Wild flowers bloom under my feet. Yellow clouds hover lazily above. I take slow hesitant steps. Wincing in pain as the grass shards cut my feet. Wild flower thorns puncture-but I must keep going. Another step-another painful grimace. A trail of dark blood spread unevenly behind me. Heavy, slow breaths. I'm shaking as the sun dips below the horizon. Dreadful silence weighing uneasily on my shoulders. I must keep going. Shaking but I can't fall-I cannot fall; I must not. Wet icky warm blood flows from my feet. The Field yawns but its blades do not. I chose this- for this is my doing. I chose these blades. I chose these wounds. Maybe to prove something. Maybe to prove something for myself. Because I know these blades are real but no one seems to believe me. For they only see the Field.