08-15-2018, 06:16 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-15-2018, 06:17 PM by Natalie Grey.)
2042, Christmas Eve
It was easy to forget the time of year when the sun burned so hot and bright during daylight hours. Her mother begged her to come home for Christmas, but it seemed a pointless endeavour. It was not the first without their father, but it was the first knowing the finality of his fate. Usually they spent the season tucked in the old house in Switzerland, but last year the trend had broken; they'd stayed, miserable and dysfunctional in London, and by the time dusk fell Natalie had escaped to Aaron's council estate. His dad had thrown him out and they'd spent the evening on park swings, sharing a bottle of JD he had swiped from his father's stash before the door slammed in his face.
Even that memory had barbs now. Home seemed a drifting concept, and she couldn't face the facade of perky Christmas meals and family traditions while they worked around Alistair's absence like a missing tooth. So she stayed.
The compound was quiet this evening, the dirt still baking from the sun's touch, humidity sticking clothes to skin. Restlessness wound her on a path through the gardens, lamenting the lack of distraction. Though it was probably a good thing she couldn't lay her hands on a bottle. Natalie wasn't a prisoner -- none of the women here were -- but the nearest city was miles away, and she only had her boots.
Most of the other women were cloistered in a service for the season; even here she could hear the drift of music and singing, but -- much to Amidah's raised brow -- she had declined the invitation. It should have secured peace, but as it turned out she was not the only one out here. A figure sat tucked under the acacia.
Imani was one of the newer girls; not much younger than Natalie, a year or two perhaps; still more girl than woman, and far too young for the ghosts in her eyes and the weight on her shoulders. She sat on a bench, legs tucked up under her chin, eyes staring at shadows. Dirt caked the fingers grasped around her knees. Plant corpses scattered like patches of shadow, pungent in scent.
Perhaps Amidah knew the truth of it, but Imani had spoken her story to no one here.
Natalie paused.
The girl was drowning, whether she choose to admit it or not, and Natalie knew what that felt like. It tugged at her, though there was nothing she could say or do to help. The gift had already unravelled some of Imani's terrible secrets, but even if it had not by now Natalie had begun to recognise the signs. Her cynic's heart could not comfort the brutality, not even as a kindness. She would not speak lies, even to tell a girl everything would be alright. Though neither was she inclined to walk away.
Her grasp of the language had begun to improve, though the others still snickered good-naturedly at her stiff pronunciations. She understood most of the day-today conversations at least, and could generally make herself understood. But even if she'd wanted to offer a listening ear, it was likely beyond her grasp to untangle the nuances of pain.
Imani's gaze narrowed as Natalie approached, toeing the limp leaves and dirt-strewn roots across her path. She did not look up, even when Natalie held out her hand. "Come on." The girl said something Natalie could not translate, though the scathing tone was perhaps enough of an interpretation, but Natalie's palm remained steadfast, the tangible offer of escape. Perhaps for them both. "I know where Amidah keeps the car keys."
It was easy to forget the time of year when the sun burned so hot and bright during daylight hours. Her mother begged her to come home for Christmas, but it seemed a pointless endeavour. It was not the first without their father, but it was the first knowing the finality of his fate. Usually they spent the season tucked in the old house in Switzerland, but last year the trend had broken; they'd stayed, miserable and dysfunctional in London, and by the time dusk fell Natalie had escaped to Aaron's council estate. His dad had thrown him out and they'd spent the evening on park swings, sharing a bottle of JD he had swiped from his father's stash before the door slammed in his face.
Even that memory had barbs now. Home seemed a drifting concept, and she couldn't face the facade of perky Christmas meals and family traditions while they worked around Alistair's absence like a missing tooth. So she stayed.
The compound was quiet this evening, the dirt still baking from the sun's touch, humidity sticking clothes to skin. Restlessness wound her on a path through the gardens, lamenting the lack of distraction. Though it was probably a good thing she couldn't lay her hands on a bottle. Natalie wasn't a prisoner -- none of the women here were -- but the nearest city was miles away, and she only had her boots.
Most of the other women were cloistered in a service for the season; even here she could hear the drift of music and singing, but -- much to Amidah's raised brow -- she had declined the invitation. It should have secured peace, but as it turned out she was not the only one out here. A figure sat tucked under the acacia.
Imani was one of the newer girls; not much younger than Natalie, a year or two perhaps; still more girl than woman, and far too young for the ghosts in her eyes and the weight on her shoulders. She sat on a bench, legs tucked up under her chin, eyes staring at shadows. Dirt caked the fingers grasped around her knees. Plant corpses scattered like patches of shadow, pungent in scent.
Perhaps Amidah knew the truth of it, but Imani had spoken her story to no one here.
Natalie paused.
The girl was drowning, whether she choose to admit it or not, and Natalie knew what that felt like. It tugged at her, though there was nothing she could say or do to help. The gift had already unravelled some of Imani's terrible secrets, but even if it had not by now Natalie had begun to recognise the signs. Her cynic's heart could not comfort the brutality, not even as a kindness. She would not speak lies, even to tell a girl everything would be alright. Though neither was she inclined to walk away.
Her grasp of the language had begun to improve, though the others still snickered good-naturedly at her stiff pronunciations. She understood most of the day-today conversations at least, and could generally make herself understood. But even if she'd wanted to offer a listening ear, it was likely beyond her grasp to untangle the nuances of pain.
Imani's gaze narrowed as Natalie approached, toeing the limp leaves and dirt-strewn roots across her path. She did not look up, even when Natalie held out her hand. "Come on." The girl said something Natalie could not translate, though the scathing tone was perhaps enough of an interpretation, but Natalie's palm remained steadfast, the tangible offer of escape. Perhaps for them both. "I know where Amidah keeps the car keys."