.: keep it { t o g e t h e r } // Cait

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Stare
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and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

.: keep it { t o g e t h e r } // Cait Jun 28, 2012 21:26:15 GMT -5

Post by Stare on Jun 28, 2012 21:26:15 GMT -5

I've been walking 'round for hours
Holding onto stems of flowers
My chest is feeling all my pain,
As it began to rain

I close my eyes against it all and the memories come flooding back. Flashes of glowing hues are painted across fluttering lids, and then there is darkness and my chest tightens when I think I recognize the smell of smoke. Their screams echo in my ears - you are useless what's going on? they're coming - terrified and uncertain because they needed me, they freaking needed me, and I abandoned them to be burned by the flames. My eyes snap open and my hand flies to bandages on my arm, feeling the course white that covers tingling skin beneath. When all was said and done at Sycamore, I put Silas in charge and took Edgar along with me to the cheapest healer we knew. The woman, after seeing our wounds and starved appearances, would not take the pathetic amount of coin I offered her, instead giving us bandages and some herbal medicine. When looking at my arm, she had clucked her tongue. "The bandages should help the wound heal, but it will scar. I wish I could have treated it immediately." So did I. But the kids always come first.

After the rain had cooled the ruins (that's what we can call our house now. Ruins.), Edgar and I went first to explore what was left of the pathetic orphanage. Damages to one side of the house were almost nonexistent - the furniture smelled of smoke and a few vases had been knocked over by running figures, but otherwise everything was vaguely still whole. The other side of the house took the worst of the burns. There was hardly anything left - the basic frame of the house remained stubbornly tall, but entire walls had been burned away, and as for the tables and chairs? Piles of ash. Luckily, Ara and Miss Aggie's rooms were on the good side of Sycamore, and half the Sycamores' rooms were also spared. I, however, was not so lucky. I told Edgar I would be examining it alone. When I pushed open what was left of the door, I didn't want to believe what I saw. The walls had giant onyx stains spread across them. The curtains had been completely burned away. The chair that I always rocked Ara in, as well as some of the others when they were younger, crumbled away at my touch. My bed was a pile of blackened wood on the floor. And my clothes? Gone. I had left Ara in Ruth's capable hands, but didn't trust even the sweetest among us with my mother's dress. At the sight of the burned fabric dangling from half melted plastic hangers, I had clutched it closer to my chest, breathing in the silk. But when I emerged a few minutes earlier to face Edgar and the rest of the orphans, my face was free of the pain and sorry I so acutely felt.

We let them search through the piles of silver and black dust for anything salvagable. There weren't any great losses - I kept the money saved over the years in an area of the house that was saved, and told those who had lost their rooms that we would go shopping for new clothes and furniture soon. Surely, the government would give us some money for repairs. But we'd have to share rooms. Partners were quickly found - Edgar and Laila, Arwen and Silas (had the situation been any different, I would have thrown a fit), Septimus and Blaire, and myself and Ruth. I stand in Ruth's room now, wearing an old nightgown of Miss Aggie's. The silk of it is worn, and the lace on its cuffs and color looks ancient. Still, I know I should be grateful for having any type of clothes at all. My mother's dress is stowed away safely in one of Ruth's drawers, and I am grateful for her not asking any questions.

But now, as I spread one of our dusty and worn patchwork quilts out on the floor (I have the vague memory of Miss Aggie sewing this together while I sat cross legged in front of her, watching her in silence with wide eyes on a hot summer day), I discover I have a new problem. I got little sleep last night, and worked long and hard today patching together our ~~lives~~ wounds, so there's no way I'll be staying up later than Ruth. And there's no excuse I can think of to sleep elsewhere tonight. I'm not going to fancy myself strong - I know that tonight will not spare me from my unexplainable fear, despite the circumstances. What if Ruth hears me screaming into my pillow and crying tonight? I've kept it secret from even Miss Aggie for so long, and now my horrible flaw will be revealed to the one Sycamore child who least deserves to know. Ruth is the kindest, sweetest, purest among us - she shouldn't be burdened because of me.

I glance over at the child now, willowy limbs stretched out to fold over the sheets on her bed as she, too, prepares to retire for the night. The voices that usually drift through the Sycamore halls have long since quieted, and I assume that Ruth and I are the last ones awake. I offer her a small smile when she turns her head to look at me, cleaning my expression of all panic and uncertainty as I do so often around these children. "Thanks again for letting me sleep in here, Ruth. I really appreciate it." It's not like she had a choice, but I still feel gratitude toward the younger child despite the dread that spreads as ice cold cyanide through my veins. I drop down to the floor and spread out onto the quilt, anxiety twisting my stomach around. There's only one way to prevent the disaster I can feel ahead, and that's to swallow my fear and tough it out for the night. I've tried to fight the monster of terror before and failed, but tonight is different. Tonight, I'm fighting for Ruth. But as my limbs glide over the soft surface of the fabric, I can't help but feel something like regret. This - all of this - could have been avoided if only the house hadn't burned. We could have avoided disaster for just a bit longer.

