The field seemed to stretch on forever; her feet ached with every step she took. It won’t be long until she eventually collapsed, but until then, she was determined to use up what little of her energy she had left. How she had gotten there, she didn’t know or remember— not that it mattered. Her focus was on taking the next step and steadying her balance, not on the past. A chilly wind swept across the field’s tall grass, almost as if pushing her on to keep going.
She could feel herself growing weaker by the minute. Each simple step became a hurdle to jump over, each breath a painful inhale. She knew she was running when she first began her trek into the field, but even the thought of running made her legs ache and burn more. Thinking of running made her think of the reason she had come out here; she needed something to take her mind off of the pain that shot up through her legs.
Why had she come out into the field in the first place? There had to have been a purpose for her venturing out and away from her home town, her parents and siblings. Everything before that moment was a blur, a giant muddle of faces and voices jumbled together and making her head hurt. Every time she tried to think of her goal for coming out here, her legs would begin to tremble, her head would begin to throb and chills went down her spine. But what was so bad about thinking of the past? Why was it so terrifying to remember?
Despite the wind’s encouragement, she soon fell to her knees, mud beginning to set in on her white dress. She dropped her dark eyes down to her hands, small and slender fingers coated in a deep red— and when she moved to look at her muddy dress, a dark red color was concealed under the dull brown of the mud. It hurt to breathe and it hurt to think again, and before she knew it she was screaming and screaming over her bloody hands and bloody dress, screaming because she remembered what she did and why she did it and how they hunted her down as if she were some animal. Tears flooded down her cheeks and the more she wiped at them the more red her face turned, the smell of bitter copper mixing with the heavy natural scent of the earth around her. 
She remembered it all then, in the middle of the empty field, covered in blood that did not belong to her. A dam broke through and she remembered his screams and pleas for mercy and the yells of the townspeople afterwards, she remembered how good it felt to drive the knife deeper and deeper into his chest, the red color splattering her dress and hands. He tried to touch her, she remembered angrily, hands trying to cover the red on her hands with mud, he tried to touch her and he didn’t care what she said. She yelled and screamed and kicked, and when his back was turned she picked up that knife and gave him no choice.
It wasn’t too long before someone came and found her, standing by an opened body, stained with his blood. They asked her what happened, what happened, dear God, what happened, but she didn’t answer. She stayed silent, barely breathing and eyes glued to the body on the floor and her hand still grasping the knife. They left and brought more people, all asking what happened and why she did it and oh, Lord, no, not Travis, God above, what did you do, what did you do? They shook and shook her shoulders, brought her eyes to theirs and asked question after question, blamed her for killing him, blamed her for doing this and killing one of their brothers, sons, cousins, nephews.
She ran once they started to ask more questions. She ran and they chased after her like a pack of dogs, trying to hunt her down and kill her next, so she ran away from her town to the fields. She knew no one would be as foolish as to set foot in the fields— she set off and didn’t look back. Not when they called her name, not when they threatened her; she kept running. Running and running until the aches in her legs came and her arms felt too heavy to carry. Now that she thought about it, it could have been days since she last left her home. Where they searching for her even now? Where they mourning over Travis’ abhorrent body, burying his body and singing hymns above him?
Perhaps it was her fault. Perhaps she had done something wrong. She could have let him do what he wanted, live with the guilt of having been used or possibly worse. Travis would have been alive and she wouldn’t be sitting alone in the fields, away from her home. No one would have yelled, no one would have cried, she wouldn’t have to rub mud over her hands and dress to cover her mistake. Perhaps she was at fault.
Her head throbbed, breathing slow and labored. It hurt to think and it hurt to breathe again, even if she wasn’t walking anymore. She didn’t need to walk anymore, because here she sat, arms and dress colored red and brown, filthy and smelling of copper and muck. She wasn’t screaming or crying anymore, she wasn’t angry anymore. She wasn’t anything anymore.
Her eyes went to the sky above her, grey and somber, heavy storm clouds beginning to form. The rain would come soon again, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d be soaked to the bone.
She stayed still, her dress clinging to her skin and ink-black hair sticking to her face. She let the mud drain away, let the blood, bright and rich, fade away from her fingertips.
She stayed still.