The Hateful Grass

Susannah hated the grass. She hated it because it didn’t need anything other than what it already had. Some sunlight, a little water, soil – that was all it needed to live. Susannah needed far more than just light, water, and dirt. What she needed was someone’s arms to wrap around her waist. She needed the smell of her father’s cheek, the taste of real food. She needed the sight of another person. She needed the company of other people’s thoughts. Her own were getting weary and, she feared, a little to close to crazy.

She pulls her knees up to her chest and rocks back and forth on the dirt. Her scarlet red monk’s robe drapes all about her otherwise naked body. She tries not to look to her right, where a single arm lays limp on the ground. She does not want to deal with the blood and the grief, with the rest of the body and the fresh memories. It’s too much for her right now. Right now she needs to sit and stare out at the grass, those tall, hateful, smug little blades, so secure in their infinite company. She couldn’t even guess at the number of blades she’d laid eyes upon in her fifteen years of life. She could count on one finger the number of people she’d ever  seen. She could count on a closed fist the number of people she’d ever see again.

The wind is picking up, and it is so cold and fast. Her hair whips around her, smacking her cheeks and eyes. The skyline is growing dark, another cold night is waiting, another hungry dawn. And for the first time ever, Susannah will be completely alone. Her father is dead behind her, his throat ripped out by the beast before it went back to hiding in the infinite field. She closes her eyes and listens for it, out there, somewhere, unseen and patient. She thinks she can almost hear its teeth, its tongue dripping blood and spit on the ground. If she holds her breath and gets very still, she thinks she can hear it hating her.

The sun is minutes away from setting. The wind is howling. Susannah wipes the last of the tears from her eyes and stands up for the first time since morning, since seeing her father’s dead body. She doesn’t look at it, not even now, now that she might be dead herself soon. As sad as she is, as weak as her grip on the world has become, she knows that looking would burn that sight into her mind, and she does not want her father to be a pile of blood and skin. She does not need that right now. Right now she needs to go out there, there among the hateful grass, and hide.

She stands up. She falls right back down. The muscles in her legs are weak from sitting so long, and the cramps that take her calves are horrendous. She cries out in agony and beats on them with her fists, bruising them in the process. Then she tries to stand again, and though her knees shake and buckle, at least she doesn’t fall down again. She puts one wobbly foot in front of the other and goes forward. She decides to just run, in one direction for as long as she can, never looking back, stopping only to sleep, briefly. Because the beast is stalking tonight. It will be angry. It will be waiting.