read my boring thangs :3
ORIGINAL
BRAIDS (RATED G)
My father always had long, flowing dark hair. The same color as the night sky in winter, even during the long, sweltering summer days. Before the sun kisses the horizon and the sky illuminates with a warm glow: he would go out onto the porch to relax before work, his only company the morning birds until my mother would follow after him, hairbrush in hand.
The porch would groan under their combined weight as she knelt behind him, carefully working out every tangle of his hair as gently as she could. She was always with him those early mornings, even when words would rarely be exchanged between the two. The times they spent together were filled with comfortable silence. As my father would near the end of his rituals, my mother would part his hair and begin to style it for him, taming the night sky into a beautiful long braid. It seemed like such a waste of effort, considering he would take his braid out every day after work. To get up early, even before the animals wake, spending your time grooming someone else. I never quite understood why she made a point to do so until I grew older, my hair beginning to cascade down my back, just like my father's.
It started with a simple question one morning: "Would you like to come sit with Papa and me before work?"
When I was old enough to pull my share of chores and go to school, I was in the habit of waking up early. Sometimes I would wake up even before my father would start rousing from his sleep. Now that I was finally given a chance to join them, I was thrilled to be included in their secret little world. Those mornings I spent watching them through the windows stuck out in my mind as I scrambled to get dressed. I wanted to know what was so special about it, why my mother went through all this trouble for something so-so simple.
The sky was dark, but you could see the orange hues of the sun beginning to paint the horizon in a warmer tone. My father was already sitting at his usual spot on the steps leading up to the porch, coffee mug warming his hands as he listened to the birds chirp their morning songs. The brisk air cooled my cheeks as I sat down next to him, where we waited for my mother's inevitable coming. It was quiet, something I never really experienced before. A type of peacefulness even I didn't want to disturb. So we sat there in silence, waiting for the familiar footsteps of mother to catch up with us.
It was like any other morning; mother finally made her way outside, hairbrush with her as always; except this time she had an extra pair of hair ties on her.
"Whatcha doing with those?" I broke the silence first, and my reward was shared laughter between them both, taking amusement in my cluelessness.
"It'll be your turn after Papa's hair is handled." My mother said, smiling at me. I watched her go through the same daily routine of brushing out all the knots and tangles from my father's hair while he sat and nursed his coffee. The only difference is the view. Before, when I would peek at them from the windows in the early morning hours, I could only see the silhouette of their backs. Now that I was beside them, I noticed just how happy they both looked. My father's face was completely relaxed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. My mother was humming softly, content with carefully sorting out strands of hairs to braid neatly. They seemed so at peace in their routine. I wanted that security that I saw in their faces.
I waited and watched as my father finished his coffee, my mother adding the finishing touches to his long braid with a small ribbon. He placed the empty mug beside him and got up, giving us our goodbye hugs and farewells before making his way down the long path into town. Now that it was just my mother and me, I couldn't contain my curiosity anymore. So when she put Father's coffee mug off to the side and situated herself behind me to start working at my hair; I asked:
"Mama, why do you do this every day?" Her hands stilled for a moment, then resumed brushing out my bedhead.
"Do what?" She asked, soft-spoken and kind.
"Why do you braid Papa's hair every day?" I rephrase my question, earning a hum of approval from her.
"Well, let's see.." She started, beginning to part my hair into sections. "I do it because I love him, and it's something I can do for him."
"Something you can do? Papa can't braid his own hair?" I couldn't help but sound a little doubtful over this, but my mother was never one to be miffed by such things. She continues on, without missing a beat:
"Papa can braid his own hair, but I do it anyway. Just how you and your brothers offer to help me with chores around the house." She's expertly tucking strands of my hair over and under another, moving with grace and poise, something that's only obtainable with years of experience. "You always ask to help me with dinner, even go as far as to help with cleaning up afterward, too. Why do you do that?"
I couldn't think of anything witty to say for once. I remember listening to the rooster's caws, nature's morning alarm clock sounding off. Soon my brothers would get up for the day, too, and the morning would stretch into the day. All I could think about was my mother's question.
