She emerges something new.
The womb is scarred, even still.
Scarred from where the child clawed his way out.
But that was years ago, wasn’t it?
And she is something new now. Something whole.
Something impenetrable.
She sways beneath this new weight.
How long was she dead? She has no memory.
And she does not know, either, that the child that killed her is now also dead.
How could she know?
But she is restored. Put back together with gold.
Every inch of her, gold.
Protected from horns and claws and teeth.
She could not save her own life then, but she is something else now.
She is alive and she will not be so easily destroyed.
Not that there is any piece of her that is worth keeping.
No part of her that is worth protecting.
And yet, here she is. Gold.
And she must get reacquainted with being alive, with moving as an alive thing might move.
While also acquainting herself with what it means to be made of gold rather than flesh and bone and sinew.
She draws in a long breath. Long and low, as if she is worried she might overextend the lungs.
And she releases it just as slow, careful.
She surveys the landscape and thinks about how much has changed since she was last here.
How much she has changed since she was last here.
again.
i didn't need to go where a bible went
