color that i breathe. / arissa + isobel
Feb 7, 2016 11:27:08 GMT -5
Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Feb 7, 2016 11:27:08 GMT -5
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Cold. That is what the fire made me, in the end. It hollowed me out with its caustic claws. It all began with tearing into by chest, ripping open my rib cage and plucking them all out one by one. And then it claimed my lungs. And my heart. And everything else I once held inside- I am unsure if that includes my soul, too.
All I know
is that the fire took everything I loved
and in turn, I became a shell.
Hollow.
I rot here, in the grave destined just for me. It was built for bodies like mine- utterly void. When I close the door, it is shutting a coffin. I envelope myself in death, I suppose, because I have come to enjoy rotting in solitude more than rotting in company. I have found that company- this company- is a colder, darker.
Draped in a plain white dress with a skirt that flows like the tail of a ghost, I bind myself in the quilted blankets hanging all across the creaky mattress of my bed. I bind myself, in fear that I will fall to pieces if something does not embrace my bones. My hair, dripping down my back in golden rivulets, has already been brushed earlier this morning, but I lay my head down on my pillow anyway. It will be ruffled again by the time I rise from the grave a second time.
I pull the covers over my head; I bury myself.
The orphanage is submerged in utter silence. It has always been a void here, but it has never been a quiet void. The orphanage is a graveyard, but it is alive with the voices and the pitter-patter, like a heavy rain against the roof, of children. Hollow children, but children.
Just as I close my eyes to give into dying all over again, the door opens, the rusted metal hinges shrieking against one another. "Get up, Isobel," says the voice of one of the caretakers, Ms. Louisa-Anne. With a sigh, released from the deepest depths of my lungs, I throw the covers to the end of the bed and squint in protest against the morning sun, shockingly garish after succumbing to the dark again. I mark the light an intruder with a sour grimace.
Ms. Louisa-Anne is standing by the door with a glint in her eyes and pink flooding her cheeks- a look she does not often wear, a look not often seen in a graveyard such as this. When I hesitate, she speaks once more, urging me to get up get up get up. "Come on, Isobel, get up out of bed."
I groan, and press my bare feet to the floor. "Put your shoes, on, too," she follows up. And I do, with a raise of a bushy eyebrow that says pointedly, "What's this all about?" Ms. Louisa-Anne replies to my silent inquiry with a smile.
"It's your lucky day, Iso."
Sauntering lazily towards the door, I shake my head. "I don't have lucky days, Miss." My voice sounds like a groan. She just rolls her eyes playfully, and shoos me with her hand through the hallway and down the stairs.
I do not have lucky days.
All I know
is that the fire took everything I loved
and in turn, I became a shell.
Hollow.
I rot here, in the grave destined just for me. It was built for bodies like mine- utterly void. When I close the door, it is shutting a coffin. I envelope myself in death, I suppose, because I have come to enjoy rotting in solitude more than rotting in company. I have found that company- this company- is a colder, darker.
Draped in a plain white dress with a skirt that flows like the tail of a ghost, I bind myself in the quilted blankets hanging all across the creaky mattress of my bed. I bind myself, in fear that I will fall to pieces if something does not embrace my bones. My hair, dripping down my back in golden rivulets, has already been brushed earlier this morning, but I lay my head down on my pillow anyway. It will be ruffled again by the time I rise from the grave a second time.
I pull the covers over my head; I bury myself.
The orphanage is submerged in utter silence. It has always been a void here, but it has never been a quiet void. The orphanage is a graveyard, but it is alive with the voices and the pitter-patter, like a heavy rain against the roof, of children. Hollow children, but children.
Just as I close my eyes to give into dying all over again, the door opens, the rusted metal hinges shrieking against one another. "Get up, Isobel," says the voice of one of the caretakers, Ms. Louisa-Anne. With a sigh, released from the deepest depths of my lungs, I throw the covers to the end of the bed and squint in protest against the morning sun, shockingly garish after succumbing to the dark again. I mark the light an intruder with a sour grimace.
Ms. Louisa-Anne is standing by the door with a glint in her eyes and pink flooding her cheeks- a look she does not often wear, a look not often seen in a graveyard such as this. When I hesitate, she speaks once more, urging me to get up get up get up. "Come on, Isobel, get up out of bed."
I groan, and press my bare feet to the floor. "Put your shoes, on, too," she follows up. And I do, with a raise of a bushy eyebrow that says pointedly, "What's this all about?" Ms. Louisa-Anne replies to my silent inquiry with a smile.
"It's your lucky day, Iso."
Sauntering lazily towards the door, I shake my head. "I don't have lucky days, Miss." My voice sounds like a groan. She just rolls her eyes playfully, and shoos me with her hand through the hallway and down the stairs.
I do not have lucky days.
I S O B E L. K R I G E L.
{ and the crashes are heaven to a sinner like me }
{ and the crashes are heaven to a sinner like me }
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