The Straggler

The desert horizon encompassed April as she stood in the faint light of the fire examining the backs of her hands. The paramedics had called them defensive wounds when they delicately wrapped her in gauze. She decided that was a good explanation and repeated it to the police, condemning some poor black and white to at least two fruitless weeks.

The waning flames illuminated her forehead, nose, cheeks and neck, and begot soft shadow dances across the webbing on her hands. Everything had been fine a week ago. Hell, three days ago. She might as well have had a lobotomy within the last 48 hours. At least that would shed some light.

April picked at the gauze and a dark red splotch slowly grew lighter. She hadn't felt pain for months. Only the emotions that linger when it's passed. Four lights blazed in the distance. She could feel more bearing down from behind, but she wasn't interested anymore. If only she could be content where she was with her bleeding hands and quaint fire. Other people did it all the time. But she belonged to the lights. Maybe if she stayed, the lights would come to her and finally settle this.

But April new better than to wait. She tore the bandages from her hands and dropped them into the coals before stomping out the remaining flames. Tiny embers wedged themselves under her sandal straps, a final grasp for life. Later, she would remember the heat and wish for it.

Darkness engulfed her and she exhaled her content. A thankful smile. Sand crunched under her feet with every step and Orion looked down on her, as had so many others before him.

"Which one?" she asked. But he remained silent. April knew she didn't have to decide yet anyway. The lights were lifetimes away and seemed to be moving against her. She'd ask again later. For now, she'd let the open air lick her wounds and sting her eyes while she walked the distance, thinking up nonsense to pass the time.