Iridium Eckhart // d6 // [fin]

"Iridium, sweety? Watch out for the ledge."

"Iris? Hey, be careful---"

"Iris!"

The ground disappears from under my feet just as my hands are about to close around the butterfly. There is a moment where I feel like I am flying, following the iridescent wings of the flying insect into the big blue sky. The moment ends as gravity takes hold of my ankles and drags me down, down, down to the pavement 10 feet below. All I see is the sky dusted with clouds above me and the feeling of the hot pavement beneath me. If only I had wings; I could've followed the butterfly over the house and into the forest beyond the fence. What an adventure it must be to be able to fly.

The day I fell from the second floor of my house was the day I discovered I wasn't like everyone else. Apparently there is this thing called, "hearing." And apparently I just wasn't born with it. But aside from the broken neck and the deafness I was "a healthy little girl." Doctors certainly had a funny way of looking at things. Or at least that's how my Moms told the story when I got older. I had only been 3 years old when I learned I didn't have wings; the only memory I still have of the day is the design that the butterfly wore. It was beautiful.

I've been trying to replicate that sort of beauty ever since I could hold a pen in hand. It started with squiggly lines in 64 assorted colors across my bedroom wall. To my parent's dismay I made sure to use each and every color at least once—yes, even the "Asparagus" crayon. However, despite earning the punishment of my life, I was not easily deterred. The jagged squiggles turned into smooth lines, the crayons turned to ink, and the walls fell away, replaced by parchment paper and notebooks. It was the transition from clumsy, chubby hands to skilled, dexterous fingers that helped me live up to my family name.

No one has any idea where I came from and I've grown quite tired of trying to figure it out. I've had a home and a family for a long as I can remember, it was a pretty ridiculous idea to want to find the people who left me on the Eckhart doorsteps. But there will always be that one question that claws at the back of my mind: Why did they give me up? It's always there, whispering in my ears. Luckily for me I can't hear a thing. Pretty easy to ignore the things you don't know are there.

What I do know is that Jeq was the first to hold me. The doorbell rang and she shot straight for the door, excited to answer because she had just learned how to answer the door like a proper lady. (She was a bit of snob growing up—self-proclaimed I assure you.) But instead of a grown up to impress she found me instead, swaddled in cloth, beet red, and wailing into the wind like a banshee. She had only been 6 years old at the time and the way our Moms remember it is Jeq walking into the kitchen awkwardly holding a child half her size. One warm bath and a change of clothes later and I was an official member of the Eckhart family.

One, two, three taps on the shoulder and I've grown annoyed. This dress is too tight, this lesson is pointless, and I'm being disturbed once again by the girl with the sparkly purple fingernail polish and the pretty pink bow in her hair. Her smile glows under the harsh fluorescent bulbs the school uses and her lips sparkle with gloss when she speaks. My sisters say I should lighten up, that I'm simply jealous of her. I look her over again—the long blonde hair, the big blue eyes, the expensive make-up—and decide she is everything I am not. Is that what jealously is?

It's still hard for me to read lips, but I'm fairly certain of her question: 'What're you drawing?'

I hate school for this very reason. Girls pull at the sleeves of my dress to get my attention and boys pull at my hair. Teachers rap at my knuckles with rulers and give me detentions when I don't stare blindly forward at the chalkboard. But the worst part is when people ask questions. 'What're you drawing?' I turn away from her, rolling my eyes. This is the third time she has bothered me today with the shoulder tapping and the smiling and the questions.

The teacher has yet to notice that my ink well sits on top of my desk; I've got 8 meticulous lines of, 'Only the dead shall sleep.' scrawled in various fonts across water stained notebook paper. I press my pen to paper and manage to get through three words worth of writing before a note lands on my desk. It takes every bit of my self-control not to leap over her desk and strangle her. I set down my pen and unfurl the folded paper; the parchment smells like roses.

Dear Iridium,

I think it's pretty. You should write me a letter.

Love,
Daisy

I understand the words, but not the request. I look over my shoulder at her, eyebrows and forehead crinkling with curiosity. But she is back to being engulfed in school work, hands and eyes busied with writing down the homework. The part of me that had been annoyed with her vanishes and a new sense of pride and joy comes over me. My sisters have been getting attention for their talents for what seems like years now—I was starting to believe I was inadequate. Glass making, dancing, drawing. And although I don't understand the allure of music, Jeq always seems to put everyone in a state of rapture when she has an instrument in hand.

The smallest of smiles inches across my face as I dip my pen in ink and write a reply just below her words.

Ok. Tomorrow.

- Iris

I hand the note back to her with a smile, turning forward just in time to catch the teacher's eye. I busy myself, scratching history lessons quickly into my notebook. But even then I am still completely distracted; even a deaf girl like me can hear my new friend's elation.

I shove the ball cap on my head in defiance, folding my arms and frowning to really make a point. Mom looks like she might actually strangle me. She shakes her head at me and signs, 'You can't wear that.' I huff at her and roll my eyes. She grabs at my chin and forces me to look her in the eyes. I can see a fire within them, a fire only a mother is capable of containing. For a moment I consider backing off. But then I remember it is Reaping day, the first of many for me, and I should be able to wear whatever I like.

She has already managed to slip me into a dress and too tight shoes, but a bow in my hair is too far. 'I am wearing this!' I sign in exasperation. She stands up straight again, folding her arms and shaking her head. But she looks me over thoughtfully, taking a slow, deep breath. She tries to hide a smile from me before nodding. 'Alright.'

I wrap my arms around her legs and she pats my head. She's warm, comforting. Another set of arms wraps around me and I feel even safer, warmer. I have never not known the stability of two mothers, the ferocity with which they love and protect their children. I may have been born an orphan, but I have never known what it feels like to be without a family. I get one kiss on each cheek, a pair of smiles, and enough love to last a lifetime as we all gather at the door.

My heart beats wildly in my chest. My head aches and pounds against the back of my eyes. I don't like admitting to fear, but today, I am scared. Fingers lace between my own and I flinch, only to look up and find Jeq—I take her hand thankfully. She taps the bill of my cap with a smile. 'You look beautiful.'

I smile back, feeling the weight of fear slowly beginning to roll off of me. 'Thank you.'

I wish now I could've explained to her that I meant thank you for being my sister, for being my friend, for being someone I could say I love. It hadn't just been a courtesy in response to her compliment, but a thank you for existing. A thank you for being in my life because I'm not sure where I would be right now without her. But she'll never know what I really truly meant that day; the dead are as deaf as I am. And Jequirity is dead.

My sister is dead.

You're Invited!

The ink smears across the wedding invitation I have busied myself with designing as my mind drifts to thoughts of blood. Blood, blood, blood—there was so much of it, everywhere. She came home dressed in a clean tribute uniform. She was missing a foot, an ear, an arm, and a voice. But all I could see was blood. I cried over her coffin because I was going to miss her. But I also cried because I didn't recognize her, because all I could see were the cuts and the bruises and the crimson ripples of blood that she drowned in.

I try to force myself back into productivity, but my hand will not cease shaking. The smooth swirls, twirls, and arches twist into the jagged lines that had once used to run along my bedroom walls. My heart twists in agony and my lip quivers as I submit to the pain, shoving my ink well, pen, and paper onto the floor before collapsing into a fit of tears over the kitchen table.

Fingers dance through my hair, softly and slowly brushing the tangles I have neglected to brush out of my hair. I turn and fall into her arms. It doesn't matter whose arms, it could be any of them. We all share the same steady heartbeat, the same pain, the same loss. But we can make it through—I can make it through. Love doesn't die in a family like ours. It only grows.