She did not know she had been dying, because to die in a dream felt like falling into a rug of flowers, a carpet of cotton-like clouds. She knew this because this was what she had been experiencing ever since she had left the reality that was her old home. In the months away from family members who once had defined her very being, she had spun for herself a new identity, one more paired to her fickle tastes. It had been a mistake. Though it had been a grievous mistake for her to speak aloud, to disturb the otherwise tranquil tension of the bear and his two unseen wolf onlookers, it was not a mistake to her in the sense that it was something she could have controlled. She could not have known the bear was there, lost in herself and in her own world, and so she felt almost freed herself from the responsibility of the disaster that soon ensued. This was an excuse. What she did believe was a mistake, however, was that she had left. She had chosen to flee from what should have been her battle. The battle she had caused. She had left others to suffer, to die.
Stumbling out of the forest, her body was not hers. It continually shook as if a great tornado racketed through her lungs. She could not breathe, and the gulps of air she managed to inhale were quickly vomited with a silent cry of anguish. Her eyes were closed. She hit a log and cried out again, turned and then began to violently claw it in her fury. She clawed and clawed until even the wood cried out and bled out a sticky sap. There the sap would pool onto the ground, and though the dripping was visible for anyone to see, it dripped into a pile of leaves and became hidden. Only a fool would believe because of this the tree had not bled.