She woke disoriented, tongue thick with the taste of blood. Some inner sense convinced her to remain still; standing would take too much effort. So she lay there, in the soft black dirt, curled and slowly bleeding. By some miracle, memories replaced her escaping blood:
They (how many? six? too many to be fair, she knew them that well) interrupted her in her sacred place. They dragged her from the shrine, and scattered the little pile of white stones comtempuously under their feet, and spat.
Then they turned on her.
“Thought we’d find you here,” one sneered, and kicked her knees from beneath her. She’d been praying aloud; her voice had drawn them, she realized. In her head she continued to pray. It kept her from crying out as they encircled her and beat her. Their feet and hands collided with her flesh til it bruised, til it cracked and seeped red, til the pain blinded her. At last her body cried mercy and sank.
Now, lying there, her body felt no mercy. Her only thoughts were of hate. And vengeance.