Sleeping off a champagne headache in a crumpled lace dress. Blisters on bare feet, new manicure chipped. Bloody scabbed elbows, my ring is missing. I remember the lake and crocodiles, hitting my head on a rock. Knots of blonde and red, pieces of my scalp missing. The wound crusted with sand.
How did I get here? In the presence of witches. No rules, haunted by the shadows and magic spells they cast to anchor the wild. Feeling the curse of my bloodline. The sun is already gone, I don’t know how to get home. Stuck amoungst the crowd of gypsies, thieves and misfits. Dragged here to claim their possession. Violence surges through my veins. Physically weak, I force myself to rise despite my injuries. These legs do not feel like my own, but still I walk down the dirt road, away from the howls and fires.
Broken rosaries litter the path, glowing moon to light my way. It’s cold, my breath mushrooms against the pale sky. Touch the tender spot on my crown and blood runs down my fingers into my palms, along the creases of my lifeline. This happened for a reason. What they stole can never be regained but revenge has been earned.
They might wander the earth but their guilt leaves footprints and a scent only true warriors can taste.
* Image: No Looking Back by Linnea Strid.
