She stood still. Very still. Her green frock flippered in the wind, the auburn curls framing her face stroking her cheeks as the wind carassed her every inch; sweeping the vast perimeter, rustling every grain. Her breathing was low, gentle and regular, her pace moving along to the rhythm the wheat was swaying. Nature and Betsie was one. She readjusted her eyes under closed lids, registering pink and white. Sunlight. Smell of dried mud and dried grass filled up her nostrils.
Betsie refuses to open her eyes, refusing to break this bond, refusing to return. She knows that the moment her eyelids reveal the world, she'd see that cottage far away, that tractor moving along the road, seating her father with his pipe hanging from his moustached lips. No. She do not want that image floating into her mind, she's refusing to think. Fighting to regain peace, to reunite with her surroundings, she breathed even slower and listened harder. Beads of sweat trickeld down her temples, her eyebrows knitting into a frown as she grunted, desperately clawing for deviation from reality.
Young Betsie hated reality. Every day as she grew, responsibilities piled upon her. One day she had to fetch Daddy matchsticks, another day water. Some other day she had to spring clean with Mummy, occasionally running far errands. It was not the task that she detest, it was the expectation of doing it well, way beyond the limit given, and faring better than she was capable of. All she wanted to do was to play with the fellow children, to run around amock in the vast greenery, chasing cows and running after crows. She wants to swim in the quarry and go to the market and ogle at civilisation. She's only seven, she do not need to do anything. This is nice, standing here, being carefree. This is nice.
Her mind soared into her wonderland, a smile spreading through her lips. As the sun beat down on her auburn locks and the tractor growled along. Betsie stood there, silent with nature, enjoying a break. She needed that.
Life's idiosyncracies drove her in.
Betsie refuses to open her eyes, refusing to break this bond, refusing to return. She knows that the moment her eyelids reveal the world, she'd see that cottage far away, that tractor moving along the road, seating her father with his pipe hanging from his moustached lips. No. She do not want that image floating into her mind, she's refusing to think. Fighting to regain peace, to reunite with her surroundings, she breathed even slower and listened harder. Beads of sweat trickeld down her temples, her eyebrows knitting into a frown as she grunted, desperately clawing for deviation from reality.
Young Betsie hated reality. Every day as she grew, responsibilities piled upon her. One day she had to fetch Daddy matchsticks, another day water. Some other day she had to spring clean with Mummy, occasionally running far errands. It was not the task that she detest, it was the expectation of doing it well, way beyond the limit given, and faring better than she was capable of. All she wanted to do was to play with the fellow children, to run around amock in the vast greenery, chasing cows and running after crows. She wants to swim in the quarry and go to the market and ogle at civilisation. She's only seven, she do not need to do anything. This is nice, standing here, being carefree. This is nice.
Her mind soared into her wonderland, a smile spreading through her lips. As the sun beat down on her auburn locks and the tractor growled along. Betsie stood there, silent with nature, enjoying a break. She needed that.
Life's idiosyncracies drove her in.
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