I was never taught much about housework, but I did my best to offer help when I was free. Though my mother really didn't need help, she managed by herself just fine. But the real reason why I would offer so much was that I loved seeing her face light up with a big smile and the relief that flowed through her as she was able to sit down and rest for a bit. Even the smaller jobs like setting the table, each one was received with a hearty thank you and praise. It always made it feel worth it.
"You do it because you wish you could make my day a little easier, isn't that right, honey?" My mother asks, and I nod in agreement. "I do Papa's hair for him, so he doesn't have to worry about it. The same reasons you have when you help me."
The back of my neck starts to cool from the chilly air, my mother finishing up the last of my hair. Tying the end of the braid with a big ribbon, just my father. But still, I wasn't satisfied with the answer we came to. I wanted to know more. I didn't understand why she was doing it for me too, unlike my father, I would rarely put my hair up for the day. It didn't seem like a necessity like with his long mane.
"But Mama, why did you do my hair too?" I ask, and I didn't have to wait long for her to respond. Her voice is smooth and precise, cutting through the tension of such a question with ease. For as long as I live, no matter how old I get, I can never forget her simple reply.
"Because I love you, honey. I do it because I love you." She said, tying the ribbon into a knot, giving my braid a light tug to let me know she was finished. "There, it looks perfect now." She said, cheerfully collecting everything up to put away. All I wanted to do next was give her a big hug and tell her I loved her too, but instead, I grabbed my father's empty mug and brought it back inside to wash out in the sink. A tiny little task that I didn't have to do, but I wanted to do.
Those mornings of my childhood made me think about the little gestures and favors we do for the people we love; and how by doing those things, we can communicate how much we care for the other person. How something as simple as braiding another's hair is an intimate way to show that you care deeply. My mother didn't have to weave through my father's hair every day, but she did it anyway because she loved him. She loved him, and she knew that he did physical labor for work, so she made sure his beautiful night-sky hair that he spent decades growing out was always safe.
Things like this make me think of love and how much showing your love for others can be rewarding in ways you never really thought about before. So please, next time you've had a long day, and your bones ache from all the labor in life, take a seat and relax. Let me brush your hair for you. Let me take care of you.
FAITH IS [...] (RATED G)
The tricky part about faith: it's not tangible. The closest thing that can compare is a heart: my heart and yours. I cannot grasp mine, and you cannot grab yours. We cannot say: "Here, see for yourself." take our fingers across our ribcage, and proceed to point out specific parts of the delicate organ pulsing- list off its every function that helps it pump blood- life into us, and expect ourselves to grasp the full picture of what it creates.
The heart is only one organ, one piece to the puzzle: each unique, each requiring countless, tiny little details to be whole. Faith is similar- it is always with us, beating inside, working in harmony with the rest of our body.
Heart, lungs, liver, bladder, brain: all various organs required for the body to function. But our minds, our souls, cannot be made into something so quickly dissectable. We cannot have a written diagram showing each person's thoughts and emotions precisely when no two minds are alike.
The world has shaped who we are. Our thoughts, emotions, and gut feelings that guide us subconsciously: are all products of how the world has embraced us. Each experience is a necessary component, what makes us human, what makes us who we are as individuals. Our bodies may all be the same, but the things we feel and think are ours alone.
The same thing can be said when it comes to faith. I could try to make a visual representation of what faith looks like, but in the end, it would only show how it appears in my eyes. Looking over my work, you may notice that integral parts of you and your faith are nowhere in sight, but there are lines drawn over the countless mysterious shapes I've made, with clear labels titling each one: despite this, you may not know that part's context or how it functions. That does not mean mine is lacking in any way, or yours is missing something vital. All it has done is confirm that we all feel something different towards faith.
