Fields of Bliss

And for once, the Others were free.

They had shed the chains of oppression and now stood in the open expanse of the field, liberty rising among them like fog at the harbor. So unused were they to this sensation that they stood still, uncertain and hesitating.

It was one girl among them, slightly shorter and slimmer than the others, who had made the first move. She had dark chestnut hair pulled back in a tight bun, and gray eyes set in her drawn face. Oh yes, the eyes. The eyes that swirled and brimmed with broiling seas, as filled with mystery and intrigue as a barrel is filled with fish. Jeanne had taken a wavering step forward, and now she hunched over, eyes desperately searching the vast, empty yet full field. Then, in a wild, reckless move, she tore her hair out of the bun, so violently that several strands had drifted to the ground.

But her hair, at least, was free. It hung, a curtain of hidden beauty, resting on her neck and shoulders. Murmuring moved among the rest of the Others as they watched this spectacle with wide eyes.

Encouraged by this, Jeanne ripped away her gloomy, gray cardigan, revealing a sleeveless blouse. She let out a shiver of joy as the breeze caressed her bare arms for the first time. The murmuring grew. She shucked off her shoes and threw them as far as she could, giggling at this marvel. Then, giddily, she leaned over and tore away strips of her black skirt, until the ragged edge reached only half-way to her knees.

Silk sheets of wind wrapped around her, and she let out a screech of elation. Around her, the Others were copying her, removing cardigans, skirts, buns, and shoes. The murmur rose to a hum, then a chatter.

Grass brushed against her bare feet, and she yanked up tufts of it and experimentally threw it in the air. Movement paused to watch this event, before someone tossed a clod of dirt. It smashed into a young girl's face, who let out a squeal.

Soon, dirt was thrown everywhere, the spheres of mud splashed into everyone - their clothes, their skin, their faces, their hair. But then - was it Jeanne, again? - someone leaped upon another and clawed at her face with her hands. Screams of a different sort echoed in the air, high and piercing.

Then all was chaos. All was bliss. Blood splattered the grass, and flew in high, arcing streaks. Yells and cries, grunts and murmurs, all soared.

At last, everyone lay limp, eternally free, eternally chained. Only Jeanne still crawled through the red-stained grass, straining for the liberty, just out of her reach. "One more..." she whispered. "One more..."

But then at last, she gave out, in the fields.