Dawnlight heeds the horizon, orange and yellow breech the blue of the sky and Reckitt groans, slow movement with eyes closed. She won’t see the perfect sunlight of the morning just yet, nor the flock of birds that soar so freely in the cloudless sky, she will hear them instead- their day song beautiful against her snowy ears. Each chord is struck so carefully and flawlessly, the notes have no meaning in words, the lyrics lost to her, but the feeling behind them is enough. Reckitt stirs, stiff limbs, they feel so heavy today. Every muscle in her being aches, the ground is no cushion but the sound of moving water is welcome- perhaps she is beside the stream of Elysium.
Why does it hurt so much?
Ashen lids lift, so slowly, as if the effort of waking is too much in this moment. Kitt sees the water, breathes in the smell of the damp earth beneath her, golden eyes flow to the green of the flora on the riverbank. Everything is seen past the curl of white lashes, so long, she doesn’t remember them ever being so lengthy, so fine like butterfly wings against her lids. Blinking, once, twice, she heaves her head up from ground, heaves it- her neck feels like piece of twine to lift a weight.
“Ouch,” she says quietly, the way her tongue moves in her mouth feels thick, unusual as it forms such a simple complaint of discomfort. The smells, nothing smells like home, the grass is missing the usual company of flowers she knows so well. Twisted legs, her joints ache more than they ever have, especially on her right- a pain she had learned to live with over the years, now it throbs.
Legs, looking down, eyes trailing the length of her now overgrown form. Perceiving through eyes that don’t feel like her own, feeling the mass of a body that can’t be possible. Hairless, alien, why does she hooves instead of paws? Where had all her fur gone? There are legs that are so impossibly long, with pale hair tangled and woven around the ground beneath her, silken threads of spun spider webs to anoint her neck and her backside.
Every nerve she owns is on fire, she wants to move, to run but her body will not comply- she is frozen in her fear, pained to exist. Within her breast, her heart hammers, the pace of a hummingbird's wings, her thoughts follow. Reckitt tosses her head back with a snort, finding leverage against her mobility, or lack thereof.
“Verona!” she shouts wildly, uncertain and fearful of the answer she might get, afraid there will be no answer at all.
