Drip.

Plop.

     Sunlight crawls its way through the cracks in the rocks of the ceiling of the dim alcove. The scent of mud and moss wafts through the air and nips her face when a gust of wind latches on and crawls in with the sunlight. The wet walls are claustrophobic, and the space stuffed with menacing stalagmites conjoined with stalactites.

Her cascading cocoa hair is stuck, sopping with cave residue to her bare back. Her skin glistens with the dew of the morning. Soft mud minerals seep between her toes and wrap around her feet.

Dried mud dots the underneath of her chipped candy apple red nails.

Her eyelashes are holding back the droplets that are desperately trying to fall from her once sparkling eyes. She had a spark. How did she let that fade? How did she find herself here, farthest from where she wants to be? Alone, left with herself to be the only one to find a solution?

Drip.

Drip.

Plop.

The residue from the ceiling lands on her shoulder. It teeters on the edge, unsure of where it wants to go. It has to make a decision. It can’t stay there, on the precipice of the shoulder, forever.

It could evaporate.

The residue droplet takes a deep breath and rolls. Down her shoulder, down her back, down her hip, down to the floor. A droplet in a race to the finish line against itself.

A shiver races down her spine and escapes through her feet. She needs to get up. She needs to get out of here. She doesn’t know what she is doing or where she is going.

But sometimes, the thing needed is to just go.

Her alabaster fingers close into a tight fist.

Her palm is spread wide open.

She squeezes her eyes tighter than she ever has before.

And then she opens them.

There’s an opening.

And she runs.