It’s morning. The sun is beginning to peak over the treeline, the frost tipped branches and fallen leaves soon to be sopping wet from the warmth. Birds are beginning to wake and chirp, squirrels beginning to move and store.
She twitches, her exhales getting more shallow. Her mind is flicking through scene after scene.
Don’t leave me, she whispers, the fear casting over her like a black shadow on a sunny day. An instant coolness surrounds her as she feels her stomach churning harder. She knows it, he is leaving. He, who has been her only stability throughout this entire torturous experience. He, who is the only one she knows. He, who is currently rolling his hindquarters back to retreat into the trees. She calls for him, again and again. Her body is weak, she feels sick. She can’t stop though, not now.
It’s too late, how could he do this to her?
She has done nothing. She has been everything.
She winces. That’s it. This isn’t happening. She isn’t pushing.
She will die, and that’s alright. So will this thing. And this thing won’t have to deal with what she has had to deal with.
More heavy breaths, her heart racing.
It hurts. It hurts more than if she were to push. She can’t do it. She can’t do it to their child. Is it theirs, still? He left. Her child. She can’t raise something on her own.
The pain is agonizing. She can hardly breathe. Maybe this is it, maybe it finally happens. Finally darkness won’t be a temporary shadow but a permanent entity. She will be swallowed by the black hole, left to decay and replenish a world she never wanted to be in to start with.
But she feels it, the passing, the movement, the strength. Come back, she screams in desperation, left in pieces. Left in pieces to raise a mind not yet tarnished or tainted. How is she supposed to mentor and care for something when she has nothing to give herself?
Stop, she begs.
“Mom?” Her voice carries into the air like butter, warm and soft and tender. Brine lifts her eyes open to see the dusted blonde snout peering down to her. Her body is sweaty but cold, her heart pounding.
“I am fine,” her response is short and guarded. Instant guilt swells over. Stop it, stop blaming her for your nightmares. It’s not her fault. It’s yours. You birthed her. You chose life. It’s your fault.
“Sorry, I had a bad dream,” she corrects herself, sheepishly raising from the ground and shaking off the dead leaves clinging to her skin. “Are you alright?”
Doe eyes peer back at her with purity. She nods, but Brine still feels guilt creep along her spine. Breathe, you’re alright. It’s alright. It was a dream. You’re OK.
“Yes, I am fine,” she responds to little Ruth, a beautiful palomino roan casting different hues of gold even without the sun. Brine sometimes stares in awe of what came from her, how did she make such a beautiful creature?
Brine begins to walk, her little golden shadow in tow as they make their way weaving through pine trees and over fallen logs. Ruthless is already in a pleasant mood, which is hit or miss some days. It seems only on sporadic occasions she falls short, hitting some sort of emotional state where tantrums and fits are to be thrown. But today is a good day, Brine can see it in the way little Ruth lifts over logs and chases after birds.
Her obsession for birds is as unexplainable as Brine’s hate for Autumn.
They emerge onto the green landscape that is quickly turning to a dying brown. The meadow is huge, bigger than she remembered, but the action has not slowed. She sees interactions of all sorts. Brine feels the pull of Ruthless as she flaps her wings in anticipation. Brine doesn’t need to hear it, she sees it. She sees Ruth and her eyes, how they light up and how her body tenses. Her social butterfly, her brave little bird. Brine is nothing anymore, but she is something so long as she has Ruth.
Maybe that’s why after all this time, the black hole hasn’t swallowed her yet. Is it fair to say that Ruthless might be the only reason left for her to live?
No, don’t put that on her. She deserves better than to be your saviour. She deserves a past with no baggage to carry, no burden to hold.
“Stay close,” Brine warns, perhaps in the most mother-like tone she can muster, but Ruth doesn’t notice a difference. In the golden girl’s eyes, her mother is nearly perfect. Nearly, but nearly is enough.
Brine
find yourself, then come find me