Nothing is ever certain (Part 1)

Whatever the intention toward sympathy/aid my pitiful consciousness is prepping to beg for -those selfish, instinctual prayers of self-preservation and their plethora of unanswered questions- they become silent. Her (that musk and feminine proportions hint toward naught else) milky, glistening retreat comes to a stern halt…wide irises abandon the shadows to catch notice of those sodden tawny ribbons tailing her ashen roots. I glimpse the partly concealed brush of gilt beneath the canopy of those ebon wings. The torrent seems to groan as a breath of ominous air teases the adjacent smog, pulsating that sickening variety of saturation. But (for a moment) their malice has lost most of it's potency. Widening irises rest gingerly upon the pale length of her teary face; they trace downward, passing the damp whiskers accenting her somber, inked mouth. Fear driven oscillation hammers, thrumming hotly to the chemical mix of captivation and disbelief...curiosity propels me onward. Down...to the glittering platinum which encircles her breast/shoulders and disappears into the interlocked tangle of hair. Jowls inch apart, displaying their astonishment. Hastened jolts of befuddlement wickedly canter throughout my soul; paralyzed, unreasonable fears are slapped into passive submission. A choking lungful of smoggy air is pulled inward...nostrils quiver, sipping…nay…demanding verification. Unmistakable… A pixie babe twirls to the front of my imagination. But…she wasn’t the same bright-eyed infant who’d clung defenselessly beneath the fire teased shade of her dappled guardian… While these ears cautiously rise from their muggy scabbard of thatch…her name emerges, given life on a dithering breath, “Z-zahra?” Despite the weakening suffrage of previous horrors, I discover enough vitality in these reborn bones to push up from the shameful, peculiar ground. Slipping on mud all the while, my front half teeters. Locking, bracing while I suck heavily and test the resolve of these new legs. Sticky, muddy dreg seeps to the floor; a brownish layer of grim and litter cling to my splashed, soil branded contours. Heavy arms drag the ground; remaining useless in their momentary infancy. Icy pellets fall crisply upon my receptive meat – their chilling touch sends goose chills to sprint; prickling the dark skin beneath that meager shield of fur. Discomfort unfurls throughout my midsection, warning against any idea of slow/hurried movement. Spitefully, these hindquarters stutter – pushing me upright. Bony knees become locked in place, aiming to support this scant, malnourished carcass I've come to inhabit. That right arm elevates, easing to find a natural, bowed position alongside. Hidden beneath the mouth of those hollow reeds, a pristine (primary) gilt hued feather sits atop the grim. Straightening with a grunt, these dribbling lips spread apart, “do you,” the question unpeels with careful articulation, “know me...?”

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