kunoichi
She grabbed the small broken tool. It fell from a tree, in snapped under someone, and it laid there broken. And she frowned, for the resemblance was unmistakable. She fell from a building, snapped under someone, and laid there broken. Just like the tree wanted.
She was hungry and lone, under the sycamore tree - all dead and gone. Her eyes gleamed with tears, sickening cries of mangled despair echoing around the putrid forest. No more ever wood songs. She fought tooth and nail, and she lost.
Wearing high-heels in the forest wasn't practical. It wasn't elegant, or pretty, or charming, or seductive. It was condemning, it was desperation, it was survival. Crunching leaves and tripping legs, strangle cries and stumbling steps. It wasn't practical. It was survival.