Post by Iris Bane // Rhea Faraday on May 22, 2019 16:11:56 GMT -5
She couldn't take it in her home anymore, the Arguing; the constant screaming. Her brother was at his friends house, a place he had often chosen to stay... be it day or night. She had made a point in telling her parents she was going for a walk, though her voice fell on deaf uncaring ears.
She’d managed to wander her way into the beautiful floral garden situated in one of the corners of the district, Cypress gardens. The jade plot of grass was enclosed by thick hedges and bushes. With a greenhouse standing in the back right of the garden, offering a plethora of more exotic species. Each flower bed having been tended recently giving off some of the purest aroma’s leaving one with the desire to linger by each bed of flora. A path of marble stones loops around the garden, giving people an elegant way of exploring the garden and all it has to offer. Grass and plants compete with each other for the attention of those visiting. In the center of the garden was a large fountain, leaving the area surrounding it lightly dampened and the air moist from the water. Iris sat on one of the benches nearby the fountain allowing herself the smallest joy of listening to the birds chirping around her, all the while the soft droplets of water from the fountain occasionally wetting her skin as she allowed herself to smile. If only every day could feel as beautiful, as peaceful as this.
They were like puzzles to her, the torn-tattered tethers of old leather bound books. Ancient in the intricacy of their design, yet intimate in the sewn folds of their layers. But the fascination of her gliding fingers over the books' back does not simply amount to the extravagance of their archaic exterior. What lies dormant within their pressed parchment pages perhaps surpasses even the excitement stirred by the beauty of their bindings. Silent stories waiting in scribbled ink to be risen from the hibernation of their dusty shelves by the imaginative illumination of interested eyes. Worlds written into existence by the dreams of those passed just waiting, urging for a hand to turn to the first page.
Alas, her eyes have already carried a lantern through the caverns and flown over the mountains materialized by the brilliance of these authors, more than just once. She has walked hand in hand with their heroes and fallen into the flowers of eternal quiet alongside their tragic endings. Where they cry, she has cried three times. Where they laugh, she has laughed four times. Where they have lived, she has only lived through them. A youthful spirit tied early to the post of Motherhood and recruited by the dictatorship of Duty. She has already used these books more than a handful of times to escape, and each time the further from their sanctuary she finds herself.
Today she holds no book as she emerges from the silence of the library.
"Sis, you're going out?" Her young brother's voice breaks the daze of her shadowed stare. "Yes, I'm going for a walk. I'll be back soon, lunch is waiting for you inside." He is gone behind the worn wooden door of their domain in an instant, a child not born from her womb but tethered to her like the binding of her own leather exterior. He is hungry from his day at school. Arcadia's gaze winds its way through the entanglement of the old oak trees overhead as a sigh slips off her lips and onto the blossoming summer's breeze. She actually misses the dreary days of desks and gossip. Her days of childhood feel so lost somewhere within the mists of her memories. Her gaze drops and she continues onward.
The walk is short from the burgeoning oak trees to the fine hedges and floral escapades. Birds rustle through the emerging green of summer's arrival and the flowers radiate brightly in anticipation for the season of sun. Arcadia's brown hair runs in rivets of warmth across the back of her neck embracing the kiss of the clear day. Out of habit, she assumes that she is alone walking the small length of stones and listening to the voice of nature. However, a small surprise settles through her skin when she finds another girl lost in the symphony of slipping water, a rare fountain here in District Seven. Arcadia questions for a moment whether to simply wander on, but instead draws closer before sitting on the fountain's edge and tracing its water's smooth surface with the tips of her fingers.
"It's lovely out today, isn't it? Makes me wish everyday was like this."
Post by Iris Bane // Rhea Faraday on May 22, 2019 18:10:24 GMT -5
Iris sat there in a daze her mind filled with the clutter of yesterdays problems. Did she remember to punch out at her workplace, did she clean up the glass off the floor, from her mother throwing her glass against the wall. She often pondered things that shouldn’t matter to her, things that should be the problems of parents.
Yet here she was raising her own brother, cleaning up after her parents like a maid. She often more times than not felt like she should just volunteer and her problems would wash away as the children's chalk draws after a summer’s shower. Though she knew that leaving her brother to all to himself would likely just eat at her endlessly.
She was slightly startled by the other girl’s voice causing her to shift on the bench offering her a small smile, “You’re telling me.” Iris softly laughed as she pushed her sandy blonde hair off her shoulder letting it hang off her back. While she breathed in the freshness of the air, all the while inhaling the intoxicating scents of the flowers surrounding her. “I’m Iris…” She offered the girl quietly, she’d spent years being shamed by her parents for being too loud. Almost to the point, her very voice was soft and near quiet as a whisper.
The cold caress of the water's surface exists in opposition to the warming bends of Arcadia's hair. Such a duality of feelings spurs thought through the light circles of Arcadia's eyes. In this place, there is life woven by the stitches of peace and encased in the euphoric aroma of flora. But at home, away from the polished petals of reds and yellows and far from the birds bustling with songs of summer, there is death woven by the stitches of silence. Ingrid's age-induced illness knows no other end point than that of a new stone soon to be engraved. It is just like this moment, while there is the warm veil of life, there is also the chilling touch of the after always ever present.
Overhead, suddenly freeing itself from the gnarled branches of an elderly birch, a young jay freshly freed from its once soft down feathers takes flight on a rising breeze. Between the tunnels of trees it winds and weaves above any earthly boundaries, a spirit free to follow whichever wind it finds pleasing. A slight stain of jealously hides in the shallow seas of Arcadia's stare. She is envious of its swift spirals and its soft songs. In words which can never find voice beyond that of her mind, she wishes for such a state of being. To be able to open wings of adventure and follow the current of freedom. To become someone who's name might someday be written in the ink of pressed pages and inspirational in the gazes of interested eyes. To do anything other than just fade away between shelves of stories.
The other girl's voice shifts Arcadia's attention back to the burbling water and the fragrance of flowers. She speaks in a tone no louder than that of a mouse. Her words are few, but glazed in a glass of sincerity. She brings a small smile across Arcadia's face, it's nice sharing words with someone other than her siblings.
"Iris, that's a good name. Strong, but subtle."
It brings Arcadia's mind back nine years to a world of golden gore and hellish hopes. To a girl with a passion and a strength to try to leave behind hell and find something worth living for. To a girl who nearly became District Seven's first victor in decades in the year of the 73rd Hunger Games. Arcadia can't help but wonder whether this girl has any similar qualities to that of the one who's story she remembers so well.
"I'm Arcadia," she says calmly pulling her fingers back from the water, "I usually come here when I haven't been out in a few days. Do you come here often as well?"
Graphic by the Breathtakingly Talented Stare Graphic By Cameo<3