I'm tucked up safely in my room now, the soggy remains of biscuit sitting guiltily in my stomach, in a froth of hot chocolate. Time to reply to Layla. Glad it's a Friday. :D
I always think it's amazing how much pure joy and relief can be communicated through punctuation faces vs emojis. I don't get much time to think, because Layla replies quickly. I like that about her. No weird, awkward pauses I immediately think are my fault, even if they're not.
You don't even know! :) I scratch at my acne absent-minded, wincing as I pull back my hand and there's blood under my fingernails. I'm so glad I've gotten better at not biting down my nails to the quicks, but that was due to Layla's help. A good memory, learning how to use a nail file at thirteen over Face-Time with my best friend.
I know. I was right next to you the whole time. I reach for the spot cream, wincing at the sting of the strong smelling stuff, I've gotten used to experiencing. Layla was the one who broke it to me that I'm supposed to wash it off in the morning, otherwise it forms these weird, red, scaly patches that looks like micro-acne. It doesn't exactly describe that on the bottle, to be fair.
I came back today and found the worst thing possible! Max broke into my nail polish! He said 'they aren't as good as Crayola'. :'( Crying emojis. Attached with it is a picture of a piece of paper, with a house in Bleeding Summer, a field of Blue Ocean, and a lumpy person in half-congealed Violet Daydream. All key favorites in her collection.
Yeesh. I don't really know what else to say. Just ouch. Max is Layla's younger brother, the one that is an orange belt in a martial art he can't pronounce well yet. He's only seven, but he is not using those skills honorably. He seems to think he's a ninja now, because every time I go over there, I get hit over the head with a makeshift, taped together stick of toilet rolls with Sharpie scribbles all over it. Daughter of death or not.
I'm about to reply, but I hear a faint tapping on my window. I freeze, letting the duvet fall off me. I open the curtain a chink, and I see the dark sky, and the apricot tree outside my room, it's branches lashing in the wind.
I see nothing else. It's probably just one of the branches, or a really big raindrop, or something. The garden is dark, and only full of plants. Nothing creepy or ethereal. It'd fascinating how quick the panic fades.
There's a knock on my door, and I look up. It's just dad.
"Have you started practicing yet? Or done any homework?" He inquires.
"No, but I'll make a start now." I turn to text Layla something quickly. Homework, gtg.
She replies with a sad face, and I put my phone on charge, and cup my hands together. I imagine a cherry tree, and I'm sitting cross-legged in front of it. I breathe in deeply, forcing air into the deepest part of my lungs, lacing my fingers together.
I tighten my jaw muscles, and my temples, trying to draw power from my head, breathing in in time. Pink, feathery pieces start to appear, and they twitch around my hands hesitantly. I urge them on, focusing on the image of a tornado to encourage them.
I need to imagine something now. A cherry blossom, with buds of life around it. I tease that into my mind, imagining each cell aching to join my blueprint, each fiber of that flower to wind itself into that shape. Slowly, slowly, the feathery chunks flutter into position, settling into real, tangible petals.
Layer by layer, something beautiful is forming
My head is aching, my fingers tensing, but I force the last few layers of bark stub to settle onto the back. A light whisper of scent tickles my nose as I let myself slip out of my imagination, focusing on the thing in my hands.
A cherry blossom. Light as sea foam, delicate pink, like something from a fairy tale made real. Touches of red and white on the edge and inside, a small pad of pollen inside the central hollow of the flower. Minute ridges as narrow as my fingernail's depth. Tiny, delicate, enchanting like an opal in my palm.
I look on my desk. There's a tiny bonsai, but it's a miniature cherry tree mum gave me. It's always in blossom, so there are super tiny petals in the little box. It's supposed to make practicing easier, but it just gives a standard to compare myself to.
A sharp knock brings me out of my thoughts. It's the window again. I wrench back the curtian and glare out into the night. I've already been disturbed once. I peer suspicously into the night, when a rock, dangerously pointed on one end, strikes the window with a crack!
It makes me really glad we have double glazing. But nothing's broken. That is quite enough, especially because I don't want anything else broken. I angrily fiddle with the window, and throw it open.
"WHAT?" I shout out.
Another stone flies out, but it falls short, at a really weird angle, like they heard me and flinched as they were throwing it. There's nothing for a long while, but my eyes adjust, and I see the square front garden, with the pine tree in the corner, then a few paces down, the gate, a wooden wall running down all sides.
There is a bus stop just beyond the wall, the on the far side of the neighbor to the left's drive. Standing there, between the bin and the wall of ads, is a person. No- A child, about the same height of me, clad in black, and staring into my window.
I'm not sure of the expression on their face, because a cap on their head prevents me from seeing. The cap kind of looks like it was dragged through a muddy field out of mid-civil war America, it reminds me of something I saw on a solider in a history book, and the material is a thick navy black.
I shiver, and go to slam the window shut, to run and tell dad because I'm not leaving a creepy, possibly civil war, figure a way into my room, but something stops me. The window won't shut. Because, wedged right in the corner of the window frame is a note of black paper, folded up many times, preventing it from closing. The only thought in my mind is, because I was right by the window the whole time.
How did it get there?
YOU ARE READING
A Tale of: Ravens, Scythes and Cherry blossoms
General Fiction'All it takes to consult the dead is a pen, some paper, and a secret you've never told anyone else' Hana is the daughter of death, a hereditary position that has existed for as long as mankind has. She lives through each day with the caw of ravens i...
