prayed to keep my soul
W
e never turn out the way we expect to. The pictures children draw of how the world is seem free of depth, lacking the shading of experience, the depth of secrets and hurts that that form the tapestry of real life. The drawings are painted, erased, shaded, erased, drawn again and again, reshaping and recreating with every image given.What colors will you bring Elliana, Boudika? Will it be a painting of wild beauty? Or will you keep her in dark charcoal?
Elli does not see herself reflected in Boudika’s eyes, she just sees red, red, red. Like battlefields she has never seen, will probably never see, if because she has a heart not made for war, not when she hears so many tales of those who were killed because of it.
She is no empath like her mother, but she is a sensitive girl, enough to see emotions flittering on Boudika’s face. Her father was the one who taught Elli how to navigate the world, how to hold it in her palm like a pearl and watch it shine. And shine it does upon the woman’s face. With questions and curiosity. Elli is too young to be aware of what passion has done to her, if she knew the truth she might understand why she looks at her like that. After all, her parents were the very embodiment of how destructive passion could really be.
A nod. It is enough of a response, for a quiet girl who knows what it is like to leave words behind in favor of deeper thoughts, it is enough. Elliana follows her down the street, her mother has not reminded her enough to not follow strangers. Or, Elli has not listened enough. Sometimes, in those late night hours, it is so hard to hear with all the voices clamoring beyond the grave to be heard.
They enter the shop and Boudika’s quiet voice reaches her. She spends many long moments staring at the surface of the puddles outside, each individual ripple drawing her attention, claiming her until the moment they fall back into stillness if only for a second, before another drop strikes it. “Tea,” she says suddenly, not peeling her blue (too blue, too too blue) eyes from the water droplets meeting the earth in a pitter patter fashion. “Please, with lavender,” she says then turning eyes to look upon Boudika once more. “Aren’t rainy days just perfectly splendid?” She asks the woman. “Someone told me once, it’s the earth’s way of crying, but I don't think so.” She does not expand further. She is not so much like her mother, so free with words. If her mother’s words floated like butterflies, freely from flower to flower, than hers were like honey bees, buzzing in a hive of secrets thoughts and wonders. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she comments, looking at her once more with a tilt of her small, delicate head, her shoulders roll in such a fashion to flash a crescent moon upon them.
“And what were you doing?” Elli asks. “If not in town often, why today?” She leans closer. “If you know my father, why have you not asked him how he is?” She pours the questions out just as hot water pours from its kettle. Poor too much and it will overflow. Ask too much and—
“Do you wanna know a secret?”
@Boudika elliana speaks
elliana
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