Birds and Stones

Three

She talks a lot the next day, War does.

It is in the midst of a venomous tirade when she notices Her eyes. They belong on a manufactured puppet and they don't have pupils. Or, rather, it is as if they have no irises and the pupil exploded. She wonders how she missed it yesterday or the day in the classroom.

Are you listening child War berates and she jumps and sews her lips. She murmurs that she is Sorry.

They are standing in the rubble the same place as yesterday. War grabs her hand. The grip is like plastic. There is no warmth. She leads her down the haphazard street and they are silent. When she looks to War Her face is apathetic.

She asks Her Where are we going and War replies We are going to a slaughter.

And it is in that instant that War's hand feels cold and that cold seeps into her bloodstream and she shudders and pulls away.

But she is locked in the grip of War. War's skin is metallic. It is not warm. There is no warmth. It is cruel. And she tries to pull away, she thrashes. She feels like an animal, she feels unhinged. She just wants to fall to the ground. She wants to bury a head in the crumbled cement and pretend that darkness still only means bedtime.

So she convulses and struggles and screams. Again she is like an animal. Everything in her carnal and instinctual.

Leave me alone she cries, to War who mercilessly looks on forwards. They are roaming the streets with the brisk pace of a rat.

She surrenders.