Warming my dirty mangled fur in the sun, feeling as though I'm drowning into the earth, surrounded by my favorite wildflowers, the ones of early fall. Vultures circle above me, watching, waiting for me to stop moving, for my breath to fail so they can pierce through my coat to my spotted, bloated skin underneath with their rigid beaks and feast on the soft, warm, gooey flesh below until there is nothing left but bone. How did I end up here again, in the field of sorrow? The birds continue to dive and swoop and.. is that some kind of dance? A death dance. I am as good as dead and there is no one around to hear my wolfish cries but I let them loose anyways. You can't blame a girl for trying.
Many moons ago we would stay up late and count the falling stars together. I would fall asleep to the sound of your cooing and we would dream beneath the same tree until the big golden star would kiss us awake with its warmth. Miles and miles away I have stumbled into my own bed. I fall asleep counting the falling stars alone on a pile of dead cedar and red clay, listening to the whispers of the tall grass breathing in the wind. The smell of morning meals from the restaurant in the lonely town below wafts in through the fields and wishes me awake. I lift my head and lick my wounds, time to journey on with these memories of you and the hope that I'll miraculously find my dear friend singing sweetly in another tree someday soon.
I notice that the trees have begun to change their hue as I trot down the path into the lawless town below. It's the same winding path that was taught to me by another strange being who had somehow fallen under my spell. We thought we were happy then, young and sparkling with the energy of life. We laid together over the cycles of many moons, separated from the pack in a strange nest where my flesh burned with shame and sorrow. In time my sorrow would get the better of me and I would religiously greet the rising sun by vomiting up the poison contents of my stomach. Sometimes there would be blood, and I would curl up into a ball on the cool tile floor until the fever and the shakes would subside and I could find the strength to venture outside. I would roam free through the swampland until my eyes would cross and again I would curl up next to them in that strange bed of straw. Their disappointment in my inability to be anything other than a shell of an animal and desired possessiveness of my unyielding free spirit turned them ugly with anger and resentment. Fear became a part of our routine until I found the strength to break the cycle and walk away, not thinking that one day I would return to the path on my own with the foul misty weather at my back and peace in my belly at last.
I watched from behind the old green pickup truck permanently parked behind the mechanic's garage as the blonde boy jumped off his bike and looked around suspiciously as he unzipped his pants and pissed on the back wall of the library. He failed to see the old woman peeking through the curtains of the building next door.
The state trooper, young and clean and yet to cut his teeth, hiked up his belt and walked into the library. Consumed by her books, the librarian stated that she knew nothing of the public urination or other mysterious acts of vandalism and violence in the town. The boy is one of many teenagers in the town troubled by broken homes, disgruntled fathers reeking of alcohol at 3pm, and idle hands. One can only ride their bikes around the same ten blocks so many times without devising a way to cause trouble. She returned to her books, trying desperately to find a way to turn the grey sky blue.