Fickle, was her world, really. This much was obvious to her as she stood in the rain, hair and clothing being whipped around her body by the late winter torrent. It froze her skin and stole her breath but still she stood, staring off at nothing; Strings of thought filled her mind that day, leaving her standing like a statue even through the bitter cold.
One thing no one could ever call her is emotionless, and she knew that. As a child, her father had insisted her spirit was her best quality, as fathers are wont to do, but long she doubted it. Why did she love so easily? Why did she near always find herself hating the people she loved?
Human nature, really, drives such questions on. Much in the same way that she wondered why after so dearly long she'd always return to Bree. Why she found it so hard to leave, now, when most she wanted to run. Why she'd get to that bridge in the east... that big, beautiful bridge in the east, and turn right back around.
She'd seen those trees across the river, and she'd wondered what it was like to sit in one... to shoot from one... but always when she got to that bridge, she'd turn around for some reason or another: missing home, missing people, missing... normalcy.
Really though, what claim to normalcy did she have? She'd never known any. Or at least, not for so terribly long. So why did she cling to the ideal of it, as though it was something that was even within her grasp.
She stared up at the rain, letting it plaster down her curls, and praying to the gods she'd never believed in that it would melt her down like a sugar cube, and let her die sweet and quick.
Home, love, false ideals...really, these things that split our souls apart... always put them back together.