Faith is feeling. Something that's inside you, something you have no way of conveying to another person with pinpoint accuracy. Something that becomes lost in words, lost in translation, interpreted in an entirely new way, a way you could never have imagined. Still, you want to embrace the feeling wholeheartedly. You want to share it with others regardless if they understand or not. You want to see how they interpret things compared to you, what beautiful stories they'll communicate and create. You want to share all the love and happiness faith brings you daily with those around you. It becomes an invisible link that helps threads our joints into place, each stitch created with unconditional love and care. It fills us up with warmth even on the coldest of days, dares to tell us we are loved when we do not believe, and stays even long after the show has ended.
Faith is intangible, but it is omnipresent. It's a way for us to communicate with one another. A method for us to foster, love, and tend to ourselves. To develop as individuals and, in turn, flourish and thrive in all areas of life.
FANWORKS
HOME (FF13: VANILLE/FANG, RATED G)
Home was the feeling of dirt kissing her feet as she skipped from place to place, barefoot and carefree. The world colorful and alive as she danced her way through life with a smile. It was sharing everything from company to chores to food with those around her. It was getting to share a bed with her every night, always together no matter what.
Home was flowers in her hair, eyes rheumy as declarations of love are exchanged between the two long into the morning. Wherever one goes, the other follows, for home is about who you share it with, and not so much the house. As long as the two got to be together, surely home would follow after them.
DREAMS FROM THE CRADLE (FATE SERIES: SESSYOIN KIARA/HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN, RATED PG)
Her small hands feel like frostburn on his wrists. Unbearably cold, so cold he temporarily thinks he’s on fire, that flames are scorching him alive- but it’s nothing but an icy chill consuming his body. Her fingers had grazed against one of his many deformities, his little ‘skin conditions’ that he hides from the world, but she went no further. Eyes big, full of curiosity, but still holding her hand to her chest meekly, like she touched something she shouldn’t have and she knows it.
“What’s wrong with your skin, mister?” She asks, rubbing her fingertips over the ruffles of her dress- trying to replace the sensation of cold, dead skin twisted into gills and scales with something else- anything else. Normally Andersen would bark out some insulting drivel at the offender, but for some reason he’s not angry at all. No, simply put he was sad.
“Atonement for being a monster.” An eerie somberness settles over him, like he figured out a decade long riddle, he cracked the code and said the magic words. A realization that despite the curses riddling him with pain and discomfort- it shouldn’t be anything to be ashamed of.
Or rather it shouldn’t be something he should feel compelled to hide, deny the existence of unless forced to confess. “My punishment for causing many people’s suffering with my writing.” The amount of rage he could feel over the concept that the only reason he’s cursed is because morons couldn’t parse his works well enough to understand the messages and morals, even when they’re written for children !
A part of him still expects the Kiara he’s more familiar with to jump out. Sneering and laughing, pointing out his moment of weakness so he’ll snapback with vicious comments and derogatory terms, but that moment never comes. The Kiara before him is a child, the same child who was obsessed with his literary works like they were religious texts, the same child who doesn’t have any idea of what she becomes in the future, what they become.
“If you gave the little mermaid a happy ending, would this have still happened to you?” She asks, and Andersen remarks that despite the cow she ends up turning into, she’s a very bright child, easily able to comprehend his words and analyze them. It’s almost endearing, almost.
A bitter scoff, “Probably not.” He says. Knowing if he had just written traditional children’s fairy tales, so many people probably wouldn’t have damned him for eternity. Irony not above him as he faces the reality that the very people he wrote for: are the same people who despise him.
“Why didn’t you give her a happy ending, then?” Kiara asks, and Andersen swears she looks like she’s pitying him. His Kiara would call him foolish, a masochist purposely seeking retribution, but this child- she looks at him with eyes of sympathy. Had Kiara ever stared at him with hatred? Like his very existence repulsed her?
Years of his life gone through with nobody asking questions- avoiding them with lack of care as to what he really thinks and feels. Yes, maybe that’s why he didn’t give the little mermaid a happy ending, maybe it was because his own life was so miserable it just seeped into his works. “I wanted kids who don’t have their own happy ending to relate to her.” He resists the urge to bite his nails as he thinks on how to explain his feelings in a way she can understand. “Unfortunately even if you’re completely innocent, and you always do what’s right, it doesn’t always work out.” It’s true, but it’s not the entirety of reasons why Andersen wouldn’t go back and change anything. The real reason..
