There’s something about it she likes; the irony of tasting the sweetness in the bitterness of it. There’s something about it that makes her heart pound ba-dum ba-dum, a sound so loud her ears hear nothing but the beat of it, on this dark September day.
She walks through the long grass at night, hearing the whispers of darkness coming in close. She embraces it like cloth and smells the grounds’ scent beneath her deceitfulness. Her lies spreading around her like blood. It is midnight, so she calls out into the air “is anyone there?” and as always, receives no reply. Everyone gone, either dead or afraid, so she sits in the long grass but she does not cry.
Through the nights alone, she sits and waits. For who or what she cannot remember. She only feels a pull towards it, a need to keep repeating the same ritual, over and over again. She reads back what lies she has told and makes no sense of it. So she keeps telling herself the lies are true, that her pain comes from someone else and not her own deception. She keeps telling herself she’s doing something good, that she is good. Yet she sits in the grass, hidden and alone and she knows. She knows what she has done.
The beat of her heart comes from fear. She tricks herself into believing it is fear from him, but only to hide the fear from herself.
That she is fading away and into the dark. That she will be gone come dawn, as though she never came here at all.
Just made up of a spiteful wisp of air and shrivelled up grass, exposed to the sun.