Post by Birdshadow on Mar 4, 2012 17:10:47 GMT -6
(The title is a WIP. x.x)
We all carry burdens, whether they're as tangible as holding a dumbbell over our chests, or as figurative as the ever-piling weight of life itself steadily building up on us.
Both are in my possession, though they're linked together by a mutual past, like two reflections in a broken mirror. One is a single sheet of paper. On it it is a simple sketch. But in the tracks of graphite, every stroke holds a meaning that makes the light material seem like rocks in my pocket. The other is a thought. It's as plain and frank as the drawing, possibly more so. Yet, somehow, it strikes me like a whip every time it crosses my mind.
I'm Cassia Coriander, and I killed my best friend.
Rhiannon thinks that I like fall mornings because of the crisp air, brittle, blindingly colored leaves glistening with dewdrops, and the sounds of birds warbling in chorus. Those things are fine by me, but, for one in a lifetime, she's wrong. The only reason I think highly of them is because it's the rare time of year and day that Mom acts generally normal. As soon as the trees begin to convert to their shades of scarlet and cat's-eye yellow, I begin to wake to the aroma of bacon and eggs-over-easy sizzling in our glinting silver frying pan, and when I bound down the stairs with the school uniform gently ironed on my back, I'm greeted cheerfully and handed a plate of breakfast and a scalding mug of hot chocolate. She's already set out my backpack and organized my pencil box, and by the time my bus comes, she's bid me farewell and remembered to give me my lunch money.
When I return home after seven monotonous hours of school, it's a different story. Often, she sits slumped in front of the TV, ranting over the phone to some newfound friend she met at the bar, the remote damp with spilled beer and the sweat from the pads of her fingers.
We all carry burdens, whether they're as tangible as holding a dumbbell over our chests, or as figurative as the ever-piling weight of life itself steadily building up on us.
Both are in my possession, though they're linked together by a mutual past, like two reflections in a broken mirror. One is a single sheet of paper. On it it is a simple sketch. But in the tracks of graphite, every stroke holds a meaning that makes the light material seem like rocks in my pocket. The other is a thought. It's as plain and frank as the drawing, possibly more so. Yet, somehow, it strikes me like a whip every time it crosses my mind.
I'm Cassia Coriander, and I killed my best friend.
***
Rhiannon thinks that I like fall mornings because of the crisp air, brittle, blindingly colored leaves glistening with dewdrops, and the sounds of birds warbling in chorus. Those things are fine by me, but, for one in a lifetime, she's wrong. The only reason I think highly of them is because it's the rare time of year and day that Mom acts generally normal. As soon as the trees begin to convert to their shades of scarlet and cat's-eye yellow, I begin to wake to the aroma of bacon and eggs-over-easy sizzling in our glinting silver frying pan, and when I bound down the stairs with the school uniform gently ironed on my back, I'm greeted cheerfully and handed a plate of breakfast and a scalding mug of hot chocolate. She's already set out my backpack and organized my pencil box, and by the time my bus comes, she's bid me farewell and remembered to give me my lunch money.
When I return home after seven monotonous hours of school, it's a different story. Often, she sits slumped in front of the TV, ranting over the phone to some newfound friend she met at the bar, the remote damp with spilled beer and the sweat from the pads of her fingers.
