Big Salmon Lake la vie en rose

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Yet again, time was a deadened concept to the girl. Similarly to her time in the bed of soft field grasses, Kitsch did not know how long she laid upon the shore, dipping her paw into the waters and feeling the cool sensation percolate between her toes. It wasn’t out of boredom that she continued to do so, but rather a test — would she eventually dip her paw into the water and withdraw it only to find that she could no longer appreciate the sensation? The rest of her waiflike, ermine body was numb yet her every nerve ending buzzed with a monstrous type of feedback, the tremors of which anesthetized her very thoughts. Perhaps she had aged a thousand yeas and was destined to die there, from old age or hunger or exposure or pain. Whatever the cause, it matter naught to Kitsch. 

But, it did not seem that fate had that in the cards for her. 

When she first heard her name, Kitsch did not react. Her narrow chin remain alighted with the sodden bank, her body listless and unmoving. Her breath came in shallow puffs and she wished her voyeur would move on without much torment. After a several moments though, the footsteps  came closer and Kitsch’s embarrassment yielded to her inane need for tenderness. The oujo shifted herself and turned her head to glance up at the form of West. If Kitsch had been in her right mind, she might have quipped about 'how the tables had turned,' or maybe she would have made the connection between West and the poppy [which became her undoing]. But Kitsch could do neither, could not even speak, and she blinked languidly at the woman — inarticulately beseeching her for help. At this point, anything would do. 

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