Sheila:
“The boys are rather sweet, aren’t they?” I said, surprising myself.
I was still sitting on the rickety, old bench. I wondered if my pastel pink dress would ever be the same. I was sure that a combination of horse snot, dust, and this dirty bench would have ruined it completely, but somethings couldn’t be prevented. Wasn’t that my fate anyway? Worthless, discarded, old, and now smelling like a garbage pan full of discard.
I’d never envisioned stepping outside would bring such a unsettling disturbance, but there it was. Life was always like that. Smooth and easy was only the outer surface of the pond. Down underneath lay the water snakes and the weeds that sought to capture one’s lower limbs, holding a person tightly inside a watery death. And would anybody care?
Shama was standing next to me, her hand on the giant beast. He wasn’t coming any nearer to me, thankfully, but his head had lowered, and I could tell he was trying to breathe in my scent like a dog would. What did I smell like to a horse? Fear, anxiety, unhappiness? Certainly nothing like his mistress. She was always calm and unruffled by the things the Fates threw at her. How did one become like that?
The girl was petting the horse, freeing gray hairs to float about in the morning’s breeze. What was another layer of nastiness on top the decorative, tiny flowers of my dress? My skin felt saturated with grime. I might never get the filth from my gown, skin, or hair. It might become a part of me, rendering me like everything else in this horridly dirty and unkempt backyard.
“The boys keep me sane,” Shama said, giggling slightly.
Giggling? When was the last time I’d giggled or even laughed? The girl was a mere child, just starting out, unaware how dark and untrustworthy life could be. Should I disillusion her? Should I open her eyes to reality by giving her some kind of warning that she should be suspicious of everything?
Shama gave a final pat to her horse, pushed against his shoulder and said, “Go eat your breakfast, Frey.”
Most surprisingly, the horse let out a low nicker, then turned and walked away, as if he were used to obeying the girl’s every command. Were horses that intelligent? Surely they were more like cows, unable to understand words. Weren’t they merely hay consumers and poop producers?
Shama, freed from her duties of head rubbing and mane combing, snuggled in beside me on the bench. I wasn’t sure that I welcomed that, but she had saved my life from the enormous beast. I said nothing as her positioning sent the bench into wobbles and earth-quaking uncertainty.
In a moment, the vibration stilled, and we were just two females sitting calmly in the stillness of the morning. Nearby a morning dove cooed, probably singing to his mate. I’d heard that doves mated for life. Such a novel idea. Why would a bird be more faithful than a human male?