Mother taught her manners. Simplicity. How to cook a creme brule and bake a pot pie. Father taught her how to hunt, how to fight, how to through a football. And she taught this all to her brother. And all she wishes, is to be able to teach her brother this again. Her heart longs for the opportunity to stroke her mothers hair, listen to her mother talk about her boring day at the nursing home. She would kill for another toss with her father. One where he would do his signature "underhand" and she would have to hit the dirt, because you don't half ass it in catch. And she would die to have her brother crawl into her bed in the middle of the night, whisper a nightmare, and her be able to explain dreams are just dreams. Em will do anything to find her brother. Dead, or alive.
She rises from the cold forest floor at the sound of the softest of laughter. Voices. She scrambles to her feet, eyeing the shadows around her, regardless of how black it is. She feels the dirt until her hand grasps something petite, round, and long. Her left hand has been gripping her hand made bow since she dozed off. So she pulls her string back and secures her arrow within its grasp, and then rises her weapon slowly.
Her eyes narrow at the flicker of a distant light. She cannot make it out from this far, but she has a feeling it is man made.
Em glides through the darkened trees, clothed in a black cloak, her hood pulled up. A thick black bandana covers her mouth and nose, revealing only her icy blue eyes and strands of her waved blonde hair. Her arrow is drawn, ready for action, and she crouches at her walk. With every step, she plans carefully. Her footsteps are soft, hardly breaking the leaves beneath her. She keeps on until the trees begin to thin, and the light gets thicker.
What would father think? As she man hunts the tree line for possible suspects? Criminals? Would mom be rolling over in her grave? Are they crying in disappointment, or egging her on in anticipation and pride? The possibility encourages her to keep her bow drawn. But the worry causes her to hesitate on every direction she aims at.
A crack alerts her senses.
Em turns, narrowed eyes, at the direction of the source. A small woodland creature, a squirrel if you feel like getting specific, lingers on her home, upside down, her tail flicking. A small exhale reveals a relieved hunter, but the feeling is short lived. The voices are louder, painfully so. The men are joyously laughing, a joke she must have missed out on. Anger flourishes within her. Heaven forbid one of those sons of bitches were once the murderer in her story. She grips her handle harder, the frustration releasing in her limbs.
Emerence I drank some liquor, and ate a lighter, and woke up breathing fire |
