Wheeling Gull Isle highwayside

panic makes her a creature driven purely by instinct. features contorted by rage, pure adrenaline dulling the pain, she spits, "he's an idiot. his fault." obviously, the woman hadn't cared enough to come find him then. she does not have the space to formulate another thought because the woman has set fangs to her forelimb, moving with an intent and her fangs seek to defend and the pressure is mounting unimaginable and something pops and 

she screams, desperate and shrill, a sound she's not made since she was a pup. darkness rings her vision, the woman's words blurred as distorted. "coward!" she exclaims, the word sounding alien to her own ears. too distant, too unraveled, unbound. she's never known pain like this, never thought she could bear it. and the unravels, grows baseless. she is a child, and her mother's eyes are green and wide and lifeless, and the earth is shaking, and all she sees is green. she is on the ground, writhing, fangs peeled back and desperately searching, though the actions of her body and the firing thoughts of her mind are two things separate entirely.