Big Salmon Lake la vie en rose

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West moved closer and at first the broken girl shrunk away from her touch. Kitsch soon relented, after only a moment, and allowed herself a single solitary reprieve against the warmth and kindness of another. Kitsch shut her eyes tightly and knitted her ashen eyebrows together, pushing gently against the woman’s touch. 

Kitsch felt a rush of strength from West’s presence and she pushed herself up to stand, shifting her weight upon shaky limbs to find soundness. Then, all too quickly, her legs gave out again and buckled beneath her — and as she fell to the earth with a thud, the girl was sharply reminded of the fall she sustained, her broken body curled into his serpentine grip. She could almost feel her spectre there, as she laid twisted upon the bank, thrashing atop her. 

“Is he here?” she asked in sotto voce, lifting her head as sincere fear shot through her heart — Kitsch looked up at West, large eyes reflecting the crystalline blues of the springtide lake, not daring look at her surrounding lest he be there. It was what bedeviled her as she hauled herself across the lands: the thought that the man was tracking her, following her, a creature of the night waiting for his chance to strike again.

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