Flakes of snow christen her coat in gaping spots, her once charcoal hue now tainted with Heaven’s frozen tears. She stands, a mess of wind knots and goosebumps, her shoulders periodically shaking from the reaction of the chilled breeze at the peak of a rolling hill. Her forelock drapes in front of her face mimicking a black hijab, following the roundness of her nose and tickling the top of her muzzle.

Clouds overhang like a depressing curtain hiding rays of sunshine in a dark room. The scene that lays before her arguably a fall mess, colours of muddy brown and dying yellow complimented with snow (or hail? who knows).

She has never been a fall lover, the way the season changes makes her stomach churn. It starts beautifully, with vibrant pops of orange and red and nauseating decor of fallen leaves and frost coated trees. And then, when the world seems beautiful and perfect and the temperature is both easy to wake to, walk in, and sleep through Mother Nature takes a horrible turn. It is like God created the switch in seasons to punish all sins from the month before, as a reminder that he is still in control of every chill and rain drop. He attacks the world with icy blasts and sends limbs sliding down uneven ground. Rain becomes snow, or in some cases hail if he hasn’t cured enough sinners, and refreshing morning air turns to malicious doses of reality. The world transfers from euphoric to treacherous, and in best case scenarios you have a shelter to aid in warmth.

Well, not her.

Brine reaches down to her lower leg, her teeth barred as she fixes a sudden itch. Her mane flails forward with the movement and a flash of red flickers, revealing her hidden feather. Broad horns that twirl and spiral in a sculpted fashion strong enough to puncture skin, and long enough to protect her from Satan’s Grim Reaper tickle the top of the new layer of snow, her forelock entangling itself around the base.

She hasn’t moved because she isn’t sure she wants to. Her history is not exactly pristine, nor is her track record to freedom. Her eyes have hardened and her perspective is tainted, it would be a miracle to prove her this land is safe. The only safety she ever knew was hidden in the shadow of her father, and even then his shadow was only big enough for her for so long.

She has her own shadow, now.

It only takes one step, one step and she has started her cascade down the elongated hill that takes her to the base of an open field. She could hear his voice now echoing in the back of her head as her stride slows, who do you think you are coming here. It begs her to weaken, dares her to try only to watch her fall on her knees like a child coming of training wheels.


She is bee-lining, not to anywhere but to somewhere. Her mind is exploding, her throat is enclosing.

Who do you think will even take you.

He haunts her, occasionally. His voice, not his ghost. He haunts her because she has a conscious, he haunts her because she did him wrong. Brine feels the pressure of his mouth still scrap the center of her spine, she feels the way his muscles contracted.


Her vision is foggy as she plunges her mouth into a small creek of water, the sudden impact of cool air numbing her mind for only a moment.


He haunts her because she haunted him. And payback became an annoying bitch.
Lifting her head, droplets of water cruise down her chin before plummeting back to their cage of water, her chocolate eyes analyzing what surrounds her. For a moment—I promise you, just a moment—her body feels free.


But like I said, karma had made it’s round.