where the outlines are clear. frances/jasmine.
Nov 28, 2016 1:00:33 GMT -5
Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Nov 28, 2016 1:00:33 GMT -5
J A S M I N E L A V O I E |
i can't see the stars
anymore, living here
let's go to the hills
where the outlines are clear
She used to carry it with her every day.
It was like carrying the whole weight of the world in her pocket — but it was just torn paper, that's all it ever was. Frances, she recalled her name every day. Frances Vieuxpointe.
Frances and Jasmine Vieuxpointe.
What a sick joke.
And now — and now it's in the pocket of her pleated skirt again, neatly folded in a little square as it always has been.
Her family doesn't keep matches in the house. Not with all the children around — the Lavoies are cautious people. They, like Jasmine, recognize the destructive power of fire, even from a little flame dancing on the tip of a match. It terrifies them; but to her, it's beautiful.
Jasmine's footsteps sound as lightly as a gentle pitter-patter of a drizzle against a roof. She steps from the asphalt onto the concrete platform before the convenience store, pushing the door open with one hand. A bell jingles upon her entrance, and a winter breeze blows through the door and into the shop, ruffling her long locks of fair hair. Although all she wears is a white blouse with ruffles along its seams, tucked into a pleated navy skirt, she does not shiver against the touch of ice against her flesh.
She wastes no time looking around in the shop. Usually, she would browse through and look at the candies, toys, and different kinds of chips in the aisles, but she just wants to get this over with— she fears that part of her doesn't want to do this.
Nearly darting, she approaches the refrigerated section and scans the rows of drinks through the clouded window. Her fingers close around the handle of the door, and upon it swinging open, cold air rushes into Jasmine's face. She reaches her hand into the refrigerator and pulls out a can of pink liquid with a logo on its front of a pink magnolia, and a label that reads, Magnolia Lemonade Soda.
Just preparations, she tells herself. Pink lemonade soda is what Mrs. Lavoie would always buy her when she was sad or upset. "It heals heartache," she said, and Jasmine used to believe her.
Once she has the soda can in her hand, she closes the door and speed walks to the counter, setting down the can before the cashier. Before checking out, she reaches into the rows of goods on the sides of the counter, and her hand comes back up with a purple lighter.
Jasmine pulls out a crumpled wad of money, the last of her allowance from this month, and hands it to the cashier. "Keep the change," she says before hastily picking up her items and walking out the door.
She grips the lighter tightly in her hand. (Part of her doesn't want to do this.) She knows that it's the right thing, for her, for the sake of her sanity. And yet, the mere idea of letting Frances go made her heart lurch. For now, Jasmine slips the lighter into her pocket along with the torn photograph, and opens up the can of lemonade soda.
Jasmine begins to walk to ease her nerves — she always paces, back and forth, back and forth, when anxiety grips her as it does now. Step step step step step, and she takes a sip, letting the carbonated drink sizzle down her throat.
She nearly chokes.
A head of strawberry blonde hair catches her eye — No, she tells herself, there are lots of girls with strawberry blonde hair. But then the girl turns around and Jasmine sees just a portion of the side of her face. She sees freckles, a narrow nose, full brows — that's when she knows. Part of her face is enough to know, the back of her head is enough to know. One, two, three years, but she can still recognize her sister.
Seeing the truth right before her eyes — it makes denial absolutely useless. (And she hates it.)
Her heart drops into the pit of her stomach, and her legs grow weak beneath the weight of her body. The muscles in her arms go slack with shock, causing her hand to release the soda can. It is sent crashing to the concrete just by Frances's shoes, spilling out in a widening, bubbling pink puddle, white foam gathering around its expanding edges.bring on the wonder
bring on the song
i pushed you down deep
in my soul for too long
I N M Y S O U L F O R T O O L O N G |
