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Her heart is made of rubber bands and string; loose fibers wound tightly around a frail heart and rosy disposition. If the cords are wound too tightly, they will break; if they are too loose, she will die. Amongst desert shrubbery, she wanders forsaken and forlorn. There are cacti in the distance like a painted picture done in pastels. She diverts her gaze before her tears drown her.

“It is never too late,” she tells herself as the crunch of sand beneath her feet drowns out her voice.

Up ahead, she can see something in the clouds; something large; something sinister. Through the puffs of cotton in the sky, a mountain of orgasm appears like the bloated eye of a dead man, bulging from its socket. She squints, trying to bring the image into focus. It laughs at her as sinister things often do. She can smell its offence; taste its looming grin.

She looks away.

It follows her like a sunset cast in shadow.

She closes her eyes, trying to breath. Her heart is calm now and the tension of the cords subsides. Panic is an illusion; a thing of beauty that is held within the hand like a frail and dying bird, paralyzed by its own existence.

She sighs.

In her heart, she knows that there is something deeper than all of this; something that ties together the days and the nights; something that will allow the suffering of her heart to melt away. But, to what end, she is not certain.

She craves release.

Sitting on the hot sand, she reserves a moment to collect herself; to scour her memories for a past that is as uncertain as the road that lies ahead. She’s sure that she was once real, that she had a heart of fleshly muscle beating within her hallow chest. But she can’t imagine anything other than the rubber bands and string that tense inside her ribs. Standing is as close to reality as she can hope for. Moving forward is the only way.

There is a memory that pushes its way to the front of her flailing mind. Hands reaching out like animated corpses, touching her breasts, pulling her down into the terror she felt so long ago. Pain is a nuance of an emotion; built of frail limbs and sarcastic, grinning, leering faces smeared with feces.

The faces distort and scram out in laughter, prodding her as she lays helpless on the ground. They beat at her with ill intent and gloved hands. They push her face into the shit below to stop her from staring.

She gasped at every impact as if it were a trial. She wrenched her body in twisted positions to look into the eyes of the assailants to get an image of what evil might look like. Her guts were ripped from her, replaced with string. Her heart was torn from her convulsing body before she was given a rubber band to keep her alive. They kept touching her. Their eyes were the last thing she saw before she became a living automaton.

She glanced back, but they were gone. They did not explain why they did what they did. They left her on the ground weeping. They laughed as they receded into the shadows, never to be seen again.

Her chest had been carved out and she would never feel again. She ran into the desert and refused to look back. She couldn’t bear to be seen like this; a strand of rubber ticking away in her chest, propelling blood and waste through her fragile frame.

 She was weak from the onslaught of memories, but continued forward into the burning sun. Little of those emotions remained after she scrubbed away the remnants of what they had done. Only the memories proclaimed victory over her swollen soul.

Golden strands of light extend out from the sky and blanket the desert floor. Curious, she investigates the points where the light makes contact with the sand. Each granule comes to life like gnats without wings; zigzagging across one another and grinning like the thing in the sky that follows her.

She is taken aback.

Waving hands from the sky above send currants of wind across the dust strewn environment. She is blinded by this and tries desperately to shield her eyes from the painful sting of the debris. Her nudity is unveiled and only a scarf remains to cover her face from the onslaught as her clothes are blown up and away with the handmade dust storm.

She perseveres.

Living granules of sand merge with her asshole and vagina and ears and wherever else they can penetrate. Her mouth is full of dust. She would cry if they weren’t so small and she could actually feel their assault. Her feet hurt as she pushes through the wind.

She can see the moon in the daylight like a pale reflection of what once was. It hangs convicted like a criminal, waiting for the sweet release of the unknown.

The sun retains its presence, molting, bulging and finally releasing an arch of flame and vapor to engulf the world below. A solar flare slaps outward like a whip of burning bliss, slapping anything in its way.

A blast of fire from the sun releases her from her skin and she can finally see. The wind no longer stings. The living sand no longer penetrates. The cords of her heart are frayed. She feels as if she is made of earth and glass. Her hips sway as she walks onward.

She is amazed at how easily her skin melted away. She is enamored by the way her brain leaked from her ears and nose and mouth. She is a woman of freedom. Contempt no longer encourages her to remain in misery.

This is the happiest she has been in years and she begins to dance. There is no longer a sky above; no longer a sinister thing dwelling within its safety above her in contempt. She no longer fears loss or regret.

Her hands are made of bone and cartilage; they easily point to the direction from whence she came. She turns and heads back to that place made of stars; the place that she originated. The walk home is always the longest.