There must be others lost here, on this never-ending wasteland.
Pockmarks lying everywhere.
Each one waiting for its prey to fall into an infallible embrace. Once ensnared the ease of staying in the void doesn't let you go. And those already filled have arms reaching out – the more the merrier.
I sidestep each one. Avoiding the mundane of effortlessness and simplicity found with the trap. Tracing the path never mapped, as my trail away must be my own.
Finally the sun sinks below the horizon. There is still light but it is no longer on my side. The shadows have changed; some are friendly and others wish to hand me to the hollows.
Just like the wind. The hissing of echoing voices disorientates my internal compass in an attempt to lead me wrong. As I gather my bravery to shelter my heart words of discomfort come to me. A lion in the snake pit. Is that the way it goes?
But not much goes here.
Except now.
I am going.
I follow the ghost of wings along a razorback between two pockmarks. Even the wind has stilled to watch my mistake. On both sides reaching arms drag me to the ground and try take me for their own.
A scrabble for purchase.
A nail thrust through each palm.
I search for my angel, still believing in escape, by now I am trapped.
The help's already here.
It's in the silent wind, the fingers and the lack of me being pulled in half. I am only here because I need to stand on my own and release my own hands.
I pull free.
Metal from flesh.
Are those gaping holes in me or around me?
The ghost is back to be above me. My angel does nothing but remind me. Of all the non-escapees. All those who now stay. Misery begs company. But do they want company or do I?
It waits.
The angel watches me. Not over me.
It takes a while, but I get to my feet.
My eyes search this plain – I know what to look for.
Hope reaches through me to guide.
It covers everything.
Leads on.
It shows freedom within my eyes and I see across the pockmarked expanse. I walk over what would have dragged me under not a breath before, dreaming all the time. Hoping. Wanting.
The ghost is not mine now.
I am escaping.
A/N:Have you ever wondered what Ginny felt when she tried to get – and got – away from Tom? Why does the mainstream appreciate the ease of simply walking away when that is not what truly happens? My English Extension teacher asked us this of a different character in a different novel but I think Ginny's experience is the best example of such a situation so I didn't follow our instructions *grins and nods like an idiot*.