The Introvert of Thunder Falls

The sunlight is weak and swirling as it filters in through the square, four-paneled windows of the bar. It throws bars of pale white across the otherwise smoke-darkened room, and makes the girls shadow stretch against the back wall. In those beams of light, she could see small motes of dust floating amid the smoke. She breathes deeply, inhaling the dark, musky scent of the room. She loves that smell, even though she herself doesn't smoke. The room is constructed in the old style, with thick beams of oak overhead and pine boards below. The walls rise high, cut through evenly and filled with glass and sticks to make windows. Underfoot, the boards are cold and hard, pressed into the concrete support below them. To her back, the bar stands empty - but the bookshelves behind are full of bottles. The glass and the liquids within catch the sunlight in a magnificent display of light and color. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke, but the establishment is clean. So clean, in fact, that it was a wonder that the wooden tables didn't sparkle.

The young woman held a clothe in one hand, which dangled from her fingers as she rubbed one thumb mindlessly against the fabric. A table was half-cleaned beside her, the well-carved oak old but sturdy. It served its job, and that's all that could be said of it. Kind of like her, she thought dully. Looking out of the window, her light auburn eyes sparkled in the sunlight. Cut through by smoky brown and ribbons of grey-gold, they were startling and strong. Proud, in the way of a willow tree - made to bend in a strong wind and not splinter. No; that was Sylvette Rose. Quiet, but fiercely independent and determined. Some people say she had never been like that as a child - had become like that by the death of her parents - but she knew that wasn't true. She had been more quiet, then. Softer, more volatile, more gentle - but never weaker. Even when her parents had been alive, Sylvette Rose had never been anything other than alone.

Today she wore a knee-length dress, woven of fine grey silk, with embroidered flowers climbing around the hem. Her brown hair, normally long and wavy, was tied up about her head in a loose bun by a knot of fence-twine. No jewelry adorned her body; nothing but a wooden ring around the middle finger of her right hand. There was a word carved into it, thin and sharp, as if by the tip of a knife.

Relentless.

It was the final gift that her mother had given her, pulling it from her own finger and slipping it onto hers as she lay in her bed. The wood was a strange contrast to her skin, which was so light it might have been filled with milk. Her mouth was wide, with thin pink lips and a smile that could blind the sun. Her light, cinnamon-colored eyes were framed by high cheekbones and long lashes, which blinked once in the smoky air. She was a tall girl, enough that she could look most men in the eye with ease, but did not tower above them. Her figure was one of elegant, straight-backed posture and a commanding pride. Sylvette could be called many things, but timid was certainly not one of them.

The bar around her was open and empty, the chairs stacked against the far wall in crooked pillars that leaned and pressed against one another. The tables had been stripped of their tableclothes, which currently flapped in the gentle breeze on a clothesline in the backyard of the building. Sunday was a day of quiet contemplation, when most people were tucked away with family or at the church, and she had closed late the night before. She could feel a slight discomfort sitting behind her eyes, and she raised one hand to rub away the gloom as she shifted where she stood. In an attempt to alleviate some of her tiredness, she walked to the window and rested her palms against the thick wooden sill. The grainy wood was sharp under her soft skin, but she kept them there as her eyes traveled upward and into the sky far above. It was clear blue, painted through by clouds of wispy white.

A flock of birds swept through the sky on graceful wings, winding and dancing around one another in an airy sort of dance. There was a dozen of them, calling to each other like old friends as they dove and rose, before disappearing out of view of the small window. Resting her forehead against the cool glass of the window, Sylvette breathes out deeply. Her breath frosts the glass and runs gentle fingers across her pink lips. For one moment, Sylvette begins to smile, staring out at the openness of the mid-day sky.

And then she begins to cry.