Hare's Red Scars

Freezing Drizzle

Clouds and tree crowns were devolving into one single thing by the time her fragile hands became red, as a sign the cold winter would arrive soon. Sudden fine water droplets, from the rain that had fallen hours ago, were cutting through her skin as sharp needles from the gray sky. The difference between them and her tears was just the temperature of each. The greenish brown outline of the dilated pupil, filled by darkness: last vestige of life that once inhabited that pale and timid and dreary body. The way those eyes moved, vigilantly, aware of every leaf which danced in the air until it hit the damp, puddle-filled earth; the way those eyes, as moist as that afternoon, closed and wept, swallowed by the enormous silence that came from everywhere, it was so unique - and noticed by no one but the void her soul was carrying.

Nobody could see much beyond the haze, not more than a few feet. It would be an imagination's burden to guess who was the person standing under the calm drizzle, matching with the landscape in such a way as to make part of it. There weren't many passer-bys though, but among the few ones, who were far, their curiosity wasn't enough to push them out of their respective paths and approach the girl who bathed herself with own crying and rain.

Zając would soon be a woman. She had been watching her life as a distant bystander, not wanting to believe she would have to make any big decisions ever again or feel the need to answer her innermost questions. She had begun to live for fear of uncertain things, as the unknown afterlife that had haunted her for years, almost reaching her now; however, in apparent contradiction, she had been spending her days dying from harrowing uncertainties.

Her head throbbed and some of the red that was in the hands, perhaps, had come from the hematoma on her forehead that was being cleaned by the water coming off trembling branches. The lips were already healed and so didn't burn so much any longer; the same could not be said of the throat, which was on fire after continuous vomits trying to wring out unspoken words.

— STOP CHASING ME — her lungs were bursting as she threw herself into the mud; the pants getting even dirtier — GO AWAY! I BEG YOU! — the cry gained strength with the sobs — Please, leave me! Let me go, I beg you, please...

The land was warmer than her when she fainted, losing her voice, the only power left. She was only eighteen and someone who's eighteen is far too young to die. Zając clung to that thought.