Maggie and OPEN - October 3, near 10
Her days had been run by the sun. When it set, she was usually in bed, curled up in a tight ball with blankets chosen for their weight rather than their warmth. She woke up with the dawn, watched the reds and oranges break the black and tried to draw some hopeful, poetic meaning. She usually failed. But it was a special occasion, and Maggie intended to stay awake and aware during the whole thing. The feeling of being nothing more than glass shards held tightly together by a pressure that had to give eventually was gone from the camp, replaced with an euphoric feeling of victory.
It was nice. It really, really was. Maggie sat on the carosel, holding onto the gold speak that broke through the horse’s back tightly. She liked how it spun in a rhythm that matched up with her own pulse- or had her pulse matched up to it? She’d wrapped herself in her usual long, flow, warm clothes but had started to shed the layers as the night went on, leaving her in blue jeans and a gray collared shirt meant for a man, but recycled as her tunic. It was the happiest she’d been in a long while- riding a pretend horse and watching the night unfold all around her as she spun around and around.
The ride slowed, and Maggie dismounted, walking back through the grounds, her mind still spinning and blood swirling with the motions of the ride.