Everything was blurry.
The bright, cheerful colors of the ladies' dresses, the green of the field, the sharp blue of the sky—it all smeared together, a wet, dizzying painting. Ines lay on her back, the grass scratching at her cheek, and she clutched her chest. It wasn't a sharp pain. It was a tightness, a heavy, suffocating band, as if a fist were squeezing her heart.
She could hear the commotion. It was a dreadful, discordant sound. The pop of the rifles was gone, replaced by a new sound: women, screaming. It was a high-pitched, ugly sound, like frightened gulls. And under that, a low, pounding roar. Thud-thud-thud. It sounded, she thought vaguely, like running.
My first gathering, she thought, a strange, bitter, and profoundly clear thought in the midst of the chaos. My first real gathering since... forever. And I have ruined it.
A tiny, hysterical chuckle tried to form in her throat, but she couldn't get enough air. Of course, I did.
