I am watching her.
She is running in the fields, carefree, her long black hair floating behind her like a protective cape.
Her hair is dangerous. It can harness electricity from any visible source and transmit bolts of thunder. But only when she is angry. Only when she is angry.
She is not angry now. She is smiling. That is a good mood for her. It looks good on her.
Her small feet tread over blue grass. The grass is toxic but it does not hurt her. She is native to the land. She is toxic, too.
I am watching her. Always watching her. Forever watching her. She never sleeps. She must be kept under the carefully watching Eye. Carefully watching eye.
Her perfume tickles my sense - kerosene. It is not made for her but it suits her. She took it from the crater when she pretended no one was looking. I know she knows I am looking. She knows I know, too.
She is speaking to a flower now. She knows she is not meant to speak with flowers but she does it anyway.
The flowers don't like her. They often tell her to her face. They never finish explaining why before they die. She does not kill them on purpose. It is her anger that does it for her.
This flower is smarter than most. It tries to pretend that it likes her. It stretches its green stem, rattles its yellow-freckled leaves, and opens its royal blue petals. Inside, there's a heart-shaped bed. Two bees are sleeping inside, hugging.
She looks inside. She is smiling. She breathes, and phosphine particles float out of her mouth. The particles are attracted to life. They hover in front of the bees and dance for them. They dance and make the air sing.
The dance song of the phosphine particles wakes up the bees. Enthralled, the bees fly up and dance with the particles. The phosphine and the bees dance-sing together until the bees become sick.
She is looking at the dance song, frowning. She knows what comes next. The bees start coughing and then they fall to the ground, dying. They die slowly. It takes time. Meanwhile, the heart of the flower starts breaking.
The flower usually dies right after the heart breaks. This flower is made of stronger stuff. It remains standing tall even as its petals wilt and crumble to the ground.
The blue grass catches each corpse and consumes it, maintaining the cycle. She is not part of the cycle. Her small hands reach down, trying to catch the bees before the grass eats them. The grass is faster.
She is angry now. Her long wavy hair whips up in the air, consuming electricity from the atmosphere.
I am backing away. I know better than to stand close by when she is angry.
Her hair whips up in the air and all the pent-up anger is released along with the electricity. Her anger turns the field into a crater.
She is standing now in the middle of a hole in the ground. The sky above is blazing with slashes of thunder over the black cascade of the night.
She is in the middle of the storm, but I am the eye. I alone can stop her. But I don't.
I let her unleash her rage. I relate. I am a prisoner too. A prisoner in charge of watching over a weapon. Might as well let her destroy the prison wall. Might as well let her free us all.