For the first time in months, she managed to peek outside. It’s raining; as soon as the rain drops fell on her, she retracted. Glancing around the tree house, her home since the winter, she discovered that all the rations had been depleted. Every wrapper, every boxes and bags of Meals-ready-to-eat, and bottles stood empty, not a crumb left in sight.
She rolled up her pant leg to check the wound that caused her to stay here the entire winter for the millionth time. The wound’s long gone, leaving nothing but a long jagged scar that ran down her leg from when she had to operate on herself to dig out the bullet which remained in her jacket pocket. She grabbed her rifle with her left hand while getting a grip on the windowsill with her right, she hurled herself into an upright position. For a second, her left knee wobbled; her grip on the windowsill tightened before her leg became steady again.
With one stride, she crossed the room, hoisted her backpack onto her back. Then with her rifle and backpack, she opened the hatch and fell to the ground.
A Response for Sunday Photo Fiction.