cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm
At first she doesn’t notice the humming, too caught up in the tug and pull of injured flesh and the burn of tired muscles as she pushes herself along the beach in a relentless rhythm. But it’s irresistible, in a way. Impossible to ignore. And as the notes find their way from her subconscious to consciousness, she finds her feet slowing as curiosity takes root in her ever-seeking mind.
Though she had been running for some time now, she is barely winded as she slows, an easy trot carrying her along the beach until a figure appears. She slows to a walk then, her gaze brightly curious as she picks her way along the shore towards the woman standing with her toes in the water. The red and white of her skin is darkened with sweat, her mottled tresses wild and tangled and decidedly unkempt. But then, that has hardly mattered since bone had begun to jut raggedly through her skin, blood drying into her fur even as fresh, vibrant red oozes from where her skin had been torn by bone.
Of course, her habit of running does not help. Not when each stride cracks barely healed wounds and pulls on tender skin. But it’s easier, somehow, to forget all of that when she can focus on the burn of muscle and stretch of her lungs. Her body testifies to just how often she pursues that particular method of forgetfulness, her youthful frame slim and leanly muscled, her vitality unmistakable.
She forgets too, sometimes, just how freakish she must now look. The odd sight a young woman with jutting bone and trickling blood must make to this stranger, so enthralling in her lovely perfection. Instead she smiles, refusing to bow before the conventions of a society that would make her a monster.
“Hello!” she greets brightly, stepping closer, eyes bold as they rove her loveliness. Even the faint, telltale signatures of illness cannot detract from such ephemeral beauty. “Was that you singing?”
Brazen
