Her death hit in waves. Not a flood, but water lapping steadily at her ankles. You could drown in two inches of water. Maybe grief was the same.
She tells herself she is looking Isolt—and maybe she is.
But first, she wants to find that grave that sat wide and gaping, ready to swallow her whole should she only ask for such a thing. She wanders through the forest, the shadows reach out to her, no longer contained to only the night, but their voices spill into the day and they whisper there, in the darkness created by the trees.
Elli is such a different thing than both her parents. They keep searching for the light, her mother the sun, her father the stars. She wonders if they have ever been brave enough to dive into the shadows. What would they do if they were cast into them? Her mother would fight, fight and fight, but Elli, she was so very different from her mother. (‘You have your mother’s eyes,’ they say, and she thinks ‘how?’ Because eyes are supposed to be windows to the soul and Elliana’s could not be more different than her mother’s own.) For she did not rage like an open ocean or pound waves upon the cresting cliffs; instead, she was large, still bodies—her depths unexplored, untouched.
It is these differences she notices, that she wears like a burden on her shadowed skin. Because she wonders (though does not cry) why am I so different? Why do I look to the darkness when she looks away? Her mother will peer up at the sun and Elli will watch her shadow slither along the grass.
And why is the darkness of that tree screaming at her from behind its leaves? What torture did they enslave you to?
And why does that flower’s shadow giggle with wiggling flower petals? What funny things did they tell you?
And why the passing cloud saying ‘shh’ ‘shh’ ‘shh’? What stories are you trying to share?
The forest goes quiet and something twists in her chest. The grave, it should be here, but there is nothing, as if it had never been dug in the first place. She can feel the death around her, the dying. She can remember the first time a flower died, and she screamed like someone was driving a knife into her chest, through her heart. Her mother told her it was just a flower, but it never really is, not truly, that is what she believed.
Blood stains these woods, but they both know that already, don’t they? “Isolt,” she gasps, not because she knows it is her, but because she hopes that it is. “I cant find it,” she says. “Did you fill it?” She asks, and if she did—what rests there—six feet under.
But first, she wants to find that grave that sat wide and gaping, ready to swallow her whole should she only ask for such a thing. She wanders through the forest, the shadows reach out to her, no longer contained to only the night, but their voices spill into the day and they whisper there, in the darkness created by the trees.
Elli is such a different thing than both her parents. They keep searching for the light, her mother the sun, her father the stars. She wonders if they have ever been brave enough to dive into the shadows. What would they do if they were cast into them? Her mother would fight, fight and fight, but Elli, she was so very different from her mother. (‘You have your mother’s eyes,’ they say, and she thinks ‘how?’ Because eyes are supposed to be windows to the soul and Elliana’s could not be more different than her mother’s own.) For she did not rage like an open ocean or pound waves upon the cresting cliffs; instead, she was large, still bodies—her depths unexplored, untouched.
It is these differences she notices, that she wears like a burden on her shadowed skin. Because she wonders (though does not cry) why am I so different? Why do I look to the darkness when she looks away? Her mother will peer up at the sun and Elli will watch her shadow slither along the grass.
And why is the darkness of that tree screaming at her from behind its leaves? What torture did they enslave you to?
And why does that flower’s shadow giggle with wiggling flower petals? What funny things did they tell you?
And why the passing cloud saying ‘shh’ ‘shh’ ‘shh’? What stories are you trying to share?
The forest goes quiet and something twists in her chest. The grave, it should be here, but there is nothing, as if it had never been dug in the first place. She can feel the death around her, the dying. She can remember the first time a flower died, and she screamed like someone was driving a knife into her chest, through her heart. Her mother told her it was just a flower, but it never really is, not truly, that is what she believed.
Blood stains these woods, but they both know that already, don’t they? “Isolt,” she gasps, not because she knows it is her, but because she hopes that it is. “I cant find it,” she says. “Did you fill it?” She asks, and if she did—what rests there—six feet under.