Kiara’s somber as she stares ahead while Andersen’s explanation sinks in. Children without happy endings. Children like her.
“But it’s also because I know someone important to me who loves the story.” He pats her head, letting his finger muss up her hair. Something he knows she’ll hate. A sign of affection that can’t exist anywhere else for them. A moment where Andersen can express himself freely. A dream from the cradle: one where they both have a chance at a happy ending.
REALITY (BIOHAZARD 5: JILL VALENTINE/SHEVA ALOMAR, RATED PG)
Some nights the pain is unbearable.
The scar on her chest burns, ugly and blotchy as phantom incisors pierce her, again . Her nails are scratching over the irritated spot again and again, desperate to claw away the disgusting overgrown tick that's not there. She wants to cry, and she never cries. Never shows that much weakness. It’s not real, she knows this, so she won’t cry over this, even though it feels so vivid. No, she’ll attack, fight back.
Sheva will be there, taking her hands in her own, holding them as she redirects her panicked scratching into something less harmful, more loving. She guides them to her waist, allowing Jill to grab her hips, settling in closely as she continues to struggle to breathe.
Sheva cradles her face in her hands, thumb stroking her cheek as she speaks slowly, trying her best to soothe Jill’s panicked crying. Her voice is so smooth and steady- a reliable source of comfort. She’s always calm when Jill is like this, naturally knowing how to ease Jill’s anxiety, knowing how to pull her out of her nightmare and back into reality.
“Look at me.” Sheva’s eyes pull her in, brown eyes kind and inviting as she coaxes her to focus on what’s happening now. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.” Her fingers twitch against Jill's face, a reminder that Sheva is real. No matter how much she tugs at the parasite on her chest her fingers never make contact with it, she can’t hold it in her grasp like she can with Sheva. She can feel her warm skin, toned muscles flexing under her palms as she squeezes at her. Sheva’s real, so wonderfully real.
The sensation of bugs crawling on her chest starts to fade, sharp incisors turning into soft pricks as she follows Sheva’s steady breathing. It’s quiet. The two lay there in eachothers arms, Sheva waiting for Jill to relax as she continues to whisper idle comforts into the air. Once Jill regains her composure she’s exhausted. It’s always embarrassing having an episode, finding the idea of someone watching her go through such motions extremely shameful. Sheva doesn’t judge though, doesn’t find her weak. “There’s nothing wrong with being vulnerable.”
She believes her, because when Sheva’s vulnerable: there’s nothing shameful about it. When Sheva is experiencing a flashback: it’s nobody's fault, it just happens. Just like Jill. Sheva experiencing survivor's guilt doesn’t mean she’s actually guilty of anything. It’s just a feeling, a brief moment of getting lost. Whatever lies their nightmares try to feed them isn't true.
Jill and Sheva being together, loving and supporting one another endlessly, that’s true.
YOU CAN ALWAYS RETURN TO THE PATH (THE PATH: NO PAIRING, RATED PG)
It's unspoken between them, their personal journey's into the forest a taboo subject. After all, it's the one rule: Stay on the path. Dear Grandmother is waiting patiently for her sweet grandchildren. But the secrets the wood hold are too sweet, too intoxicating to ignore.
It's hushed whispers, scribbles in notebooks, entries in diaries that are the only records they hold outside of their memories.
Robin remembers seeing her running around the forest. Impossibly fast no matter how hard Robin pushed her tiny legs to keep up. She would watch Robin on the swingset, clapping in approval when Robin would go as high as she could, sometimes helping her get a boost with a gentle push. The girl never spoke, never responded to any hello's. She would just smile, her warm hand holding hers as she led her back to the path after playing in the playground for awhile. Wrapping the young girl in comforting embrace before waving her off as she continued to Grandma's house.
