Two kinds of trouble in this world,
Living... dying.
I lost my power in this world,
And the rumors are flying.
So I go insane,
Like I always do,
And I call your name,
She's a lot like you...
--Go Insane, Lindsey Buckingham

She remembered it all.

She remembered the crying, the crawling, the fleeing, the dying, the devouring.

She remembered standing over her starving sister, a strange, sick feeling twisting in her stomach, recognizing it as, “Helplessness.”

She remembered Mitea tackling her brother, Seven, as he tried to call out to their missing mother and father.

She remembered yelling, “Amaya, come on!” as the poor wolf cub tried in vain to make it to the den, before collapsing in a heap, Death’s hand lightly patting her, much like a parent offering affection to their offspring.

She remembered the ravaged look on the coyote’s face, as an easy meal was finally realized.

She remembered the way her mother and father cried out in agony at the news that they were minutes too late.

She remembered hearing the neighboring packs howling as well, her body rattling with yet another strange feeling, which she had recognized as “Sadness.”

So…why?

Why does she seem so cheery, so happy-go-lucky when her sister had passed just two days before? Surely, this wasn’t normal. Surely, she’s still grieving on the inside, the sounds and images fresh in her mind.

But the truth was…it was normal.

Well, to her, that is.

The pretty brown wolf cub, splotched in hues of white and black, much like her father, tilts her head quizzically, gazing out at the land that was collectively called Slough Creek. Perched on a pretty throne of rock that was the overhead of the den, she is a little queen in her own little space. She looks down upon the crickets and other tiny things, ordering them around as they scurry within her shadow; though they seem deaf to her words, she can always pretend that they’re doing exactly as they were told.

She is a bubbly baby, giggling like a child at a candy store; she seems like the perfect example of a little girl, acting the queen, ordering this, ordering that.

She seems like a happy and content pup, yawning in a tiny fit of boredom atop the stone.

But such is an observation from afar.

Tell me, do you know how to see how someone truly feels?

That’s right; take a good look into their eyes, the very windows of their soul.

You’d be surprised at how pretty she is, even in death.

Her eyes are blank, a smoky grey with a blotch of black missing from its core. Oh, but she feels normal, saying “Yes Momma,” “Yes Papa,” “Hi Mitea,” “Hi, Seven.” And yet, she wonders why they all look at her strangely, looking at each other, with some weird emotion colouring their eyes…it was called “Worry,” wasn’t it?

Sometimes, it requires someone else to say, “You’re insane.”

Yes, though she can’t feel it, can’t realize it, little Surri is insane; traumatized by Amaya’s death, the grief has eaten its way into her head, and has bred like a swarm of botflies. It has taken her over, whispering pretty little lies, pulling on a pretty little chain tethered around her neck, then laughing as she tumbles over, and can’t figure out why.

She giggles and prances, leaping from her throne, and dancing blindly, unaware that someone is watching. She is a performer on a stage, dancing an arabesque, sucked into her own pretty world. The observer continues to watch, perhaps having second thoughts about joining her.

But dancers should never dance alone.

And so, the observer goes to greet her as she giggles some more, in a fit of empty bliss.

She feels a presence, and turns to greet the observer, as he reaches out in invitation.

But as he takes her, holds her close, it feels awkward, so out of place; he has no rhythm, no easy pace, as they glide across the land together.

Eagles are such flimsy dancers.