Is it wrong of me...

The night became stifling in its closeness, pressing hot-handedly against her like an intoxicated bar-crowd, every shadow like a careless body. The anxiety of it fell hard into her stomach, riling up a nauseous ache that reason would not easily quiet. It seemed impossible that she had somehow wandered further than she realized from town, that its lights would be occluded by the sloping hillsides, that no meandering footpath would gesture the way home. In light of that, however, some part of her mind was lifting a much stronger conviction that the oak tree she now leaned against had not been there before.
( ...to escape these surroundings? )