(That night...)
~Hebe~
We all camp under a tree, one of the last semi-alive trees. The others fell to our collapsing world. It is a temporary base, until we can find another home to squat in. I sigh. Everyone has long since gone to sleep. I.. just can't find it myself.
Thoughts swarm me. Cloud me. Won't let me rest. So, I just watch the clear night skies.
Our old home, is probably in ruins.
While it is not the home Mus and I lived in while being apart of our society, I feel as though I belong there.
It kept us safe, housed us, and we just left it to die.
I sigh. This isn't about houses. I'm thinking of someone else.
' My dad starts yelling at my mom, in loud spouts of anger. She throws back insults. Both of the quarreling, I choose to block out.
Clover comes back, but even my pretty sister won't stop them. Again, she takes me by the hand.
"Look at me."
She shakes me, and makes sure I'm looking at her. Once I am, she gives a smile, which somehow helps to dim what is going on around us.
Mom lifts her hand, and gives Dad a hard slap on the face. For a moment, everything goes silent. A large handprint remains of his face.
The uproar of his rage worsens. She starts to back away, and mumbles quick 'sorry's, but this doesn't cool him. He grabs the hilt of one of our fancy plates, that are only used for special occasions, and—
"Look at me." Clover says again; more sternly.
Clover is not that much older than me. Girls are not allowed to learn subjects like math, or reading. Yet, I remember Mom saying she is only about two years older than me.
I guess someone could say I'm self-taught. I know some numbers, and some letters, like the number 8, and 2, and 10, and the letters 'H' and 'C'. — Those are the first two letters of mine and Clover's name.
However, Clover, for only being about 2 years older than me, is quite experienced in these incidents. I remember how Mom used to keep me in our room, and just showing Clover to our father. Like their prized jewel.
'She must have been through this kind of stuff before,' I realize.
' The door slams shut.
I'm sitting on Clover's bed; it's pretty dark outside. We made "dolls" out of some of the flowers on our kitchen table. We usually play at night, as there isn't much to be done at night.
I remember this to be awhile back. Sure, I would say I'm the best self-taught-er here, but I don't know much about how to keep time with numbers. This was around when Clover and I were moved to the same bedroom. Maybe this was something between "2" and "8".
On our bed, we have an assortment of flowers. The petals are their hair. Clover usually came up with the names, and I chose the flowers.
— Not that I really remember any of their names now. The flowers have long wilted since the last of us playing with our little village.
I turn my attention towards the loud slam. Clover clenches her flower. It is broken; it's bent at a weird angle. We would bury her later. Probably under the carpet.
Our mom stands at the entrance to our small bedroom. Her hair is stringy, and her head is bent low. She looks like something out of one of my night-terrors.
"Clover." She had murmured. She lifted her hand to my sister; something trickled down her arm.
There were loud shouts down below, that I now recognize as my dad yelling. Clover closes her eyes for a moment. She hands me the wilted flower, and hops off our bed.
She places her little hand in our mother's larger version. I envied Clover for how she took after our ma. Always so sleek; always so beautiful.
She goes to reopen the door. The very door that seemed to open us to a different realm, where the flower-people didn't reign over and protect us.
Before our mother casts her and Clover back out to that universe, she casts a harsh glare to me. "Do not leave this room, Hebe. Go to bed. It is late."
Clover gives me a little smile. Her smiles could light up this world; make it just so much happier. "Good night, Hebe!"
I smile back at her, "Good night! —" but before I can finish, the door is slammed closed again. Separating us two, in two different worlds.
I don't remember too much after than. I laid my head back down on that pillow. My eyes were glued to that door. I was tempted to go run after her, but Mom told me to stay here.
The yelling grows louder, and glass shatters at my feet. I don't remember this. I jump back in surprise. '
"Hebe, look at me!" Clover is the one yelling now. A certain degree of desperation lingers in her usual merry green eyes.
Again, I'm tempted to look behind me. The twinkle of shattered glass lingers there. Like it's in another world, that isn't here.
Before I can, Clover's grip on my hand tightens, and she pulls me through to another room.
~*~
We're in one of the spare bedrooms, that is typically used by one of our parents' friends. I don't really know what a friend is. Whatever they are, I'm sure that Clover is the best of that.
She's showing me her doll. Somehow, the chaos downstairs is not that overwhelming anymore. Clover can take me back to that safe, flower-village place anytime.
We're braiding the doll's hair. More like Clover is braiding the hair, and I'm watching. The doll has silky blonde hair, like white gold.
Her long fingers weave through each strand. They pull and push the same three, thick strands. After each set of this pattern is done, she will pull at it to make sure the design is secured, and won't come loose.
She starts off by the top of the pretty doll's forehead, and slowly makes an intricate design — With just hair!
There is something that is really calming about watching her do this. I have seen some writing, with how each line curves into another, to form a word. That is the same with art, except just more little lines and slashes to form something big and beautiful on one white canvas. Braiding is like that. It is like artwork too. I, myself, want to learn how to, too.
Clover sees me staring hard at her fingers deep in the doll's thick hair. "Do you want to try?" She asks me.
"Of course!" I basically exclaim.
Clover stares at me with wide eyes, for just a brief moment. 'Downstairs.' I think, and know to lower my tone.
"Take this piece," She says, and hands me a strand of the hair.
The doll's hair is split off into two sections. She tells me this style is called a pigtail. I wonder if my wig would fall off if we tried to put it like the doll's hair.
'Not a wig,' I remind myself, 'it's my hair now. That's what Mom told me.'
"Wait," I said, and Clover stopped. "How is that a pigtail, when it doesn't even look like a pig's tail?"
I start laughing, but subconsciously make sure to not let my laughter get too loud. I see the dirty-coats working with some of our farm animals all the time. That includes pigs, and the doll's hair definitely did not look like their windy tails.
She laughed too. "I dunno. I guess whoever named it must've been loopy."
"Real loopy," I added.
I followed along with Clover's weaving patterns. She helped to show me how to easily line over the strands one over the other. The top part was a bit messy, but once I got down to the bottom, it was just like a straight line down.
Clover patted me on the back. "Good job! I'll be right back,"
I nod to her, and decide to try it again. Clover trots to the door, and creaks it open. A strange smell lingers to me, and I lift my head up from what I was doing.
The clamor from downstairs has died down. Even from where I'm sitting, I see a couple pieces of some assortments of different items scattered about. Clover has her head fully out of the room. I get up to go see what is going on.
She hears me coming, and immediately closes the door. I open my mouth to ask why she did that, but she answers first. "Don't worry about that. Let's spend more time up here,"
"What about—"
She cuts me off again, "In fact, let's spend the whole night up here. Like one, big, fun sleepover!"
I nod. Sleepovers do sound fun. Although we technically always have sleepovers with each other, but I guess since this is somewhere new, this makes it more fun. '
I smile at the memory, and stare off at the stars.
"I love you, Clover. I miss you." I say. I hope she can hear me.
——
A/N: From the book, "The Society"