To be a Wildflower

Chapter 17

A scuffling, then a flip. A crumple. Light and papery.

Elizabeth's head was not stable to counter actively open her eyes, and as she tried to lift her eyes a surge of pain shot through her brain making her shut them back instantly. But the scuffling noise continued, and it was definitely not in her head, that she knew.

Her whole body yearned to ignore the light and noise and bury herself into the dark hollow of her pillows and duvet. But the noise ticked her off. Straggling her strength up she lifted her eyes as slowly as she could, biting back the pain that whizzed through her and as she did her sight fell on the arm chair across the room which had her Doc martens resting neatly at the foot of the chair.

A ruffling noise made Elizabeth turn her head cautiously to the other corner of the room where she saw Savannah's tight ponytail slicked down behind her head as she stood over the coffee table flipping pages of a book. Elizabeth knew her books well enough she could distinguish them under the restraints of a hangover- it was the blue leathered poetry book from Hope Mayfield's box.

Elizabeth slid off her bed, wincing at every pain that bolted through her head and limped towards Savannah, which was the only way she could move without falling to her knees. Savannah did not seem to be bothered when Elizabeth slumped on a chair by the coffee table.

"Hey...there," Elizabeth murmured groggily. Savannah smiled halfway and provided her attention back to the book. Elizabeth nodded her head lightly and regretted as needles pricked her brain. Never having spoken to anyone before coffee in the morning while being hungover, Elizabeth sucked in her breath and leaned toward Savannah.

Savannah continued to turn the pages using her fingertips as if Elizabeth had been there beside her the whole time. Instead of speaking, Elizabeth decided to quietly watch how savannah's translucent blue eyes were still at the words of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky, with laser focus interest. For an eleven-year-old, Savannah looked like she knew what the poet rambled about.

"Find anything interesting?' Elizabeth asked breaking the silence, sensing the throbbing pounds in her head beginning to fade away sluggishly. Savannah glanced at Elizabeth and then narrowed her eyes at the book again.

"Did Lewis Carroll just make these words up?" She asked eyes wide.

"I think he did," Elizabeth said thoughtfully and then shrugged, "or maybe they already existed in his world, we just didn't know."

"His world?' She tilted her head in confusion.

"We've all got our own worlds," Elizabeth said and lightly tapped on the side of Savannah's head with her fingertip. "Right there."

Savannah held her gaze at Elizabeth in a trance for a second before she shrugged away.

"I'd like to make my own words. That'd be pretty cool." She smiled to herself flipping the pages automatically. "Wackabadoo would be the first."

Elizabeth laughed and even though it stirred pain in her head, she did not really mind anymore.

"You would rank way above Lewis Carroll I'm sure of it," Elizabeth said seriously and felt surprisingly light as Savannah giggled in reply. The girl leaped over to the last page of the yellow stained poetry book and a few photographs stuck between the pages, caught her eyes. They were Elizabeth's polaroids from her escapades to Hawaii and Europe. She had five pictures of her jumping into the Ho'omaluhia Botanical garden lake in O'ahu, in her pearl green two piece that Lorraine had got for her nineteenth birthday; the other picture was of Elizabeth grinning toothily up at the ceiling of the Sistine chapel; and her favourite one of her staring at the turquoise waters by the sandy shores of Porto Cesareo. Elizabeth carried the three pictures with her as a lucky charm reminding of her to make newer, more enthralling memories that would be better than the ones before.