The bandages should help the wound heal, but it will scar.

Welcome to my life.

Of everything we'd overcome
And all that's said and done
I'm leaving our war behind
They tell me life can go on.

Last Edit: Jul 17, 2012 9:44:19 GMT -5 by Stare

Cait
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if looks could kill

.: keep it { t o g e t h e r } // Cait Jul 1, 2012 23:04:08 GMT -5

Post by Cait on Jul 1, 2012 23:04:08 GMT -5

p l e a s e / p a i n t / m e / a / p i c t u r e / o f / t o d a y
b e f o r e / t o m o r r o w / t a k e s / i t / a w a y

Tonight, I will hardly sleep.

It is plain to see and certain as can be, as certain as the fact that the sun will indeed rise in the morning, that tonight, sleep will fail to reach me. Or, at least, I can be guaranteed to be held awake for a large part of the night. I would be lucky to get even two hours of precious sleep, a luxury that I took for granted only a night ago, yet may never be privileged enough to experience a full, luxurious, satisfying slumber again. My mind, still whirring at a million miles an hour, refuses to settle. I can feel it working feverishly, trying to condense the day’s events into one small folder, so that it could easily be stored away in the murky depths of my carefree head. It works like clockwork, a simple yet repetitive routine of trial and error. Moving memories into separate sections, one after the other, will it ever end?

[/b][/color]

The process seems to run automatically in my head, and even as I sit cross-legged on my bed, staring into nothing but empty space, my body remains idle and unmoving. A statue, frozen in time. The past few hours have been a blur, but as my mind stubbornly works to summarize today’s events, I can feel the toll they have had on me. My body is growing weaker, weighed down by burden after burden, and all I keep doing is wishing that I had been at the house to help. Not being able to help but think that there could have been something, anything I could have done. Is this right? Does a 13-year-old deserve this kind of torture? I feel a million things beginning to pile inside of me, a mountain of doom looming high above my head, waiting for the perfect moment to slowly topple over, spilling contents of my broken soul onto the crystal-encrusted floor, glittering jewels twinkling dangerously.

I would do anything for the horrors to disappear.

Was that why I had agreed to share my room with Lilith? A woman who could very well be the mother I never had, yet to whom I had hardly spoken more than a few meaningless words to in my whole existence. Was sharing a room with someone who could be considered family, too much to ask? A sheer burden that could somehow erase the growing pile of doom that was inevitably nearing its breaking point. Either way, it was something that I would have agreed to do in an instant years ago, many long years ago. It would not matter that the room was clearly built to act as a home for one person only, of a smaller build, no doubt. It would not have even crossed my mind that the only bed in the room would no longer be mine, but would perhaps be shared. I would have already known that sacrifices would need to be made to accommodate for everyone’s needs. Sharing the bed, like sisters, one night for me, one night for Lilith, in my room, the only place I could call ‘home.’ Such things wouldn’t have bothered me at all. Everything had changed. I had hoped I was still the same person, somehow. Hoped that, over the harsh, lonely years before my arrival at Sycamore, the fact that I held onto my passion of drawing, the only thing I would ever be good at, would give me some sense of satisfaction, a redeeming quality evident amongst the midst of the pain inflicting itself on the inside.

I had barely looked at the smouldering remains – had it really been a full house yesterday, standing so proud, so invincible? – of the Sycamore house – it had already withstood so much within our broken circle, the suffering should be ending soon, for all of us – nor had I dared to intrude on the ashes of my family’s – because really, they are all I have now – scorched rooms. I knew indefinitely if positions were reversed, I would want to be by myself for a very long time. I would not move for days, just remain seated in the midst of ashes, the only remains of my previous life, even if it was a bad one, burnt to smithereens.

I had never really understood how strong we all were. But I could see that now, and to think it had taken a stupid fire that could have easily killed any one of us to make me realise sickened me. Edgar, Silas, Blaire… they could all be my older brothers, so responsible and willing to put their selves before others, willing to protect ~~Lilith, Arwen and myself~~ all of us more than anything else. Laila, Septimus… such small, timid children, with who I felt a certain tenderness towards, an irreplaceable feeling of love, because I too, like them, knew what it felt like to be the youngest, considered weak and foolish, struggling so desperately to fit in. Arwen, a girl I could not even begin to describe, a girl so reserved and shut off from us all, I hardly knew anything about her at all. All that ever did was spark my interest even more, like a dim candle catching the last escaping flame, and erupting into a roaring inferno once again. And then there was Miss Aggie, and Ara, two people of who I seemed to see less and less of each day. Thinking back, I hadn’t seen Miss Aggie at all on the hill when the rain started to pound down, but I hadn’t been thinking straight then. Finally Lilith, the only person who I would probably ever get to talk to, properly, if I could muster up the courage to break the shell of shyness that I was constantly encompassed in. Talking had never been one of my strong points, after all. One day we would all have a picture together. Maybe not a photograph, but a family portrait. I could paint it, too. Someday, it will happen.

