"In the silence of the night I am free to be who I want. No one can see me, hear me breathe. Out here, in the black, I am simply myself, breathing in the air and wondering what else is out there. What's beyond the borders of all this? What's beyond the farthest point I can see? What is hiding in the black, waiting for me to stumble across it?" My eyes watched his shadow as he walked towards me. I felt his hands on my face and I closed my eyes, feeling the night, feeling him.
This is why I am falling for you Rosalind. You speak words...they fall like rain from your mouth. No one is like you. And deep down it scares me." I sank into his arms, holding him tight.
It scares me too.
“I will help make you remember who you are.” She sat in silence for a long time, her face dry and turned towards the mountains. I sat beside her and wrapped my jacket over her shoulders, hoping it was enough to block the cold from the wind as it roared past us. Long strands of hair were waving behind her and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. “Do you disappear when you do that?”
“I pretend to.” Opening her eyes, she turned to me. “I wish the wind would pick me up and take me away sometimes.”
“I do too.” I smiled and brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek.
“Then maybe you do know me.” A half smile appeared briefly as she turned back to the mountains.
We sat that way for a long time, until the orange and yellow began to appear in the east and she stopped shivering from the wind. I think she became a part of it then, and allowed the cold to sink deep into her bones, freezing her into a statue. I watched her for a long time, seeing her face solid, but her eyes go away. Far away to a place I couldn’t see, but I knew was there, because she could see it in her mind.
She disappeared into the night and I wandered over to my loom. I let the candle lantern on the small table near it and began. I was using blues, greens, and whites to make myself a blanket for the winter. I lost myself in it, creating something and becoming a part of it. I captured the essence of the mountains in the long lines I created with the green and the criss-crossing strands of light and dark blue. The candlelight flickered against the rough logs of the wall, bouncing in every direction and making the colors jump and dance across the threads I wove. I heard Rebekah come in, but said nothing as I continued to weave the blue and green together, making them mold together to form something meaningful
It wasn’t until the candle burned low so I couldn’t see the colors apart from another and the fire turned to ember that I stopped. Rebekah was sleeping, her breathing even and deep, lulling me to climb into my own bed on the straw mattress. I wrapped myself up in my own blanket and snuggled deep into its warmth, wishing for sleep to come to me. I lay there a long time, watching the stars climb through the speckled glass pane of the window and listening to the wind howling past us.
My sister has always intrigued me. I knew when I was very young that she was somehow different than the rest of us. She would wander aimlessly for hours as a teenager. I would follow her sometimes, making sure she didn’t know I was there. There was a place she liked to go, before they died. It was deep in the
They knew she would be a weaver from the start. Father told me that mother had brought home a loom from the building and taught Rosalind to weave when she was five. Since then, it was given that would be the place she would fit. When the female council placed her there when she was finished with school, no one was surprised. Her weaving skills are legendary and every home has at least one piece done by her. She’s different in that way too. Rather than sticking to the normal patterns, she sits and sees things on the loom, then creates them out of the woolen yarn she is given. I like to watch her sometimes, as she takes the colored string and paints a picture in her own way. I think people are jealous of her, and also a little scared. Rosalind is different.
When Father died, and Grandmother and Grandfather too, she stopped going to the forest. She stopped weaving for a long time, until she realized that without her blankets and clothes, we would all freeze. She would then weave long into the winter nights, burning candles as she went and whispering to herself. She took good care of me, as I was a lot younger then. She cooked and cleaned and volunteered to work hard in town, to keep herself busy. I think she did it to forget the pain of losing everyone around her, except for me.
I know now why she continues to push herself so hard. She wants to be a mother to me, which she is in many cases. But she is my sister, and I love her for what she does for me. But still, people talk. I can hear them whispering when I walk through town. Sometimes people don’t realize I’m related to her. We look little alike, with her mossy brown hair, and my blonde hair. We have the same eyes though, the dark blue that Angeline says reminds her of the sky on a crystal clear day. She is thin and frail, whereas I round out in all the right places. Maybe because of our physical differences people don’t realize who I am until its too late. But I always hear.
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