She'd been someplace grassy when she'd gotten dizzy and gone blank. There was no grass now. Jada must have fallen; Her cheek was pressed to grit and dirt, her mouth dry. She swallowed, pushed herself up from the ground. Opened her eyes to light. It burned, and she closed them on reflex. Her lips felt like they had been sandpapered. Opening the purple orbs again, she realized that they possibly had been. Light was shimmering off of an expanse of sand, and little else. The sun was low in the sky. Slowly, Jada pushed herself to her feet. She'd been going towards the Art Gallery downtown, planning on finding something for one of her Humanities papers, when she'd suddenly just felt... tired and the world had gone black. Now Sailor Scylla was pushing herself from sand, brushing grains from the folds of her skirt. The grains glittered like silver stars against the material of her skirt, the small pieces that were lightly embedded in her skin hot and painful.
Thirsty. She was thirsty. Her eyes felt gritty. She spun in a circle, trying to see what she could see. No trees. No birds. No water. Only dunes of molten silver. How long did she stand there, staring around before she picked a direction in which to go? What instinct chose her direction for her? She didn't know. She had no way of doing. The sun set in the west, even in the desert. It always set in the west. Would night come? It was so hot. She was so thirsty, her parched throat swallowing grit as she tried to summon a mouthful of spit. Scylla started moving, wandering across the sand with a stumble. Better to die moving than still.
And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less -
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
Dear Lord, what was she doing in a desert? How did she get to such a godforsaken wasteland from the little town that she had always known? If it were a ransom, there would be people around, not just earth and sun. Her feet wouldn't lift off of the sand, and her hair was limp, clinging to the back of her neck. Even her skirt seemed to have no volume, clinging to her legs limp and flat. Her heels stuck in the sand, and she took them off, placing a bare foot on the sand. It burned the soft skin until she put the shoes back on. Limp. Limp. Everything limp. She coughed softly, the effort almost hurting her dry throat. Where was she? Where was anyone else? Inside her, a great wail rose, spilling from her throat as a broken gurgle. She walked towards the illusion of something, following the fading light in the sky, or what she assumed was a fading.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
Thirsty. She was thirsty. Her eyes felt gritty. She spun in a circle, trying to see what she could see. No trees. No birds. No water. Only dunes of molten silver. How long did she stand there, staring around before she picked a direction in which to go? What instinct chose her direction for her? She didn't know. She had no way of doing. The sun set in the west, even in the desert. It always set in the west. Would night come? It was so hot. She was so thirsty, her parched throat swallowing grit as she tried to summon a mouthful of spit. Scylla started moving, wandering across the sand with a stumble. Better to die moving than still.
And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less -
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
Dear Lord, what was she doing in a desert? How did she get to such a godforsaken wasteland from the little town that she had always known? If it were a ransom, there would be people around, not just earth and sun. Her feet wouldn't lift off of the sand, and her hair was limp, clinging to the back of her neck. Even her skirt seemed to have no volume, clinging to her legs limp and flat. Her heels stuck in the sand, and she took them off, placing a bare foot on the sand. It burned the soft skin until she put the shoes back on. Limp. Limp. Everything limp. She coughed softly, the effort almost hurting her dry throat. Where was she? Where was anyone else? Inside her, a great wail rose, spilling from her throat as a broken gurgle. She walked towards the illusion of something, following the fading light in the sky, or what she assumed was a fading.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