The next time she was sent to visit, she didn't wait to see the girl, quickly running deep into the forest. Unable to find the playground, she stuck to playing with things she found along the way. A balloon all by itself, a TV blaring static. A shopping cart she loved rocking back and forth in- although the fall down in it wasn't as fun. A scraped knee her only reward. And then she heard it- a howl! Just like she would hear from the TV at home when a giant werewolf was on screen. Giddiness overtook her and she bolted towards the sound, ending up in a graveyard dyed in red. She saw something black, and fuzzy. The idea of finding her very own werewolf to play with was thrilling, but she stopped. The girl in white finally appeared, and waved Robin over.
Robin wanted so desperately to see if she really did find a werewolf, but she remembered what fun she had the other time at the playground, and was torn. Luckily the girl skipped over to Robin, her warm hands once again greeting Robin's, sticky with sweat from all the running around she's been doing. She led her away from the graveyard, swinging their arms in tandem with each other. Robin giggling the entire way back to the dirt path.
When she returned home she tried to tell her mother about the possible werewolf in the forest, but was promptly shut down. Told they aren't real. Disappointed, she didn't even try to tell her sisters. Every journey to grandma's after that was normal, she got to play with her silent friend, and proceeded to Grandma's house with no incident. No more wolf howling to be heard.
Rose saw a pretty crow perched on the side of the path, and oh how she admired the sheen of its well cleaned feathers. It'll only be a second, she told herself, only a second and then right back to the path, but when she chased after the creature, it flew further and further into the woods, and soon she could no longer see it. The path out of sight, only thing in view were tall dark trees, and small flowers. The sound of rain drizzling somewhere. How strange, she thought as she looked toward the sky and saw no clouds. Her skin wasn't being greeted with the refreshing drops of water, and something in her switched on. She felt compelled to find the source of the sound, and ventured deeper in.
A foggy lake greeted her, and she finally felt cold drops of rain pitter across her skin. She spun around, dress swaying with her movements as she danced in the rain. Her steps light and airy as she examined the lake closer. A dense ball of fog in the center, causing her to rub her eyes in confusion, thinking maybe it's a trick of light. It remained, seeming to gather more in form. Her mind felt calm and soothed, like at any moment she could be swept away to happiness. She's felt this before, at church. When the pastor talks about the glory of heaven, and how it's more lovely than one can imagine. Pure bliss, free of all earthly wants and desires. Achieving nirvana.
She's always fantasized what it would be like to fly up to heaven, to be able to spread seraphimic wings, beautiful and clean like the crows, and the longer she stares at that dense ball of fog, she feels like she could achieve that dream if she meets it.
A harsh strike of thunder in the distance breaks her thoughts, and her body jolts back to reality. Suddenly aware of how alone she is this deep in the woods, how creepy and unsettling all this is. She begins to feel panic with every drip of rain that caresses her skin, seeping in deep to her, making her feel smaller and smaller with every second. It feels like the rain is going straight into her lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe, small gasps and wheezes escape her as she begins to feel cold. She drops to her knees, burying her head in her dress, body wracked with terror.
She felt soft slender arms wrap around her shoulders from behind, and she jerked her head up to see what it was. It was a girl, about her age, dressed in a white dress. She wanted to say something, but was too frightened, her lungs still feeling full of rain and fog. The girl smiled, easing Rose up from the ground, a protective tug at her hands as their fingers entwine together. She led her away from the fog and rain, through the dark forest in silence. The only noise Rose could hear now were leaves crunching beneath their shoes.
When Rose could see the path again a sob of relief washed over her, the girl in white seeming to be able to read her emotions perfectly, quickened the pace to running. Somehow they were right before Grandma's house. Rose didn't think she had wandered that far ahead, but her sobs stopped, and she wiped at her eyes as the girl stood before her. Rose mumbled a thank you, and the girl smiled in return. A warm hug enveloping her as she clung to the girl, hands balling into fists against her dress. When they disconnected, the girl waved one last time, and Rose finally went to the comfort and safety of grandma's.
Rose never went back into the woods after that. Clinging to the path every journey. Sometimes she still catches a glimpse of white, running by the woods line.
