She is a white blur in the dark night. A sickly blotch. A small thing really, swollen with injury and streaked with deep bruising. Mud and leaves decorate her naked feet. Two red holes, in place of eyes, glare up into the sky.
When she takes a quick shallow breath, it is surprising. Her throat moves slightly as she swallows.
She is dying.
There is no doubt.
Her body knows time is short, but still attempts to do the bare minimum.
Soon though those processes will cease and she will bloat and decay. She will turn black and the parts that identify her as female will fall away, or be eaten by vermin.
If she lays there long enough she will eventually turn back into the Earth some say she was made from. All save the bone. That will remain forever, solidifying and turning to stone and maybe one day be unearthed, where questions will be asked and possibly answered. Maybe they will call her Lucy. Maybe she will be the missing link to a future generation of humans that millions of years separate her from. Maybe she will be celebrated and put on display in museums, not as a victim, but as a triumph of evolution.
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