dance in the rain // clover - blitz

Day Two Thousand Five Hundred and Eighty Three

5:45pm -

I sit with my back against the hard wall and make meticulous notes on my surroundings. They are not dissimilar to 5:45pm on any other day, but I have already counted to twelve twelve times, turning twelve times and tapping twelve times against the counter. Twelve deep breaths, twelve steps and I found myself here. So I sit. Five birds on the lawn, four of them black and one gray. A scattering of birdseed on the grass - I'll have to check later who scattered it there, and calculate how many days will pass until we will need to replace the box. (We've had this box for 21 days, and the last one lasted only 19, so we are feeding the poor creatures at a declining rate.)

It's rained overnight. (Page 45 says I did not predict this. It was supposed to be clear, and it isn't. It's cold, too.) I notice Bronwyn stumbling toward me, her strong frame supporting six pieces of wood. Carefully, I sketch this. It's important. Probably. She gains on me - it's another thirteen paces before she reaches my side. Thirteen irritates me. It's twelve and then another, it's right and correct and then so suddenly wrong. A wholly dislikable number.

"Hey there," she says. As she speaks, I scrawl hurriedly, in case she speaks too quickly and I miss a word. "How are you today, Mill?" I am glad for her short sentences. It's those like Fiona and Enoch I dislike, with their rambling, endless sentences that go too quickly and make too little sense. Bronywn is blunt and to the point, making use of her limited space upon my paper. I nod at her and smile. Thankful. "I'm on schedule," I say, by means of answer, and then I notice that she's bleeding. "You're bleeding." Perhaps this is what Emma means when she says I am not helpful. (I like to think I am truthful, at least. Not wrong, not I.)

Log, continued.

Bronwyn looks surprised as I point out the blood dripping from her fingers. Scarlet droplets fall into the grass approximately four metres from the west wall of the house. Blood has never irritated me in the way it does for others - Lena will go faint at it's sight and back away hurriedly, as if she is afraid it will contaminate her. (I don't like the thought of the germs, but the heavy crimson itself doesn't bother me.) She asks me to take the wood from her and I frown, because I'm not entirely sure how I'll balance that load on top of my notebook and pen while still keeping tabs on how many birds are nesting in the trees and how many petals are left on the roses. I ponder if perhaps she think I'm a little more capable than I am.

"I..." I say, trailing off immediately. (I should think more about what I am about to say before I let sound leave my lips, I decide.) This prompt choice leaves me silent and staring for a very long moment. A memory of Emma mentioning 'awkward' flashes in my mind, and I think perhaps this might be the kind of thing she meant. Inside my head, I shrug, not caring. "Do you think you could leave them on the ground, there?" I say, pointing to a place a little while off, away from the trail of ants I know treks through this very area. I smile apologetically, hoping she'll understand that I am incredibly busy recording the events of the day - and that of course as we converse my pen is moving quickly, trying to capture everything that is happening. A heavy gust of wind rushes around us, making it seem sufficiently colder than the temperature I recorded just minutes ago.

On second thoughts, I produce a bandage from my pocket - it wouldn't do to walk about unprepared - and hold it out to the girl who also inhabits the orphanage. (She calls me her sister, and I allow it, but technically none of the DNA we possess is shared. I am not sure if she knows this.) Making a reasonably effort to look caring and concerned about the splinters in her hand, I lick my lips. Last week, on Thursday at 7:42pm, I suffered a paper cut which produced similar wounds. On a scale of one to ten, it was around a four, which is considerable for such a tiny slit of the skin. I do sympathize with Bronwyn.

People don't often ask how I am. Once, when I was ill, running a fever of exactly 105°F, Miss Partridge lay a hand across my forehead and questioned it. I wasn't alright, not then, because I was shaking too much for my hand to record properly, and my mind was spinning and almost broken - I couldn't think. That day, I shook my head and told her no, I wasn't okay, because I was scared I would never see the world clearly, without the haze of sickness, again. She either didn't hear me or didn't respond. (Perhaps I just faded away into unconsciousness, I can't be fully sure.) Although the memory upsets me, it remains the only time I can bring to memory - a quick flick back through the pages of my records confirms this beyond reasonable doubt - that anybody spoke those easy, easy words. "Is everything okay?"

I pause, unsure. I am, after all, a little behind schedule because of the conversation with Bronwyn, but already I can feel myself shifting and moving and recalculating things in my mind. If I read for four minutes and twenty seconds less tonight, I'll be back to my normal timings by 6:12pm. A deep breath is needed to make this okay, but with the rise and fall of my chest I am reasonably calm. I glance down to check that I, too, am not bleeding. There is a smudge of mud on the hem of my dress, left side, but otherwise my skin and clothing is unblemished, exactly as it was when I glanced in the mirror before coming outside. "Of course," I say with narrow eyes, "why wouldn't it be?"