Ginger never had any hesitation about wandering away from the path. Pirates never care for rules or maps. The excitement of new discoveries always on the tip of her tongue. The feel of the cool grass curling beneath her toes as she runs full speed through the tree's. She often sees the girl in white running around too, doing cartwheels around treasure scattered about the vast forest. Ginger's tried recruiting her before, but the girl never replies, often tilting her head in confusion when Ginger asks if she wants to join her crew and go on an adventure.
It confused Ginger, so she made it a game to find the best hiding spots and see how long it takes for the girl to find her. She hid in the tower at the playground, an abandoned shack near a campsite, and between some trees near the lake. The girl always manages to find her, often waving at her while smiling.
Ginger wanted to beat her for once, tired of this intense losing streak she's on. So she wandered deeper and deeper into the woods this day, going in directions she's never been before. The sound of giggling could be heard, but the source was no where to be seen. Her treasure senses were tingling, and she just had to find out where those giggles were coming from. After all: it could be the girl in white, laughing because she discovered something before Ginger! She couldn't let that happen!
The sun was bright, streaks of yellow filtering through the tall shadows of the trees, Ginger had never seen anything like it before. The laughter seemed close, and the more Ginger followed it, the more intense it sounded. She saw something she never seen before: a field of flowers. Bright red and in bloom, a scarecrow in the center of them. The sun completely unblocked here, blinding as it lit the field. Ginger wondered how she never found this place before, it's as if it appeared out of thin air.
A giggle startles her, and she whips around to see what made the noise. A trail of butterflies in its wake, fluttering around in circles. Ginger started to feel uneasy. Like spiders crawling up her back, skittering and tickling her skin. Another giggle sounds through out the field, and this time Ginger turns fast enough to see who the source is. It's not the girl in white- no this girl is wearing red.
She twitches unnaturally, body spasming, like she's having a seizure. With every jolt and pull of her muscles, she laughs more. Her eyes are black, and it reminds Ginger of the dark. How the shadows creep and crawl, making shapes that startle children in the deep night. Ginger wants to approach her, but then there's something screaming in her consciousness to leave as fast as possible. Another giggle, and she disappears- more butterflies appear.
Something is very, very wrong. Ginger turns around again, but she sees nothing. Panic builds up in her throat, dry and scratchy, like she's choking on nothing. She starts to rotate, looking around for the girl, but sees nothing.
And then like that, the girl in white appears, running to her side, and the giggles stop. Silence, just the wind blowing the flowers. Ginger doesn't know what happened, but she grips the girl in white's hands tightly, tugging her away from the field, away from the sun, wandering back to the path. Hand in hand.
When they reached the familiarity of the path, the girl in white gave her a firm protective hug, Ginger tried to shrug her off, but a part of her loved the sense of security, so she wraps her arms around her and squeezes lightly. Of course, this experience didn't deter Ginger from wandering into the woods. But now, anytime she gets lost, and she thinks she sees a sunny area, or hears a muffled giggle- she runs straight to the girl in white.
Anything was better than going to Grandma's. It's always so painfully boring. Sitting around on the bed while Grandma wheezes, tells her the same stories over and over. She just doesn't understand what it's like to be a teenager in this time. School filled to the brim with people who don't care about anything except who's the most popular, who's the prettiest, who's dating who. The most shallow beings in existence are teenagers.
Her leg brace is for show, a way to get out of group activities during classes. The forest is her haven, freedom from life, freedom from people. Her favorite thing is running as fast as she can. Everything fades out of existence, the only thing she can hear is her own sharp and haggard breathing. When she comes to a stop her heart is beating fast, thrumming in her ribcage, like any moment she'll have a heart attack and be gone from this world. It's comforting.
The playground is sacred to her, a testiment to the beauty of age. Decay and rust, lovely creaks and moans from the old metal anytime she moves something. She goes there often, just to sit on the swingset and lazily drift back and forth. Letting the time pass by until she realizes hours have passed.
When she arrives this time, it smells of smoke, tobacco and dirt. A man pulling a rolled up carpet, muscles tensing with the movement. Her mind can't help but be enraptured by him. He sits on one of the benches and watches her, his eyes drawing her in, like an insect landing on a spiders web. Moments of panic, and then nothingness.
