delta ashwater / d4 / wip

You’re born screaming on a hot summer day. The breeze blows the smell of salt in from the shore. Delta Ashwater, they call you, born one month too soon. Your blonde hair falling in perfect ringlets around baby-soft skin gives you a small, cherubic appearance that works its way into the heart of any who lay eyes on you. Your parents love you, shower you in affection and gifts and the prettiest pink clothes.

You’re three when your sister is born, and really, you barely remember it. Your sister snatches up every morsel of attention, the new, bright and shiny baby. You miss being the apple of your parents’ eyes. You are naïve, so young and fearless. You act out for attention, crying wolf and throwing fits.

You’re twelve, she’s nine, when the ocean takes her. District Four, home of the ocean, the swimmers, those who call the saltwater home. A riptide pulls her under while you play, and you never see her again. Your mother falls depressed— your sister was always her favorite. Your dad up and leaves, never looking back, heart too torn to shreds to take a look at the faces of you and your mother; the three of you have always shared the Ashwater look.

Through the years, your hands reach and reach for an answer, for your mother to come home to the body she’d once known. Instead she floats, as lost at sea as your sister. Cooking, cleaning, working, sleeping. You don’t see much of her; you fend for yourself, a small and lonely existence.

You’re seventeen. Blonde hair that reaches just past your shoulders, brown eyes like murky waters. Short, and thin. You’re no trouble to anyone; a smile full of two long front teeth, a quirky sort of look that matches your attitude well. You dress in plain and lightened colors colors; the hue of the ocean, the soft and changing skies of the dusk. Some might call you pretty, in a plain kind of way. The kind that’s unassuming and easily overtaken.

Your talents lie in swimming, identifying plant and sea life. You were good before your sister, sure. But her death spurred something in you, and you’ve never stopped swimming since, the ocean becoming your home, your escape from a mother that goes through the motions and a father that left you high and dry.

Your attitude has changed and morphed through the years. Spoiled little girl, throwing tantrums and crying. Lost and confused, your sister dead and gone. Shy and determined, meek and mellow. That’s how you are now; the quiet, soft voice that calls through the night. The quiet, soft voice drowned out by the waves.

You don’t have many friends, and those you do have are held at a distance. To break down your walls takes a determination, a hammer and chisel. Nobody has truly succeeded in doing that yet. Your childhood friends ran at age twelve, when your sisters body disappeared to the sea. Can you blame them? It’s scary, when a friend loses someone they love, when their mother goes distant, when they’re lost and confused and searching for a reason.

How else can you change? Has it not been enough? The world is a loud and confusing place. You just want quiet; to hear the ocean sounds and bird calls and feel at peace.