It was supposed to be the shortest night of the year. Still, she felt like darkness clung to the skies for longer than necessary. She has been counting hours (or was it minutes?). Nevertheless, she counted and her counts reached a number higher than the bodies on this shore. Only after it, the sun started to rise. She felt the warmth of the first rays on her shoulders. It felt painful. It felt excoriatingly painful, but she felt alive. 

As if the Sun too, had seen the horrors she went through this night. 

As if the Sun

too, could see the bleeding wounds that covered her. So, it burned her; she

didn’t know whether it was a punishment or a prize. She didn’t know if there

was any difference between them.

Maybe the Moon spoke of me to the Sun. She thought as her knees

buckled. She sat down on the shore, the sea was quietly washing away her blood,

sand turning deep brown. Maybe the Moon

spoke of all of us, and what we did tonight. Of those, I lost tonight. Of those

I hurt tonight.