Victory Soured

We won. 

Beneath a blanket of clear, gray skies, emerging out onto a snowy plain of clear, flat terrain. Pine needles embedded in my pants, stray twigs in my hair, I took all in. 

If freedom had a noise, a voice, it'd probably sound just like Mariah Carey hugging her lips too close to the mic. Because right then, that's what freedom was to me—blasting through loudspeakers everywhere. 

Like an anthem of victory. 

Thank you Christmas. Thank you Carey. Still really kinda hate your song though with every fiber of my existence and will celebrate its death with tears of joy and lots of dancing.

Nothing personal though. 

Adalia practically sprung out of my arms, landing in the snow with a precarious wobble that plainly told of how much she had exerted herself. It wasn't long before she was shambling close toward me again, wrapping herself around arm like it was a personal walking stick.