There are days when my mind is blank, when nothing flows and my brain hurts. There are days when all I want to do is sleep; I don’t want to talk to anyone, do anything, don’t want to pet Oz, don’t want to read or write. Sometimes it’s just a morning thing, when I’m up early alone. Sometimes I just feel incredibly alone and blah. Sometimes it’s the weather: dark clouds equal dark mood. Dark mood equals dark writing when I can get up the gumption. And, today, honestly, I don’t have it. Yet here I am, giving it the old college try.

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The night was dark, the air heavy, but she didn’t care. The humidity made her clothes stick to her skin and strands of her hair frizz out of its bun, but she kept walking. She couldn’t remember how long she had been walking and she had no idea of where she was going. All she knew was the desire to get away.

The bruises smarted and she knew it must be starting to turn purple. She winced when she moved it hurt. The pain spread from her inner core outward. She would cry if she had tears but those were all used up; she didn’t have any more of those useless things.

The asphalt was hard and unyielding beneath her feet as she walked down the darkened highway. No streetlights, no payphones. Trees rose up on both sides and things rustled in the underbrush, but she didn’t pay much attention. She just walked.

As the hours wore on, the moon rose above the treeline, full and bright. She was able to see her shadow by the silvery blue light. One of her hands was longer than the other, even by long shadow standards. And her fingers on that hand were gone, her hand just tapered to a point. Weird.

As she walked, a bird flew overhead, its cry startling her. There was a sharp clang but she kept walking. When she looked at her shadow again, her hand looked right again. She wiggled her fingers. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. All there.

She kept walking.

As the moon rose higher, it glinted off something left behind in the road. Metal, coated with red. A possum snuck out of the woods, drawn by the scent. It sniffed around the knife, found it uninteresting, and slunk away into the underbrush again.