There was something seriously wrong with the world. That was her last thought before her consciousness slipped.Tiny claws dug into her belly before using it as a launchpad. The constant hammering transferred as twin beaks pecked behind her eyeballs. A spider crawled down her throat to bite from the inside. Lungs exhaling, they fought against the burning nausea that streamlined her body into a quivering, sweaty mess. Every breath was agony that forced the miasma of stomach pains to unclench and warp in kind. This was death or drowning, she was sure of it. Sight was no longer necessary as pain took on the form of a red, oppressive cloud that squeezed and pummeled her into a tiny speck. Suspended, Doom lulled between the air currents. They pulled at her from every each direction, time a but forgotten currency.
She heard the cardinal's trill before she saw it, the scarlet plumage offering solace. the sun's rays highlighted the wingspan and that sharp beak's glint broke the mangrove tree they were on. Dashing deeper into sullied waters, this was inner peace before waves crashed. A cyclone of thoughts, her hair cutting tiny lines into her face. Smaller eyelashes for the cheeks, the wings caressed her as the floor reformed to that of a bird's skeleton. Just as delicate and frail, she fell through the fine webbing of stubborn feathers. Obstinate in coming free, she barreled ahead with no heed to direction or sense. Digging deeper, she couldn't scale the walls of her new hole. The more she grappled for purchase, the walls loomed over until she was an ant. The moon blistered heat in torrents of hellacious fury. There again, the red wings. One dash, soft cooing and she broke free of the mud walls. There, beyond the cliffside were the waiting wings. The sticky tendrils dragged her back down.
She spun in circles, backtracked and what progress she made, she took four steps backward. This was the macabre dance she engaged in until utterly spent, her body lay its final resting place beside a cool pond, cattails and reeds bowing under the weight of cicadas and crickets. Drained but mind aracing, she looked into the water and came to.
"Quite the handiwork you leave behind" was her greeting, his voice croaking with overuse. Even in her slumbered state she knew it wasn't a compliment. Crimson met her eyes but the rest faded with the night. With the grace of a pregnant boar, she rolled over, her body slick with red gristle and mud. In her wake was a nasty warm trail. A shattered skull matted her hair.
But it was his voice she heard in the dark.