Sometimes it's fun to go into the woods and just lay there, being a lake. Fish swim and the water gurgles against the tired rocks inside your head. Other than that, though, there's not much of anything going on. One cannot pretend that much happens to the lake, when one knows otherwise. On a cold autumn morning, not long ago, the icy sun shone down upon me as little ripples splashed within me, and a cautious flower began to take root. A woman was coming into my little clearing...I could feel her against the ground.
Enter Her. Flowing auburn hair, green eyes, tired smile...where has she been all my life? I shudder as best I can; she approaches; the sun shines even harder. She is kneeling by the banks, feet digging into the golden sand, aristocratic fingers stroking waves into existance along the surface. The water tingles along all of its being...it is filled with that light touch. But suddenly, it stops. She looks in and Reflects.
Fingers run through that fine hair, lips curve a little subconsciously--her lips always curve at the sight of a person, in case she herself forgets the formality and lets it slip past her, eyes begin to close after the image is drawn in. Involuntary shudder, she is gasping. Hands cork up her melancholy eyes, beginning to fill with the water of her reflection. Tears still stream from her face, collecting in a small pool on her chin, a shrine to her beauty.
Suddenly, a change comes over her. The delicate hand that had been stroking her hair begins to tear at the roots, the pupils dilate, the once-rosy skin takes on an ashen tone, nostrils flare, capillaries break. Her fingernails dig into her skin and attempt to make incisions. She has bitten almost through her puffy lower lip. The small congregation of tears on her perfectly-formed chin grow into a tempest of racking sobs and torrents of hot salt water.
She rises shakily to her feet, her long legs swaying violently, and turns to run back into the woods. I try to follow her, but there's only so much I can do, being a lake.
