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I. The Reaping
❝We are not haunted by the dead.
We are haunted by the living
and the graveyards of memories
they leave in our heads.❞
― Nikita Gill.
― ⛓♆†⚔️༄🌊...
THALIA STARES AT HERSELF, through the image reflecting off of her bathroom's splintered sea-glass mirror ― the only one in the house. She shudders, and a chill trickles down her spine ― pooling around at the dimples in her back ― as goosebumps begin to freckle up and along her arms, despite the sun which floods in from the open window, and fans against her skin. She feels quite cold, inside, more so than out. Her dress drapes off of her small frame, falling a couple of inches above her trembling knees ― worn, faded teal linen gaping off of her waist (even with the elastic stretch to the bodice) and clinging to nowhere other than the slim straps she'd had to twist into knots over her shoulders. It'd belonged to her older sister, before it'd fallen into her hands, and it'd been their mothers before that ― so it was a little bit too big for her ― but, it was her only option. She didn't have anything else to wear. Hand-me-downs were all she'd ever owned. Thalia didn't mind it, though. It was simple enough for her ― so simple, in fact ― that if it weren't for the flaming red waves of hair tumbling down to her waist, and past her shoulders, no one would be able to notice her amongst the flocking crowd. She pinches at her cheeks, hoping to rile more of a blush to her them ― but, her efforts turn out to be quite useless ― as she blotches up, instead.
With a deep breath in, Thalia rolls her shoulders back ― trying to relax herself, as she breathes out a sigh ― turning around to leave the bathroom, and never bothering to glance back at her reflection in the mirror. She doesn't care enough to. She makes no noise, at all ― even upon the creaking driftwood floorboards ― as she treads on through the narrow upstairs hallway, and runs her index finger over and around each wooden frame hanging up above the staircase, nailed onto the wall. Thalia sighs again, recalling the memories pictured beneath each frail, varnish of glass ― like she did each year. Just in case. As though this would be the last time that she'd ever step foot in this house ― or on this staircase, or this single step ― again (as though this would be the last time she'd ever be able to look up at those pictures on the wall, through her eyes, and remember.) She takes a little while longer than she usually does, deciding to loiter there on the steps for a few more moments, before running downstairs. Her family's house wasn't that large, whatsoever, inside or outside. It had two small bedrooms, that could barely fit a double bed each (which she had to share with her sister ― both the bed and the room) a bathroom, with a tin tub; a quaint sitting area downstairs that backed out onto a decking which fronted onto the tangling mangrove forest ― and an open kitchen, with a circular dinging table tucked into one corner, that the staircase came to an abrupt stop in front of.
