Isabella Foster
I like a look of agony
because I know it's true
I
have strange memories. I wonder if they are memories at all or just works of fiction I can recall from an early childhood, or if they are memories at all, rather just a dream I have had. I read about an orphan once, when I had been younger, he had been dropped off at the stairs of the orphanage, no one wanted him. He had been nestled with blankets, blankets that became soaked in the downpour, he wasn't found until morning, freezing cold, but alive, and still an orphan. Something about this story echoed inside my chest and I brought the story to my mother, silver eyes asking the question before I opened my mouth. “Is this how I was born?” I had asked her, showing her the story. My mother had dropped what she was doing and reached to embrace me. While my family would give the occasional kiss, or maybe a touch on the shoulder, we were not typically so outwardly affectionate. ‘No, no baby,’ she had said. ‘You are of me and only me, I promise.’ And I believed her. She was a Foster. I was a Foster. We were—are— Fosters. Fosters.
The birds race quickly to grab the bread before their friends can grab it, well, can they be called friends if you are constantly taking their food, stealing? And I think people swindling deals and money and think maybe they can be—just a different kind of friend. I can feel a smile twitch at the corner’s of my mouth as one comes close to me. Lawrence had asked me once when I had been too young to attend lessons on my own why, if my aim was so good I did not shoot the ducks. Send an arrow in their throat instead of bread. I think maybe that is the difference between boys and girls, or maybe the difference between someone strong and someone weak.
I am startled by the sound of another, there aren't many who make the little trek outside the city center and to this pond much less. There is another, great, more beautiful pond in the gardens. I almost lace back silver ears into my dark mane at the thought of someone else having discovered my spot, but a look of such a disgruntled attitude would send my mother reeling. Even if she is not here to see it.
“They are hungry,” I say as I glance at the girl who has found me. I manage to keep any shock from my face, as I note the mask that covers hers. Shocked I may be, but I was not put off, too often I see everyone wearing their own masks (of indifference, of smiles, of dutiful wives that meet other men in back alleyways.) But none were quite as captivating as this one. “I like your mask,” I says, and it is sincere even if it doesn't sound that way. I have never been adept at tone.
I rip off another piece of bread and hold it out to her. “Did you want some?”
picture colored by Elidhu
@Maybird
