fate is entangled with the term mistake.
but one should remember ... accidents
may appear purposely or perhaps
happen out of the blue. either way
good and bad will always linger on.
George Weasley x Female Original Character
Goblet of Fire - D...
chapter iii , Sour Taste In The Mouth , Disgust Is A Word Of Great Power
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˗ˏˋ 🫐 'ˎ˗
She walked down the sidewalk, carefully observing the concrete her feet pestered upon. She was on the right side ... but she rigidly stepped closer to the middle whenever a car would speed past her, a strand of hair blowing with the furious and sudden breeze. Bystanders would glance at her, a wholehearted stare, maybe once over before whispering profusely to their partner — "She's the girl who survived!"
Call it whatever you will ... luck ... bad luck ... destiny; whatever. The. Fuck. You. Want — Indie Monet was a damaged soul living in a careless enterprise of third-grade gossip and insensitivity. She was the black sheep of the small town, and due to its size, she was notorious ... especially after the accident of 1992 on the hot summer night of July 15th.
Broken bones and a broken heart were all there was of Indie that fateful night. The peak of moonlight called upon the tragedy that killed her mother. Indie was very much alive .. but ... her soul was a faded piece of paper as it crumbled away in the burning pile of evil. It was a shock to the entire town of 250 people that the poor girl made it out of the incident alive, since the pictures of the crash sight four it necessary to stretch its legs, thus letting the public see exactly what horror resided in the surrounding area of Clover Mountain.
Indie breathed normally — in and out at a steady pace. At that moment in time, she felt at peace. Her mind was turned off ... It was the best feeling she had ever experienced. No negative emotions, no tears of her mother, no thoughts of Beau or her mom or ... George. As she continued down the trail to the graveyard — she was a neutral figure blending in with the calamity of the sunrise.
Her hand fluttered up to her chest, rubbing the fabric of her linen shirt gently. Her eyes ran over the words of the cemetery as her feet paused right before the entrance. Kingsbury Sematary. A wave of uncertainty hit her, crushed her chest in agonizing grief — as it did whenever she visited. The prick of her eye stung and her hand pressed harder into her chest, hoping to relieve the unknown weight of nothing.
The petals of the tulips she carried in her clammy hand, wished amongst each other, the bright yellow and pink plants smiled in cheerfulness. She tossed them from her right hand to her left, rubbing the former down her pant leg, in anticipation of the next step. Slowly but surely, Indie mumbled through the eerily quiet yet familiar setting. Her eyes darted from gravestone to gravestone, to the decapitated puddle of flowers; maybe daisies? She swallowed harshly, blinking once and squeezing her eyelids tightly.
Breathe in ..... breathe out .... let it go.
These wise words were the infamous catchphrase of Celine Monet. The simple sentence could either be a death sentence of humiliation or a paradise of peace — depending on what context it was used in. Indie wasn't the greatest at complying with the expression ... She was quite pessimistic; her mind ran like clockwork day and night, and there was no "letting it go,", especially for her.
