Most mornings she would never have given it a single thought. But this morning, she watched the sunrise intently, eyes fixated on the horizon, waiting for the first rays of sun to break the dark sharp edges of the horizon. This morning however, it rose much too slowly, much too weakly. She’s been standing there, waiting, for what has seemed like hours. She saw the first tones of the midnight sky begin to turn from a dull blue to now piercing yellow rays of light warming her skin. Yet this morning, there was no warming for her skin. Nothing could warm her from the feelings she had inside. Yet still she stared, as if waiting for the sun to welcome her with a gift, or perhaps she was hoping that she would just disappear at first light and it would all go away.
Go away like the feelings of her skin had. Yet, she could still somehow feel the blood dripping down the inside of her arms, tracing down over her wrists, and slipping off the tips of her fingers. She imagined she was in some macabre display. She could hear the sound of it landing in the sand, one by one, slowly, ever so slowly, the blood dripped off her finger tips. Each drop making a soft, dull pattering in the sand, not unlike a dead thing slumping with its last breath.
