talking in the dark >> xiomara&burdock
Mar 24, 2023 11:33:29 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 24, 2023 11:33:29 GMT -5
![](https://64.media.tumblr.com/71e4b15859a59711bed50ee9cc566369/tumblr_po5j6dXxP01shhneqo1_540.png)
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b u r d o c k .
Isolation has only made Burdock Coy ever the more stranger.
She never really had a chance, feeding spiders to venus fly traps for a hobby shapes kids in predictable ways. It's only fitting she's the way she is, nine days into laundry day, talking to crystals in a lighthouse she hasn't bothered leaving in weeks. She's got the necessities and a little extra, what more can a girl need? There was a point, before in District 3, before she hopped that fence, where she thought she knew what love was.
Well, she was wrong. As she spends another night alone, she cherishes nothing but herself and the talents that surround her. She's prospered in her art, demented and gory finger paintings are practically thrown askew around the lighthouse, laying discombobulated on the floor around her easel. She sits in the window sill, sketchbook in lap with a rainbow of wax sticks to her right. She doesn't know where to go with it, only that she wants it to have three eyes and a bloody mouth. Both it and herself are baked under the moonlight and the still quiet of the night.
The only noise coming from her lighthouse being that of a bubbling soup, perfected with her very own mystery meat.
Who knows where it came from? Her soups were acclaimed for being near disgusting, yet edible. Burdock never really knew what she was doing in the kitchen, it wasn't her domain that's for sure, but a girl had to eat for sure. It's the only distraction she has going against her art work, she scribbles hard on the page until it crinkles, trying her hardest to finish it while the motivation's still there. "Ah, whatever," she says, tossing it aside once she notices the crease it left running down the macabre face she was putting together.
"Soup, soup, soup," she sing-songs down the staircase to the third floor, where a cauldron-like pot sits in the fireplace. There's no table or chairs; in fact, the only other things in the room are a crate of silverware, even more paintings she's thrown down the stairs and dirty clothes. She's down to her last good nightgown - "good" being subjective, with its moth holes and frayed edges. Burdock coughs on the smoke that releases as she opens the cauldron, a questionable stench filling the lighthouse and teasing her appetite.
She looks at it with starving eyes, speaking manifestations into it as if they're expensive seasons: "you're going to be everything." As she walks away, she sorts through the silverware for some match sticks before heading down the stairs on a mission.
Candles line nearly every angle in the lighthouse in a pattern she had been cooking up all evening. Their positions rotate on every floor, with their being as many as eleven on each, and she takes her time lighting all the candles in ascending order. Starting from her moss covered ground floor all the way to her fifth floor make-shift bedroom, she burns her fingertips more than once on the way. "There," she says to the final candle, ritual complete.
Soup time.