𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Fairy Tale

I'd set my life alight for you

I'd burn it to the ground

For living isn't worth as much

When you're not around

—————

My mother taught me to sew as soon as I could pull on my own stockings. She'd decided that at that point, my hand-eye coordination was good enough to hand me a needle and thread. Reflecting on it now, giving small children sharp objects does not really seem like the best parenting route. But I'm glad she did.

Once I'd developed fluency, the task become almost therapeutic. I'd sit outside, make the most of the warm weather in the summer, and huddle up in the winter. It went up and over, through the loop, trick the knot and repeat. A mindless activity, the perfect distraction.

Something about closing up a hole, sealing a tear and fixing a break. It's healing, in the sense that you're undoing something that's been done; and all that's left is a thread, or a scar.

But I never pursued it. Tewkesbury had once told me never to change anything about things you like. Granted, he was only 16 at the time, and I 14, but he'd had far more experience on the subject.

What he meant by this was, if you like it, leave it. Don't be hasty with the things you love, don't risk ruining them. I don't know where these words of wisdom came from, I assume he'd tried to do something along those lines and it didn't work out for him. But I took it to heart.

I guess it makes sense. Turning some you enjoy doing by your own volition into a craft you're forced to practice for the rest of your life seems guarantied to make you hate it. You'll turn against it, gone forever, no longer enjoyable in any way shape or form; because now you know you have to do it.

His were words to live by.

I think that state of mind played a large part in my reluctance to act on my feelings. I loved him, I still do, but our friendship was good; best to leave it that way. But I guess it all worked out in the end because he's just over there on the other side of the tree house, and we're alright.

This is what ran through my mind as I stitched up a nasty tear in my apron. It had gotten caught earlier that morning on a particularly dangerous looking candlestick, adorned with spikes that stuck out every which way. The metal had latched onto the fabric and poked a rather sizable hole straight through it.

It was still early, the sun barely peeked over the trees. Leaves rustled in the wind as buds began to bloom, painting the estate in vibrant shades of red and yellow. I heard the wood creak as I shifted in place; the breeze blow by me, sat against the tree trunk; the distant hoot of a barn owl echoing through the wood.

His pencil. Graphite shaving off, clinging to the parchment like ivy to a rock. I felt like I could hear everything, my mind so far removed from my hands which continued to sew. It scratched and dusted, sounded like turning a page or rushing water, cold and shallow.

He was drawing something. I could tell by how small his movements were, and the steadiness of his hand. Every movement was precise, calculated, exactly how it was meant to be. I found myself enamored by how everything mean't something and was done for a reason. He looked like he knew what he was doing.

I wonder what that felt like.

But a prick of the finger reeled my mind back into its shell. I glanced down to find a small drop of blood sitting on the tip of my index finger, the culprit; my needle. I knotted the thread and tied of the seam, locking it all in, giving it permanence. At least until I tore it again.