They were open and wide in a way she had never seen. Long limbed and stark, its sightless eyes glassy and dark. She found small birds, more rabbits, some squirrels and once, in all its glory, a stag that had had been pulled down by a pack of wolves and had been gutted to the bone. She wanted to see what would happen when the birds came back.Īfter that, it became something of a hunt to walk through the forest and find things that had died. She sat down on the ground, cross-legged, ignoring the cold and waited. She sniffed it almost delicately, cataloguing its sweet iron scent. She rubbed her fingers together taking note of the sticky-thick texture. She pulled her hand back, seeing dark red patches on her fingertips. She touched the fur, petting the cold softness. She wondered how it had died and, thinking back on it, she realized she hadn't seen many rabbits around over summer and early fall. It had been a rabbit, patches of its brown summertime coat still showing, not enough time for white to bloom over its tiny body before its life was cut short. She felt a sense of almost homesickness as she drew closer. Persephone wasn't afraid or disgusted by the small corpse. The beat of their wings loud and sharp in the cold air, drowning out the sound of her heart in her ears. They squawked in surprise and possibly fear as she moved closer, flying off into the crisp air. Large birds perched on the corpse, pecking at it, breaking through the fuzzy pelt into the soft tissue beneath. She moved forward without thinking wanting to be closer. She felt a longing deep and solid in the pit of her stomach. The remains of some animal - twisted, furry, broken and bloody. It was when she looked down at the ground that she saw it. The plume of her exhale was visible as it flowed past her lips and then dissipated into the sky, unseen and forgotten. The autumn she turned thirteen, she was out in the forest, watching her breath as it left her body in the cold air. Brown, grey, white and black, they reached up to the barren grey sky. Their twisted limbs stretched out unencumbered without leaves or mossy growths clinging desperately to them. The trees were more beautiful in the winter when they were bare and stark. The forest became calmer, quieter in the cold months - no incessant chatter of birds or rustling of woodland creatures which always assaulted her ears. She waited until the leaves dried out and then picked handfuls, crumbling them in her hands and watching the small pieces fall to the forest floor. She liked to walk through the forest as the days turned colder and the nights came earlier and earlier. The ground under her feet would get crunchy and loud. Persephone’s seasons were fall and winter, when the leaves and foliage started desiccating and turning yellow and brown. The soil was always slightly damp and sticky, pushing itself under her fingertips and no amount of scrubbing or cleaning ever cleared up the dark half-moons of dirt lying beneath her nails. The same repetitive tasks day in, day out, week after week, until finally you could harvest, only to prep the soil again for the next year. Persephone tended to her areas pulled weeds, pruned leaves and sowed seeds. Her mother had a large garden and during the spring, summer and fall, she expected Persephone to help out. It wasn’t like sleep where you could see a chest rise or perhaps a finger or paw twitch. She liked the stillness of them, the pristine, unnatural lack of movement.
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