Seventeen

𝖛𝖎. death becomes her

         "Do you believe in a God?"

         "No," Hermione stated. "Do you?"

"No."

"Do you want to believe in one?"

"No," Solaris said. "Do you?"

"I don't think so."

"I think it's more of a comfort thing. It just feels better in believing in something, I guess."

"You think it's because people want there to be a safe place after life ends?"

"Yes."

They were sat in front of Hermione's window, watching the trees move with the air's breathless whimpers and the moon caressed their faces so tenderly— the same way a mother would hold the face of her crying child. The porch light made Solaris' skin meld into a pink hue and for a moment, Hermione could have guessed that she wasn't heartless, just tired. Tired of everything and nothing at all.

"Sometimes, I wanna punch God in the face." Solaris said, a small smile kissing the corners of her mouth.

"Why?" Hermione chuckled.

"He owes me. A lot."

"Does he?"

"Yes," Solaris said. "I don't know if you've ever felt like that. Like you want to sleep for a thousand years or just not exist— or not be aware you exist. Something like that. It's morbid, but the truth is sharp. God let me feel that way."

Silence lingered over their heads, valentine-minded ladies contemplating suicide: death will swallow them whole and spit them out, crimson red liquid will crawl out of their skins like crawling maggots— their God is a consuming fire. An arsonist waking in the midst of the flames. Blood darkens the vernal equinox behind their chests and it grows within the vena cava, chaining into tree vines and softens each beat with the pretty thing called love.

         "I could believe in a lot of things, but God isn't one of them."

          "Why's that?"

          "Benevolence should exist in everyone if he exists, but it doesn't."

           Solaris nods— the easy way of saying this is that she agreed, but the deeper truth was how the candy-coated nostalgia is giving her mind rotting cavities: her grandma once told her to 'never lose faith' in her death bed, but Solaris made no promises and kissed her decaying head. The promise made her limbs curl, her stomach twist and her lungs ache. There's nothing to lose if it isn't there in the first place. She used to be sweet, just to her grandma. Caramel glazed, vanilla tipped baby her spinning under her La Bonne-Maman's gaze and when she died, every sweet corner of her melted like sticky honey. When her Mama died, she was painted on the walls like residue that refused to leave— blood red came along with the memory of her, licking the shadows and bones of her skulls and wrists until crimson was the only colour left to see. She never looked at the sky the same, and even though she didn't believe in a heaven anymore, she'd like to think that her Mama was in a place as pretty as she wished she'd be in. Her faith died along with her grandma. Nothing was ever the same after her.

           "You know, my grandma told me to 'never lose faith', but I did, anyways. Sometimes, I like to pretend that I still believe just so I have a safety net for in case I do die."

           "Why did you lose faith, Solaris?"

           "It died a long time before she did. No God should have let me suffer this way."

           "I've had my fair share of sufferings too, but I didn't lose faith because I never had it."

           "It's more painful to lose faith rather than begin with none, trust me."

           "It sounds like it."

           "Mione, can I ask you something?"

            "Yes?"

            "Why have you never looked me in the eye before?"

            "I'm looking you in the eye." Hermione said, turning her head to meet her eyes.

           "Before last night, you were scared of me. You locked me out, you never spoke to me, you didn't even look me in the eye— why?"

            "You scared me. Pretty girl who jumped out of a painting, who wouldn't be scared? Sometimes, I still think you're not real."

            "I've seen you before, in classes but rarely."

             "I was already scared of you, then— you're one of Malfoy's friends, you're a pureblood slytherin. I'm a mudblood, wouldn't think you'd ever even think of coming near me."

             "Just because Malfoy is a racist, it doesn't mean I consent it. Draco goes through a lot, but it doesn't mean that he could be that disrespectful to you and muggleborns. I'm sorry for what my friends have done."

             "You're the kindest slytherin."

             "To you, but not to everyone else."

             Solaris had told the truth then—she wasn't very nice to anyone else: she refused to speak to most people, she acted on her hatred and always plotted her revenge—but that's what she'd been taught to do. Never go down. Strong is mean, mean is power.

           "Solaris?"

           "Yes?"

            "I have faith in you."