adrena

Heaviness seeps out with every panting breath as she gingerly wipes blood from off her face. A splatter of crimson on a pale dusty brown. Calm and collected she is making herself, as eyes filled with tears survey the desert around her. A certain deadly shade of blue is birthing from the shades of pink and orange, and the sun has dyed the mountains around her a dark indigo, something akin to the abyssal realms of deep seas undiscovered and like the deep, these mountains are closing in on her.
Her hand comes to rest from off a knee and she sits, comparing the characters of her hand, the red of the blood, the blue of the bruises, the gashes in the skin, to that of the land which surrounds her. A moment goes by and the colors of the world no longer resemble that of her body. She stands. A coyote is howling, yelping to her pups, and in the distance they answer. Their cries of mournful knowledge send a whisper down her spine.
Her limbs are weak and tightening from the strain, the struggle. Gathering the pieces of what she owns, a hunting knife, a segment of chain, a chainmail glove, a baseball bat, she stuffs them into a surplus army bag. Her breathing has regained a sense of normalcy as she is starting to walk away. She stops a moment and pulls a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. A lighter is stored within and comes out with a nonfiltered cigarette. She turns back to face from where she came and cups the cigarette from the wind to light it. A long drag, holds it awhile a counts using her cigarette as a pointer, one. . two. . .three bodies. She exhales and adjusts the bag on her shoulder for the long walk back to her truck. As she turns to walk away, her hand drips with the last of the blood from the fight, and there is a beauty in the splatter of crimson on a pale dusty brown.