The Iceberg Tipping
Wilted.
The clubhouse was an old treehouse that had long ago fallen out of its tree. It was broken and misplaced just as Emma felt she herself was. Hanna had long ago found home in it as well. The two of them sat, curled in corners and quiet as mice, staring at each other. In truth, both were wondering when the other had changed so much, had they not just seen each other the day before? Hadn’t they spoken? Hanna sat with her long, curling blonde hair that half the girls at school would die for and deep green eyes that anyone could get lost in. She had thin pink lips and a small button nose and not a single blemish on her face. Her clothes were simple, as they always were, a thermal long sleeved shirt under an old T-shirt her boyfriend had given her for Christmas only a few weeks ago. Her jeans were dark and loose and, most of all, warm. The hat on her head only tinting her cheeks the slightest pink.
indent Emma, on the other hand, seemed the opposite. She felt the opposite, in the very least. Her full fringe blocked her eyes, and therefore the emotions in them, from Hanna, who narrowed her own eyes in an attempt to see through the barrier. “Happy birthday,” she murmured in an attempt to break the tension.
indent The silence ate them both whole until they seemed to simultaneously check their proverbial watches. “I should get home,” Emma muttered at the same time that Hanna spouted a lie about her parents watching her curfew. Grateful, they both smiled and hugged each other goodnight. One thinking about changes and the other thinking about flowers.
indent Wilted flowers, for that matter.
indent Emma had a theory about wilted flowers, she thought they were more beautiful as they died than they were when they were full of life. Emma also had a theory about herself, no matter how unconventional. She felt that she was meant to die a long time ago, but nothing had come to claim her body. Instead she was left with a wilted soul that would slowly corrupt her flesh until she rotted from the inside out. She was a zombie in some sense of the word; mindless, for the most part, and rotting.
indent She felt like a wilted flower, and for the first time in a long time, she felt beautiful.
indent Emma, on the other hand, seemed the opposite. She felt the opposite, in the very least. Her full fringe blocked her eyes, and therefore the emotions in them, from Hanna, who narrowed her own eyes in an attempt to see through the barrier. “Happy birthday,” she murmured in an attempt to break the tension.
indent The silence ate them both whole until they seemed to simultaneously check their proverbial watches. “I should get home,” Emma muttered at the same time that Hanna spouted a lie about her parents watching her curfew. Grateful, they both smiled and hugged each other goodnight. One thinking about changes and the other thinking about flowers.
indent Wilted flowers, for that matter.
indent Emma had a theory about wilted flowers, she thought they were more beautiful as they died than they were when they were full of life. Emma also had a theory about herself, no matter how unconventional. She felt that she was meant to die a long time ago, but nothing had come to claim her body. Instead she was left with a wilted soul that would slowly corrupt her flesh until she rotted from the inside out. She was a zombie in some sense of the word; mindless, for the most part, and rotting.
indent She felt like a wilted flower, and for the first time in a long time, she felt beautiful.