Done

She sits still, pensive, strangely relaxed.
Head down and lost in thought, pensive; down by the green where she played as a child, the tree, the bank, her hideaway.
Only years ago at this point, the sun bears down, glistens on her hair,tranquility, disharmony.

A countenance filled only with the thoughts of a child,
She IS eight years old. Eyes round and violet blue.
Unsure. Brow furrowed. Her own hand out in front of her, her entire focus, the other clenched to the pit of her stomach.

He walks down the bank to her,
Dwarfing her in every respect, certainty in his deep hazel glance.
He crouches to her level and takes her hand.

Lifting her chin with one hand (in one swift move diverting her gaze), he encompasses her hand with the other
He stares into her eyes, she searches desperately for answers.
He pushes the blade deeper into her hand.

Her hand on the ground by her side now, he easily pushes it in further,wilkinson; his choice.
He has control.
Deeper, through a ligament, a snap, then he pushes down and away.

She remains mute, still searching, still lost.
Wincing slightly, she keeps still.
Passive.

He's found the bone, slow till now, he suddenly rips out.
Through and out,
She's still looking for answers, she looks to her hand.

His eyes penetrating, they say nothing.
Her hand throbs now, a shambles
Torn tissue, scraped bone, fragments detatched

She looks from him to her hand
The now disjointed fingers glistening on her childhood greens
His face stoic, a kiss to her forehead, he continues

Walks away, she stays as she was.
Her brow now relaxed,
Through the theraputic throbbing, she's at ease, maybe understanding.

She stays there on the grass, alone now, the sun continues, she sits still.
A smile on her face, faint, as she fades, flowing steadily into her childhood green.
A thousand questions and ills put to rest, her smile is forever.