𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒 [ 𝘢.𝘮 ]

𝐎𝐍𝐄. Colm O'Driscoll

Blinding light shines through the lace drapes, forcing a tense grimace upon her features. The woman grunts, finding the key to be slumping an arm over her eyes. 

Her breaths are balanced as her body sinks deeper into the welcoming mattress, savoring the feeling of the soft fabric. Ignoring the slight smell of the stained sheets. 

It seems like decades since she last slept in a proper bed.

Feeling her arm getting cold from holding it at a wrong angle, she eventually rotates her entire body away from the window. Once certain the sunlight won't strike again, she peers one eye open.

An exhausted sigh leaves her parted lips. She forces an eye open. One at a time.

Slowly, and quite unwomanly, she sits up, allowing the sheets to expose her barely clothed upper body. Her blonde locks are woven into a drastic mess, almost teasing her as they fall into her line of sight.

She rakes a hand through those bastards of hair strands, but it doesn't do any wonders. Grunting once again, and this time rather loudly, she moves to sit at the edge of the soft bed.

Clammy, bare feet come in contact with the wooden floor, her toes curling once her skin is greeted by the coldness. However, she decides to face her demons and stands up despite the bitter temperature.

Once she's dressed in her usual clothing, which most fellers would presume as unusual for a woman, she slumps back onto the bed. Just to make usage of the last moments of bliss.

Planting her elbows on each of her pant-clothed tighs, she peers around the room in deep thought.

All she requires is a plan. A plan which includes traveling as far away as humanly possible in the least amount of time she can manage. Not an easy task at hand, she will admit.

Oh, how she wishes for those bastards to feel the grief she underwent when they torched the tents to the ground. Bringing her entire life down with them. The people she considers family. 

Dead. 

She, herself, wasn't there.

Yet, her destiny would've been the very same. Her body would be hauled down to the depths of the freezing mud, screaming out in agony as the flames would eat each layer of her precious skin.

But she wasn't there. And now, all she has is the wretched picture of the people she adores, burnt down to nothing but forgotten ashes at the ground of the formerly labeled Cotheran gang.

Now, that family is nothing but the remains of another gang's artwork, one they're praising themselves for this very moment.

They gallop through the dense tree line and into the open area of their beloved camp. Oakley slides to a halt merely before they hit the avid fires. Reds, blacks, and oranges desperately lick everything within their reach, the screeches of her family drowning in thick, grey smoke.

The horse lets out a loud neigh, one hoove dashing into the ground in anxiety. The fires reflect in his pitch dark eyes as they widen in distress.

His blonde rider frantically scans the area before her, watching as the people she laughed with this morning lay helplessly on the ground, about to become one with the dirt beneath them.

Nearly on her way to dismount, striving to touch the ground of her beloved campsite. But a rough yell bounds her from doing so.

"Another one, get 'em!"

Loud gunshots engulf the smoke, a hot, metal bullet scarcely grazing the stallion's dark pelt as he lets out another loud yelp. Gently, the woman kicks her legs into his sides, knowing all too well that they'll both be goners if they stay.