He lights a cigarette, and continues watching as she sits on the swings. He looks so different from everyone in school. He looks mature, looks like he has the same values as herself. He's attractive, and naturally looks like he's brooding. Something about him makes her want to approach him. She gets off the swing, legs sudddenly feeling wobbly as she tries to make her way towards the bench, unsure of why her body is responding like this. Giddiness? She's never felt like that before.
She moves closer, and closer, until something catches her eye, a girl hiding behind a tree. Peeking around the wood, acting as if she hasn't been caught. It's eerie. A part of Ruby is creeped out, another part is pissed. How long had she been there spying on her like some creepy stalker. She redirects her path away from the man, and towards the girl. Who immediately hides back behind the tree.
Ruby asks her what she's doing, but the girl only waves at her, meek and shy. She begins to reach for Ruby's hand, but stops halfway through, choosing to instead motion for Ruby to follow her.
Ruby's reluctant, glancing back at the man. He's no longer staring at her, and he rather seems disinterested over all. She sighs, but follows the girl away from the playground. After all, it's just another man. A lousy, good for nothing person. Sometimes it really is better to be alone.
When they reach the path, the girl waves, and goes back hiding behind some trees. Following Ruby up the path to grandmas house.
Carmen isn't a huge fan of the woods, but is occasionaly known to wander into it. The dirt and bugs aren't her focus, rather wandering alone in a quietly lit placed, nothing around but some birds and animals. Everything peaceful, but lonely. It reminds her of romance novels she used to read.
A grimy tub in the middle of the forest, cozy to lay in and pretend you're with someone you love. Relaxing in a candlelit bubble bath. Cleansing yourself for activities to come. She dips her head back against the rim of the tub, closing her eyes and pretending. Pretending there's someone waiting for her, who loves her, who wants to be with her forever.
When her eyes open and nothings changed, she can't help but feel disappointed. A twinge of longing lingering throughout her. At times like these, she wishes she was at a party with friends, drinking and dancing. Better to be lonely with friends, than lonely all by yourself.
The girl in white is fond of her, or at least Carmen thinks she is. Holding hands, dancing around together, hugs and sweet kisses to each others cheeks. Carmen finds her adorable, like a forest fairy.
Today Carmen was feeling extra affectionate. She felt like she had all the love in the world to share, unfortunately though- no one to share it with. Today was the perfect day to spend some alone time, allowing the woods to swallow her whole, to embrace her true self.
The playground abandoned as usual, the sky a deep purple, making her feel like she was wrapped in silk. Despite how dilapidated the playground was, she could still catch her reflection in the rusted metal. Wondering why someone as beautiful as her was cursed to be so alone. She sees the girl in white, running around in the background. Carmen can't help but think how much she'd like to dance with her again. Forgetting all her insecurities and just losing herself in the make believe rhythm they hold.
She follows as quickly as she can, but unfortunately Carmen isn't the athletic type. She loses sight of her, but catches the gaze of an older man, cutting down trees. A bright black and red hat atop his head. She's never seen anyone else in the woods besides the girl. Curiosity gets the best of her, and she makes her way over to the camp site, hips swaying with her confidence.
The man pays her little mind, too focused on his work. It makes Carmen smirk, thinking to herself how much this man probably needs a break from the monotony. How a woman like her- could help him have some fun. She walks up behind him and snatches his hat, placing it on top of her own head, a harsh bald spot revealed on top of his head. He must /really/ be old, but Carmen tells herself she shouldn't be one to judge. Instead she makes her way to the cooler, and grabs herself a beer. Nothing like some liquid courage.
The more she drinks, the easier it is for her to look past his rusty appearance. The easier it is for her to forget about being alone, the easier it is for her to lose her inhibitions.
The man settles his axe deep into the bark of a young tree, and makes his way over to the campfire. Carmen follows him, eager to sit and chat with him, but the sound of leaves rustling distracts her. Turning her head to the source she sees the girl in white again, finally. She almost thinks she's hallucinating, with how quickly she caught up behind her. Maybe she's had too much to drink.
