Triton

Morphing in the dark, she was breaking her bones and tearing her skin until she could be come what everyone else had deemed her worthy of being. It wasn't without the youthful extremities that were falling out of her lips and the joyless relevancies of all of their expectations, that she could overcome the obstacles and run or die. She couldn't die in this life. They watched her as she sprinted on the tread mill at the edge of a cliff, waiting to pull the plug so it could look like a suicide. Their lips were too pursed and too French to count for forgiveness and, whether or whether, can or cannot, they would always see her as the rock that shattered the stained glass window on the south side of Chartres cathedral on the eve of the birth of Jesus Christ. It wasn't a fairness question, it was a contemplation as to whether Republicanism was worth the risk.