Scratched
Out
It
had been a while since Nina found herself washed up upon that quiet
and secluded shore and it should not be expected that she should
still be found there. As, unvisited as it is by fishermen and other
shore-huggers, and that for good reason, it is not privacy that Nina
craves above all else, although it may sometimes seem to others to be
so. It is stasis that is her worst enemy and biggest fear, however.
She had not eaten any of the reeds that grew by the sand, which was a
good move, but there was nothing else to be seen of her presence
either. She was gone.
She
had gone inland, specifically, away from the unbroken, terminal line
that was the sea. She was headed toward civilisation, if she could
find it – it was destination used in an abstract sense. She didn’t
know if she was headed in the best direction, only that she was
headed in the only direction she was prepared to head in. She would
find civilisation eventually, it was always there in the end.
As
she travelled Nina searched for a road, willing to make the
cross-country hike until she found one and secure in the knowledge,
or at least the working assumption, that roads were always connected
to cities, or towns, or hamlets, or even individual houses. At the
very least, someone who could tell her where she was and where she
would have to go. It is hope, as they so often say, that keeps us
going. Here, at least, they are wrong.
Nina
was used to living in this manner, to grabbing what she could from
the natural abundance that surrounded her. It was easy when you knew
how, a trick as simple and as automatic as breathing. A root here, a
berry there, you could almost forget that you were doing it, although
it only seemed to work for one. But that was because one person could
go hungry for days without noticing it. You just had to believe that
the landscape you wandered through really was as magical, as replete
with shifting mystery, as it seemed to your misfiring senses – you
just had to let the hallucinations of starvation go unchallenged, so
that they passed instead for clarity of vision.
It
is only when others share your pain, when another’s suffering
attempts to intrude upon your own that it becomes apparent for what
it is, that it becomes noticeable as suffering. A companion will
always remain steady, to remind you of their, and your, misfortune,
with nothing more than their presence, their haggard expression and
their sunken features. Their visions, different to your own, will
therefore cancel yours out. Two together will see nothing but their
own, shared, separate pain.
Nina
was better, much better, alone, carving tracks of her own volition
and scratching out a path amongst the almost infinite possibilities
that were available to her. The air, the earth and the woods, and the
other secret places surrounding, were barren. They were free of magic
and fairies, but laden only with the fruit and slow moving, active
animal life of late summer. No mushroom rings beckoned with the
promise of other worlds, nor did the sky oppress with strange winds
and even stranger shadows. Instead, all was freshness and clearheaded
beauty.
Far
away from any cities, far out in the wild, there was peace and order
and, of course, the old way of things. There was no difference.
Because, although everyone is entitled to be who they are, difference
can be disconcerting. Complicating. So unnecessary. Out here, it need
not be an issue.
It
should be noted that Nina does not think this way, does not think so
badly of the complications that difference entails. Or at
least, does not allow it, when these thoughts come unbidden and
unstoppable into her mental fortress, to go unchallenged. Does not
let the thoughts take root but instead she argues, as she often does,
that this is not the right way to be.
There
is often blood.
And
let it not be forgotten that in these southern reaches, where the air
is cool and the people pale, Nina is a beacon of difference in
herself. But only when she is not on her own, wandering and starving,
in the wilderness.
