@maybepeace
She hasn't dragged her dead away from the unhallowed, unbeloved dead. It isn't a matter of strength; her youngest sister is still small enough to carry in her arms. Even smaller now. But her hands have changed. There's something wrong with them. Everything she's touched, she's mangled.
Everything has changed. There's something wrong with her.
When everyone else stopped moving, so did she. Stopped. The only difference between her and the bodies is that she kneels instead of lying flat. Blood dries stiff under her nails, up the arms she locks around herself, in the folds of her nightdress, on her face. And inside...
Summer crickets all around. Owls, if she listens. Barn cats prowling silent and unseen after mice in the tall meadow grass. She senses all of them. She hunts now, too.
Someone coming.
Her breathing quickens, but she doesn't move. She feels like she can't move. But a hand lands on her shoulder, and something wakes up in her.
It's animal instinct in the purest sense. To a bird of prey, sometimes flight and fight are one. The thing inside her opens its wings and its talons. Twisting around, Alice slashes blindly, hardly aware of what she cries over and over. "Don't touch me—don't touch me—don't touch me—!"
