A barbed, rusting fence now stands erect against the bloodred sky as the amber sun sets. The barbs once held clumps of sheep wool, like a sign something was trying to get out, or in. Upon one of the giant trunks that support the metal, sits a ginger cat.
He jumps down to scratch his sharp claws along the wood, tail in the air. The sound of another frightens him and he rips his nails out and bolts across the dying grass without looking behind.
She used to come here all the time, when there was no fence; only large flat grassland and the grass stood taller than her knees as she stepped gently through. Taking his place upon the pole, sitting pretty, she narrows her emerald eyes. The world is hers and the voice she calls out in has no pain now.
The bright orange sun sets over the green hills in the distance as the black cat howls at the thin purple clouds. She is home.