Carmen calls out to her, and the girl approaches, immediately taking her hands in hers. Thumbs rubbing circles into her palms, distracting her from their setting. Carmen asks where's she been, if she still wanted to hang out for a bit. The girl said nothing, she never does, Carmen think it's cute how quiet she is. The girl drags her away from the campsite. Carmen finding it a bit difficult to walk straight, luckily she remembers to take the cap off, and she sets it on the ground next to the tents.
Carmen is all laughter and slurring as she sloppily dances with the girl all the way back to the dirt covered path. They spin in circles, the girl smiling at her as she helps Carmen stay on her feet. When they finally meet with the path they're already at Grandma's fence. Carmen pulls the girl into a deep hug, swaying back and forth in the embrace. The girl leans up on her tip toes and gives Carmen a kiss, brushing her hair behind her ear before she plants both her feet firmly on the ground again.
When Carmen reaches Grandma's bedroom, she places the basket down next to her on the bed, and proceeds to flop down next to her. Letting the giddiness fade to sleepy, the alcohol working through her system fast. Carmen continues to go into the woods, but she's never seen that woodcutter ever again. Maybe it was all a dream?
The forest is forbidden, and Scarlet knows this. Still she hears such sweet melodies from within. Birds singing, the ambience from the animals and cicadas blend into a dream like harmony.
She wanders in, once or twice every few months, but she doesn't go too far in. However this day, she heard a different melody, the melody of a piano being played. Oh how wonderful it sounds, like her own personal heaven. She can't help but wander towards the chords being struck with graceful fingers.
A theatre is where she ends up, and she sees someone. A lithe man, bony long fingers dancing across the keys. Music is the only thing Scarlet finds any comfort in from her daily life and chores. Its simple, clean, and enchanting. How she wishes she had the same natural talent. The man leaves the stage, walking right past her without looking. It makes her scrunch her nose up in disapproval, how rude he is- not even bothering to say hello.
Oh, but the piano is free though. And all the seats are empty in the house. It would be the perfect time to practise, to pretend she's a genius player, blessing hundreds of people with her music.
She hits a couple keys on the piano, the chords sounding perfect, like it was just tuned. Despite how dirty the woods are, the piano still shines like brand new. Before she can sit down and settle herself to practise more, she sees a small girl wandering around outside the stands, dressed in white. Surprisingly no signs of dirt covering it. Still something about her rubs Scarlet the wrong way- reminds her of her younger siblings disobeying her rules and wandering off to places she shouldn't be. A heavy sigh escapes her.
She walks off the stage, eying the man as she works her way past him. He seems to sneer at her, which only proves her assumptions of him correct. All men are the same- but that's fine. Scarlet has bigger priorities. Particularly this small girl all by her lonesome in the woods. She can't help but think about all the bad things that could happen to her, as no other adults are around to supervise her.
She has to run to catch up with the girl as she cartwheels, runs, and dances away from the theatre, and when Scarlet finally reaches her, she immediately asks 'Where are your parents?', 'Are you alone?'. The girl doesn't reply, simply swinging her arms back and forth. Scarlet offers her hand to her. 'Why don't you let me walk you back to the main road, okay?"
The girl in white accepts, but to Scarlet's surprise, she's not the one leading the way. The girl is, and she's all smiles the entire time. Jumping up and down, running ahead from time to time, looking back to make sure Scarlet is following.
They make it back to the path unscathed. Scarlet continues to ask questions, trying to get any answer out of the girl. Her efforts are wasted though, so she says a simple good bye, and starts heading towards Grandma's house. The girl in white doesn't head back into the woods. Instead she chases some birds perched along the roadside.
Scarlet returns to the forest occasionally. Heading towards the abandoned theature. She never sees that man again. It's for the best, she reasons with herself. She's too busy taking care of her siblings and helping her mother out.
It's hushed secrets, and scribbles in their personal journals. The only similarity they all share is their encounters with the girl.
They may never know what secrets the forest really hold, but most of them can agree to one thing. The girl in white is their guardian angel.
