She left all she knew behind. Mounted on a horse that had
come to her possession only this morning, she gallops
towards the next hill, and then towards the hill after that.
She left the life she knew behind, wanting not to become
something she despises, she ran from herself as fast as she
could possibly run. Whatever it is that will come to face
her now, she will endure with no fear. She will be fierce,
and harsh, and strong. She left everybody she knew behind,
remaining alone and isolated. She is choosing solitude over
crowd, truth over lies, nakedness over masks. Nothing could
bend her now; nothing could ever get close enough to even
try. She is coldly aware of her loneliness, unsettling for
anything unworthy. Sometimes, she thinks it is all beneath
her. Sometimes, she thinks she is beneath it all. Forever
she is galloping towards the next hill, and then towards the
hill after that. She is so unused to this kind of a thing,
and if she was to be honest with herself, as she would,
she'll say she is unused totally and altogether.
The thoughts run through her mind. Like an old slide show,
they show up one by one. A little girl in a red dress on a
swing; a family seated to a table, dining and happy to be in
the company of each other; a sparrow flying across gray sky;
a boy with black hair, and blue eyes, and the sweetest lips
she had ever tasted; a blue lily in the hair of a young
woman in a red dress; a sword being swung up in the air; a
house consumed by flame; a screed of hot, red blood; a cold
body of a man she once called "dad", then another of a woman
she used to call "mom"; a stiff corpse of a young man with
black hair, and blue eyes, and the sweetest lips she had
ever tasted; a bush blue lilies at the front of a charred
house. Then, the slide projector jams, and the picture turns
white, then black. The slide show begins every day at noon,
and the slides are always the same, and it jams exactly at
the same place.
She is galloping towards the next hill, then towards the
hill after that. She no longer feels the aches of her
exhausted muscles; she no longer hears the hard breathing of
her lungs. All she feels is the wet of tears on her face.
All she hears is the beating of her heart as it breaks.
She does not bring water or food to her mouth; she has no
reason to do so. All that is left is the next hill. Until
her horse could sustain no more. Until the child growing
inside of her will die. Until her body will give way.
She could bear this forever, she could go on. She will go
on, until she is stopped. But until then, there is a slide
show every day at noon. And there is the next hill. And
there is the hill after that.