She did not suppose it would happen like this. Even the warmth of the wind felt like a dark force from a distant land; she could taste sparks on her tongue like thistles, not flowers like Ophelia had promised her. It was time to learn that real life did not curve so neatly and beautifully in the way that her words often did. It was jagged, disconnected, and smeared with blood and lipstick and tears.
A brown hare bounded through the soft yellow grass before her, quivering with anticipation as hares must always do, for fear of being eaten. Its eyes were like black inkwells, wet and full of fear; there are some animals that, like many people, are cursed with it constantly. She felt she was cursed with a rabbit heart.
The hare chased the last remaining rays of sunlight that spilled out over the tops of the trees and into the thicket, colouring the world with a golden hue and making everything appear angelic. She wished she could remove her heart and lay it down in the twilight, in hope that it would absorb some of its divine beauty, so that when she returned at dawn, it would be this beautiful, unbreakable thing thing that she could lock away behind her breast and swallow the key to. Or perhaps, she thought, perhaps she could bury it in this field like a seed, and the sun would warm the freshly dug earth, and her heart would come a tree; a beautiful big golden maple, or strong towering beech, and transform this selfish useless fleshy being into a creator and a mother.