Great Bear Wilderness Take me to church,

What kind of danger?

The kind not even she understood. Bone deep and etched into the soul like some sick loveletter written by a laughing god.

All wrong. Mother knew it.

Nature? Nurture? A mix of the two? It was far too long ago now to identify, and she did not wish to delve into the fog of her own scattered little mind.

But god, she wanted to know oh so badly, the confession slipped out; one she hadn't spoken about since her travels to these wilds. Well, it was only a matter of time, this one felt the weight of secrets on her back and it felt strangely good to say it aloud. Surely it was inconsequential. He was a stranger.

I've killed before.

Her sort of danger was spontaneous. An ever-lingering threat. A gazelle drinks water at the river 100 times. 1 of those times, the crocodile strikes, lurking beneath the surface. She kept herself busy for a reason, kept herself out here, seeking for plants; filling the mind with thoughts of anything but the strike.

...Does that count? She'd follow softly, expression fading to a timid look, that which sought only approval. Kinship. Similarity.

She craved it, little beast of endless consumption.