The wind snatched off her hood. It whipped her ebony hair out behind her. The breeze tugged on her pea-coat, revealing the tops of her black knee-high stockings. Gusts yanked on the wheat stalks. They snapped against her bare thighs as if willing her to turn back.
Unfazed, she trudged on.
Nothing would stop her. Nothing would ease the murderous look in her eye, the one screaming how she’d been scorned for the last time, the one saying ‘from this she will not return’.
After all, what does one have to lose when the very soul’s been wrenched from the body?
Inspired by artist Kuvshinov-Ilya’s ‘Rye‘ from Deviantart.
