
her gaze blinks open for real, this time, and she lurches from the den, making straight across the clearing, through the underbrush, not stopping, until her walk turns to a trot turns to a run and she's flying.
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