𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈 : 𝐍𝐨 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

Selfish. Remorseless. Guilty.

Shadows may feast on dinner, you decided when the crack of light burned itself into your vision. Sleep would keep your stomach full, but even dreams did wrap you in their recent comforts. Every bump in the night shook you from the light stages of slumber–further solidifying that even dreams did not care for your presence. Maybe Sasha was enacting revenge upon you for turning her memory into a knife by scratching nails on the glass or prodding owls to hoot. Perhaps Mother was punishing you for failing to open the door. For being so weak. For refusing to be brave for once in your pitiful life.

But there was another reality behind your exhaustion. You were scared to face them; to answer for your evils; to apologize. You were afraid of falling asleep.

So you stared at wallpaper and a blank ceiling to pass the gloomy hours. Constant ticking reminded you of Time's ever-present echo as you traced vines, leaves, flowers, and nothing glowing silver under the moon's gentle touch. Lines bled into one another until the walls were as blank as the ceiling.

Whatever did or didn't keep you from sleep, you deserved it: the fear, the exhaustion, and the pain. You earned every bit of it.

Restless. Hopeless. Hollow.

Eyes stung with exhaustion once lavender light crept over the horizon. Empty wallpaper warmed with summer's heat, but the air was frigid with winter's ice. Cracked hands ran over your face in a half-hearted attempt to soothe taut, dry skin into sleep's submission, but wakefulness pulled at the flesh even tighter. Your stomach rumbled louder than any mourning dove dared to sing at dawn's arrival, but your appetite was nonexistent.

If you could not sleep or eat, you needed to distract yourself with something else. Time ticked fast, and it was midmorning when you sat on the edge of your bed following busied hands. Sharpened shears waited open between dead fingers. Sun's glare reflecting off the metal daggered blurry eyes. An asp made of brown fabric slithered over callouses. Every drop of rain that seeped onto cracked lips tasted bitterly of capitulation. You squeezed the shears closed and freed the fifth and final square marked into that ugly dress. After sneaking into your sewing room for your collection of threads and working yourself into nothing just before noon, you had five perfect pieces with neatly hemmed edges.

Sweetness snuck through the house as you embroidered pretty patterns into the dirt-colored clothe. The air smelled of cakes and cookies, and a realization hit you: today was the Springers' summer party. Niccolo must be baking some desserts to take over, as he always did these last few summers, but you were shackled to the house. It was yet another event you would miss due to your poor decisions. And tomorrow, Jean and Armin would leave the lake for the final time, and the summer was good as over. Autumn would suffocate you with rainbowed leaves, and the lake would haunt every window instead of the smoking, blue hills that only existed in dreams you were too afraid to find.

Your disappointment spilled onto drab fabric as warped plants. Bruised irises, ghostly daisies, flaming lilies, bloody roses, sour carnations, and so many sickly vines connecting them all. You were a girl again, sewing once beautiful things into ugly cloth in hopes that Time would turn the other way, and you were small enough to be carried off somewhere else by someone stronger. Someone that wanted you around despite how much you shared with the ugly, brown, torn-up dress that lay snipped apart on your vanity.

Foolish. Malcontent. Childish.

The front door closed from underneath, shaking the window panes in your room, and you finished your parting gift not long after. Five perfect handkerchiefs with empty centers and flowered edges waited below your nose. You swiped at the fabric repeatedly until your fingers were sanded down into nothing but bone, and you found that the texture was terrible for cleaning running noses. They couldn't so much as wipe away the rain from dripping cheeks without chafing the skin.