Time has passed, a lot of time. I can feel it growing, piling up on my shoulders with each minute I sit still, transfixed and gazing wearily at the wall. All sense of the time has vanished, and all that I am aware of is the blank wall staring straight back at me, and the faint whirring of cogs turning rapidly inside my head, still hard at work. They will not rest, therefore, how can I possibly hope to get even a wink of glorious sleep? I could lay down, curl up in my bed, breathe in the warm scents of the knitted quilt and bury my face into it, yet all I do is sit in the lotus position. How much easier would life be as a lotus flower? They have no worries, nothing to fear, and can radiate beauty no matter what time of the day or year it is. I caught a glimpse of a lotus flower once, floating atop a clear blue pond, and frantically rushed back home to get my crayons. I couldn’t just leave the flower without even attempting to catch the glory it held. By the time I returned, the flower was no longer on top of the water, possibly picked up by the wind and gently carried far away. I sat down there, still, and tried to conjure up the image in my head of the stunning gem, but the scribble that came as a result could in no way begin to resemble the beauty of the flower.

Now I always carry a few crayons and a spare pad of paper.

Slight snores and faint footsteps pull me out of my trance. Ara automatically curls into my side, safe and sound, asleep and ~~hopefully~~ dreaming of pretty things, and I stiffen suddenly, still seated, the warmth radiating from the baby’s peaceful body coming into contact with my ice cold skin. The day’s events should not need to scar yet another child’s memories, the things we will hold onto and look back on in 50 years or so and think of ‘the good days.’ If we even survive that long, and if we even get to enter the second stage of our lives with enough fond memories to keep us satisfied, until the inevitable passing. I highly doubt that will be the case for most of us, so broken we already are, but maybe Ara will be different. That is the best we could possibly hope for. I want to move, want to leave Ara to sleep in peace, to not disturb the slumbering baby, but the further she curls into my side the further it is to pull away. So I instantly lay down, uncurling my slender limbs to stretch them out on the bed, peaceful, as if one with the child, before remembering the footsteps heard moments earlier. Very light and gentle, but loud enough for me to pick them up.

Tentatively, I turn my head to the door, and am greeted by Lilith’s face looking around my tiny room. She is too polite to say anything about the snug fit that it will be, sleeping in here with me, and Ara, for that fact. She just stands, silent as a ghost. Her face remains expressionless, and in the dim light of the room she could very well be a ghoul. Ghosts would not belong in the house, but maybe after today’s unfortunate events they will make appearances. Ghosts haunt, they attack the weak and the suffering. They suck all the happiness out of you, until the empty shell is all that remains. “Thanks again for letting me sleep in here, Ruth. I really appreciate it.” There was gratitude and appreciation in her voice.[/i][/color]

The ghost moves her lips, but the gentle voice does not belong with a phantom. It is unfamiliar to me, even though I have heard Lilith speak many a time to each one of us. I offer a small smile back at her, still standing in the doorway, and the ghost’s presence seems to fade from the room immediately. I avert my eyes from the doorway where Lilith stands as she enters my room, trying to offer her some sense of privacy. She moves so softly, that for a moment I have to remember if she was ever really there, or it was just my over-worked mind playing tricks on me yet again. A slight rumble rises up in Ara’s throat, and makes my bed vibrate with the resonating movement of her tiny vocal chords. Softly, I stroke her cheek, and move a stray strand of hair from her face. Isn’t it unfair the path that has already been laid out for her, one of suffering and pain? She is not even old enough yet to comprehend the doom that lies over all of our heads, yet she can sense that she belongs here just as much as any of us do. How was that fair?

Life was never fair.

Slowly, I look to Lilith, my shining star on a dark and dreary night, the only light that I can look to in my time of need, and see her making herself comfortable as she could be on the floor next to my bed. How does she do it? How does she live with all of her emotions gnawing at her insides, the weight becoming heavier and heavier, more of a burden to carry with each passing day? How does she possess the ability to look after every single one of us, as well as herself? In no way would I possibly be able to ever begin to understand in the slightest the war raging inside of her soul. But I could pray for her. I could send my love out to her, and will somebody to use the energy inside of me for good, rather than nothing at all. I could feel for her, and I could help her. It makes me wonder just how much she needs someone. Everybody needs somebody. Does she even have anybody?

I speak. I can feel my soft lips moving as I whisper into the darkness of the night, whisper to Lilith, my voice as soft as a tiny fairy’s laugh, soft enough that it does not disturb the silence and slumbering of sleeping children resonating from the charred walls of the house. “Lilith, you should sleep here, on my bed. Ara, she’d feel more comfortable with you. I don’t mind the floor.” Already, I was moving from the bed, taking extra caution to not awaken little Ara, grabbing a scrap piece of paper and a pen on my descent to the floor. I won’t sleep tonight, but I can at least be guaranteed comfort with my drawing.

What does Lilith have to comfort her, if she even has a thing at all?[/size][/blockquote][/justify]