Shoes

The first bruise appeared in March.

The rest came in slow tides and tremendous force. They grew along the coast lines of her curves and, in blotches, darkened her fairness.

But unlike a young Dalmatian, she was no stranger to spot-scattered flesh. She knew of their sting and tenderness.

And they were back.

She breathed in her mother’s stiff hands. An eleven-year-old version of herself wept. Her cheeks damp from the memory of spots undeserved, she soothed the ache with history’s contrast.

This time her spots formed from the inside, out.

The woman ruled out her options.

Nothing appealed to her less than suffering months in order to live longer on a cloud that never showed a silver lining. There will be no days spent within white walls and white sheets for me, she told herself. She ran her fingers through ash brown hair, all hers.

She needn’t bother to inquire about the situation. With the knowledge gained from a diploma half-earned, she embodied her diagnosis. She wouldn’t care when the others frowned upon her decision. They did not wear shoes like hers.

Tattered gray blinds were pulled back enough for the last piles of snow to wave good bye. Seasons fused at the visible tips of new-born blades of grass.

Naked in front of herself, she stared back at the empty circles only a gentleman would call eyes. Her translucent figure would have fitted the part well, she decided.  She scanned her decorated limbs, and cackled. She could already feel her soul drifting from the cage that had held her prisoner for too long.

The door she yearned for had been opened, and she could taste the sweetness of its opportunity. All she needed to do was jump through it.

On April the first, the woman jumped. Brisk air raced past her eyes and her bruises as gravity pulled her towards spring. By now the spots had spread; a reflection of the tainted blood that raced just below the surface. She knew of pain, and for the first time, there was none.

When the people found her, they covered her mangled, naked body, in pale fabric. Then they wheeled her safely behind blank walls. Her bruises, assimilated.

The last of her belongings were found at the edge of the cliff; an old pair of shoes resting upon dreary, gray material. At her funeral, the others spoke apologetically about statistics and regret.

In death, she had been right. The others were not happy, and they could not understand. But it wouldn’t matter.

From beyond silver-lined clouds, the woman danced.