Heather Zlamanowski, an amputee, has only one idea of solace in this world; to be surrounded by a forest of pines and under stampeding storm clouds. But self-imposed isolation, in a world at war, is seldom respected. Evil forces beyond the forest's periphery are hellbent on pulling Heather in, exploiting her for their own ends.
Combining elements of horror fiction and war drama, with dystopian underpinnings, Heather's Mannequin is a young woman's odyssey to find love and self-acceptance. Her story also examines the nature of identity and trauma, and what happens when these two forces tragically collide.
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There came a pattering in the unseen distance in these woods. Coming straight for me, weighing down on the song of the night-time crickets.
A grunting growl escaped a dark, predatory snout. A creature leapt and clamped onto my prosthetic arm, its teeth radiant and picked clean by splintered bones. My metallic limb was my shield, raised on impulse. My sword was but a fleshy arm, coursing with vital blood, made up of spongy tendons, and inhibited by nerve endings. It was nothing more than a flimsy weapon, with a brittle bone acting as its pylon.
The creature bit down on the prosthetic with some extra weight, before realizing its assault was bearing no fruit or meat. With my prosthetic inert, I crouched down, grabbed some dirt, and threw it into the creature's howling, blood-cracked eyes. It released its toothy grip and scampered off. Its black, mangy fur still as quills in the forest wind.
The creature will probably find a river, and dip its eyes to restore its sight. Or it'll simply shake the particles off, and its hunt will begin anew. Even if I had a real blade in place for my real arm, I could never strike such a beast. Hell, I wouldn't even scratch it. The forest was here long before I was. It will be here long after I'm not. The forest, like the Planet, is all-encompassing, all-knowing, and all-doing. Who am I, but a temporary apparition, to impinge upon the natural law of this world?
As my bare foot traced the forest floor in the night, my toes were met with a soft, furry warmth. I picked up the fresh corpse of a rabbit whose neck and ribs were punctured by a set of dagger-like incisors. I dropped it into the sack around my shoulder, minding the blood as I already had several herbs inside. I looked down and spotted several trickles of dried-up blood along the grass and dirt. The blood's trail pointed to the direction from where the creature first appeared.
My deduction is that one or more other rabbits were slaughtered and the creature could only carry one piece of prey at a time. Thus, when it returned to collect, it thought I was there to steal it. No creature in the forest would attack without provocation or justification. I should've known better.
Forgive me, Creature. It isn't fair for one to reap the rewards of another's labor, that I know. I'm acting as the pebble caught between the turning gears of the natural order. I reached into my bag to feel its prey's velvet skin. Beneath it lay the ice-cold barrel of the gun.
