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Description
The cool autumn breeze blows Chrysta Davidson's long white-blond hair into her face.
She swipes it all back behind one ear, too focused on the scene in front of her to bother pulling it
into a ponytail. The early-morning light makes everything seem incredibly detailed, and
Chrysta's eyes water. She blinks several times, the hot, prickly feeling that precedes tears
gathering in the corner of her eyes.
Chrysta's parents had probably cried before they died…well, not really crying, but their
eyes must have watered from the chemical-laden smoke. Thinking of her mother and father
makes the hotness come back, and Chrysta blinks furiously. Her mom had always wiped away
her tears…she said it was a shame to have them covering such beautiful blue eyes.
The smoke-stained rubble seems a perfect setting for Chrysta's grief. Story-book perfect,
she thinks sarcastically. Birds sing with the coming sun, playing like a repetitive track in
Chrysta's mind. Tweet-tweet-tweet…Cuckoo, cuckoo…Tweet-tweet-tweet…Cuckoo, cuckoo…
Dr. Davidson had studied birds. But he would no longer…
The wind whisks past, sweeping up charcoal, ashes, burnt leaves, burnt hair in eddies.
Chrysta ignores it. It would take a great effort to move. Her chapped lips are cemented together;
it would be too hard to break them apart. Chrysta's feet feel fine where they are, close together,
numb in their boots. Even though her arms are starting to get cramps, it's much easier to just
hold them there than to let them hang down. Moving would break the spell, would bring her back
to reality.
Once again, birdsong invades Chrysta's thoughts, loud and piercing in the quiet.
Automatically she identifies the birds' calls-mockingbird, cardinal, sparrow, blue jay.
Completely oblivious to the tragedy that had just occurred, to the charred ruins of the mansion
that once stood tall and proud. Chrysta feels like crying again. Oblivious…
She stares unseeingly at the burnt bodies in front of her. The skin stretches tight across her parent's skulls, drawn tight by the heat that had sucked the moisture out of them. Their eyes stare lifelessly up, looking like shriveled white raisins. The analogy sticks in Chrysta's mind and she fights down a sudden wave of nausea. Her ears are buzzing slightly, like she is about to faint…but she has never fainted before, and probably won't now. Chrysta's mind seems to be moving slowly, "sluggish," her father would say. He loved using words that no one used normally...
…Like oblivious. How Chrysta's parents are now…unseeing, unknowing, oblivious. Chrysta repeats the word in her mind. Oblivious. Oblivious. Oblivious. Oh, how nice it must be…
Salty tears run down Chrysta's face, while from the evergreens the many birds sing

Description
The cool autumn breeze blows Chrysta Davidson's long white-blond hair into her face.
She swipes it all back behind one ear, too focused on the scene in front of her to bother pulling it
into a ponytail. The early-morning light makes everything seem incredibly detailed, and
Chrysta's eyes water. She blinks several times, the hot, prickly feeling that precedes tears
gathering in the corner of her eyes.
Chrysta's parents had probably cried before they died…well, not really crying, but their
eyes must have watered from the chemical-laden smoke. Thinking of her mother and father
makes the hotness come back, and Chrysta blinks furiously. Her mom had always wiped away
her tears…she said it was a shame to have them covering such beautiful blue eyes.
The smoke-stained rubble seems a perfect setting for Chrysta's grief. Story-book perfect,
she thinks sarcastically. Birds sing with the coming sun, playing like a repetitive track in
Chrysta's mind. Tweet-tweet-tweet…Cuckoo, cuckoo…Tweet-tweet-tweet…Cuckoo, cuckoo…
Dr. Davidson had studied birds. But he would no longer…
The wind whisks past, sweeping up charcoal, ashes, burnt leaves, burnt hair in eddies.
Chrysta ignores it. It would take a great effort to move. Her chapped lips are cemented together;
it would be too hard to break them apart. Chrysta's feet feel fine where they are, close together,
numb in their boots. Even though her arms are starting to get cramps, it's much easier to just
hold them there than to let them hang down. Moving would break the spell, would bring her back
to reality.
Once again, birdsong invades Chrysta's thoughts, loud and piercing in the quiet.
Automatically she identifies the birds' calls-mockingbird, cardinal, sparrow, blue jay.
Completely oblivious to the tragedy that had just occurred, to the charred ruins of the mansion
that once stood tall and proud. Chrysta feels like crying again. Oblivious…
She stares unseeingly at the burnt bodies in front of her. The skin stretches tight across her parent's skulls, drawn tight by the heat that had sucked the moisture out of them. Their eyes stare lifelessly up, looking like shriveled white raisins. The analogy sticks in Chrysta's mind and she fights down a sudden wave of nausea. Her ears are buzzing slightly, like she is about to faint…but she has never fainted before, and probably won't now. Chrysta's mind seems to be moving slowly, "sluggish," her father would say. He loved using words that no one used normally...
…Like oblivious. How Chrysta's parents are now…unseeing, unknowing, oblivious. Chrysta repeats the word in her mind. Oblivious. Oblivious. Oblivious. Oh, how nice it must be…
Salty tears run down Chrysta's face, while from the evergreens the many birds sing