A hill

She walked along the top of the hill, the fog engulfing her tiny figure. She felt her mud soaked feet sink into the viscous earth with every step she took. She was cold, wet and exhausted. Every time she moved her whole body screamed from the ache, every slap of wind caused an eruption of trembling nerves. Her body shook with the wintry wind, the layers she wore had done nothing to protect her. They were useless. More of a burden then an aid. The rain had soaked them, weighing her down like she was carrying rocks in her pockets. How she wished to tear them off and embrace the malevolent air. The thought was refreshing but she knew in the long term it would do more harm then good. Whilst the weight would lessen the cold would gnaw at her more. 

She tried to take her mind off of it all. Off of the pain from the bag she kept strapped tight to her bones, she tried to stop thinking about the shiver she felt in her blood and the smothering cling of her wet clothes to her body. She started to listen to the sounds around her, ignoring the pain she felt at a constant. She heard the agonising howls of the wind blowing from the west right into her face, it was as if there was a raging fight happening right in front of her. She heard the scratching of tree branches crawling along. Trying to escape the hill just like her. She heard the trickle of their blood squelch beneath her feet and began to hear the pitter patter of the skies tears as they fell onto her. She could hear the skies vexed moans and woeful sobs. It too was trying to leave this  treacherous place. 

The sounds failed to disillusion her pain, if anything they increased her mental pain. All she felt was the trauma of these poor things stuck on this hill... Forever. She began looking around, hoping to preoccupy her brain. She saw barbed wires caging in animals who bared the storm and all its hell. She watched as leaves flew past her in a haze of Autumnal distress, the shades of brown bringing new colour to the landscape of green and white. Her eyes attached themselves to the path ahead, focussing on every sharp rock she stumbled over. Planning every step she sunk into. They lost focus for a moment. Only a moment. They wandered away to a scene of momentary happiness on top of the hellish hill. Two sheep hiding from the rain under a large tree, lush in hanging green leaves. It had not yet fallen under the curse of winter. The scene of joy didn't last long as her eyes had stopped securing her safe journey and so she tripped on a jagged edge falling to the ground in a painful shriek. 

She blinked. She felt the heavy bag compressing her chest... Almost stopping her breathing. She blinked. With a sharp intake she rolled to her back. She blinked. Her body sunk deep into the flowing mud. She blinked. She could see the trickle of blood rolling down her broken hands, the openings like serrated mountains. She blinked and saw the wicked rock that had caused her fall. Her mind took pity on it. The hell of the hill had caused it to become evil too. Wearing it down to a point, storm after storm. Whilst the pain was immense she clambered (slowly) to her feet and kept walking with watchful eyes on the ground. 

She started to smell the salt from the red essence dripping of off her hand so she wiped it on her ripped trousers. She could smell the dirt deep in her nails, the mud hugging her clothes. It was a foul, putrid smell of anger, pain and depression. For this dirt was only looking for a way off of this hill. A new smell invaded her nose, it carried past her in the wave of the wind. The smell of something warm and comforting. The smell of memories from home, of happier times with family. The smell of freshly printed photographs in an album of good times. It was the smell of hot food, of something meaty and delicious. 

She looked ahead and she saw it. Her camp. In all its forlorn glory. Never had she been happier to see such a small tent in all her life. With new found strength in her bones she hurried to her tent and climbed inside as fast as her aching bones would allow. Peeling off layer after layer of frozen clothing before finally settling into new, dry material that hugged her with a sense of care. She pulled on thick new socks, they wrapped around her feet in an embrace of love. Waiting for her in a ceramic mahogany pot next to her sleeping bag was a concoction of hope, relief and comfort. Otherwise known as soup. 

She reached for the blazing pot, pouring herself a cup she drooled at the steam that whispered away from the liquid. Her eyes widened in disbelief that all was over as she poured the soothing cup of hot solace down her throat to heal all that the hill had done to her. The taste of assuage engulfed her senses as she savoured every flavourful burst dejectedly. Because whilst the soup could cure the physical pain, it could not save her heart that ached with anguish for the nature stuck on top of the hill.