Tights ripped, hair plastered across her face, she scrambled up the steep incline on all fours grasping at nearby roots for leverage (which was not so clever considering this tactic had landed her hard on her backside a few moments before).
Stones tumbled from her feet as she tried to avoid the posies of wildflowers offered to her from cracks in the ground.
A shot rang out, quickly followed by the bay of a hunting dog, but it merely brushed the edge of her conscious, so intent her focus on reaching the top.
Her tailored jacket got discarded, so carefully pressed and hung the night before, briefly taking a life of its own before catching on a thistle and staying put.
She pushed on, the taste of blood in her mouth, the heel of her left shoe refusing to go any further. She left it behind.
The summit unfolded. She straightened, shielded her eyes, and peered down the way she had come.
Her jacket was still on its thistle. A flag of surrender. Her car abandoned at the foot of the rise (and along with it, her laptop on the passenger seat).
Passing this spot every day on her commute for three years, she’d always wondered what the view would be like from up high. How it feels to not be able to go any further. The only way is down, with arms open wide.
The toy-town of a village in the valley below looked oddly comical, tractors trailing up and down fields. She thought about moving the little red houses at will. Closing one eye she pinched them between her fingers.
They will call me crazy, she thought.
I don’t care, she whispered. Then shouted it loud. Head thrown back to the skies, she hooted at the wind.