31. Flowers

A cold wind swept through the streets, scattering papers and dust to the air amidst the beaten trails. Old, decrepit houses lay slouched against the earth, miracles standing, creaking, and settling. The moon shone down upon the town, casting the dirt in an odd, dark colour, like the ground had been washed with blue. Tendrils of dust wound their way around an ill-kempt signpost, the discernable text on the weather-beaten panel of wood long-since worn away. The glow of the moon lent the dust kicked into the air an odd glow, as if it were a glowing, ethereal mist. No sign of life, of warmth, could be seen anywhere, but for the faint glimmer of a light through dust-caked ground windows in one of the houses. One would need to peer, look closely for it, in order to realise that it even existed.

But it did. It flickered and bounced with its own life, throwing faint shimmer-waves of light across the innards of the house. A broken stove, an upended iron pot, and a tipped chair, to one end, and a splintered table, scraps of browned paper, and a discarded loaf of bread to the other. A cot lay in shambles in the corner, wreathed in cobwebs. There came a high-pitched whining from the top floor. Timber creaking, shaking. Dust fell from the ceiling on the ground floor in blankets. Set beside the window, there was a small wooden chair, and upon it, a blanket-wrapped youth. She was very young - small - with snowy white hair, matted into thick strands, limply brushed back over her head. She worked on something with her hands, shoulders wrapped in a blanket.

A vase of flowers; she was arranging a vase of flowers. They were limp, wilted flowers, mostly; weeds, and a tulip - even the sad, bent stalk of a sunflower. She worked carefully - every twitch of her fingers could bring about the jostling of what few, precious petals she had left. The whining from above continued. The knock of a bed frame against a wall came, and more dust rained from the ceiling. The girl paused, and beheld the falling of a tulip petal to the windowsill, then clenched her hands. A faint whooping echoed down from above her head, followed by something between a yelp and a squeak. A dribble of dust emptied upon the girl’s head, she screwed up her nose and frowned, flipping her blanket up over her head. It made her feel sacred.

She was now a monk atop a mountain, finely learned in the art of flower arranging. She desired nothing but to eat her monk food, drink her monk water, and arrange her monk flowers in peace. She would wear her monk robes, walk her monk mountain, and never have to eat old, green bread again. She would do this, and she would be thankful for it. She teased her flower stalks apart, parting the weeds for the tulip to lean. Her sunflower had gone limp as a noodle, and sagged over the brim of the vase. More knocking and whining from above. More dust. She was no longer Evie the monk - just Evie. The blanket sagged back to her shoulders, and the girl frowned. She glanced back to the faintly-lit room, and spied the bed-rolls in the corner. Four of them in total; one for her, three for the others. The others were above, shaking the house.

She didn’t know what that meant - didn’t care. The shaking stopped, dust stopped falling on her head, and she heard footsteps, faint voices. The stairs in the corner creaked with age as they came down. Two voices - familiar - one female, one male, teens. They rose in and out of her hearing.

“-back to sleep-”
“-after that?-”
“-hey, where’s-“
“-by the window.”
“-should go talk to her.”
“-useless. Won’t talk back…-“
“-can’t be alone.”

She slipped a broken twig into the vase.

There were more footsteps, they got louder and closer. She felt a hand on her shoulder - his - and it then rose to pat the back of her head. “Wow, Evie, that’s…“ He began, searched for words, and hung. “… That’s really something. Trouble sleeping?” Evie moved the twig, twitched her nose. “Yeah, I get that. We’ve been up for a while now too.” She flicked at the pile of dust in her hair, and glanced once, with lidded eyes, up to him. He frowned, and his cheeks coloured. She returned her attentions to the flower vase.

“Are you sleepy?” He asked. She carefully slipped the Tulip stalk to the lip of the vase. She felt his hand pat her shoulder again. A note of pity in his sigh as he stood.

“Get some sleep when you can, Evie. Big day tomorrow - we all gotta move out and roll on.”

The snowy-haired girl closed her eyes momentarily, but gave no other sign that she had even heard what he said. She resumed rearranging the flowers. Another tulip petal fell to the window sill.