the girl in red

iii. wuthering heights

Wednesday, December 10th, 1975

Lafayette, Indiana

Monday and Tuesday passed with unusual ease, the snow gone from the fields and the sun taking its rightful place in the sky, no clouds covering its bright yellow, warm rays.  Dimitra managed to spend most of it on her bed or sitting outside on a hill of dirt until the sun disappeared under the distant horizon.  The books and magazines she'd read were piled up on her vanity, sitting by her mirror and collecting dust.  They would inevitably sit there for days on end and more items would be added on top of them until they were randomly picked up one day to be read again or tossed into the closet, even though they didn't fit. 

Her time reading had been spent purely learning for school, much to her chagrin.  She'd nearly engrained the fancy, much too long words in her brain, though she had no idea how to say any of them.  But did that really matter if she never spoke in class or raised her hand?  The little time she had outside of reading was spent outside – by force – working on repairs and cooking meals for the week with Judith.  Though she mostly sat on the counter and watched Judith move and gossip and tell random stories she'd collected over her thirty-eight years of life, which consisted purely of stupid shit that happened at family barbecues before she'd been pulled to Chita.

It was Thursday now, and the cold had settled outside once again. The cold had settled onto the bedroom window, too, covering the glass with a translucent layer of icy droplets.  The sunlight still filtered through, through it was broken and weak.  The alarm clock started to shake and ring on the nightstand, and a pale hand moved to slap it silent, accidentally knocking it down to the ground in the process.  It hit the wood with a jingle and a thud, though it had finally fallen silent.  The lamp chain was pulled and the light flickered on after a few seconds of struggle.  The blankets were tossed off the bed and Dimitra sat up with a long sigh.  Her eyes were droopy and the bags under them were darker than ever, deepening as she looked up at the ceiling to trace the shapes the shadows made on the pale green.

Her hair was frizzy, having fallen out of its bun long ago, and she raked her fingers through it.  She frowned and swung her legs over the bed, her head knocking against the wall with a near-silent thunk, pulling a groan from her chapped lips.  She rubbed her arms and stood, the cold from the floor traveling up her pale, freckled legs with frightening speed.  The bedroom door was kicked shut with a weak kick and the hallway light was blocked out.  The curtains were pulled completely shut and the closet door was pulled open, the old slide rail groaning as the white slab shifted to the side.  Dimitra grabbed a deep sage t-shirt from a plastic hanger and tossed it over her shoulder, merely hoping it landed in her bed.  She pulled the closet door closed halfway after she'd grabbed a dark green and brown flannel from the end hanger.  The dresser was dug through until her hands wrapped around a pair of old, flared blue jeans.  Those were tossed behind her, too, though she knew those landed on the ground. 

She grabbed a pair of tall white socks next and an old beige bra she'd had for one too many years.  Her chest hadn't grown in one too many years, either, and with a single barely-loose shirt and no bra, she looked like a dude from the ribs up.  Below that, her waist was too small and her legs too... dainty to be a boy.  Her features were sharp enough, too, and her eyes narrow enough.  Add a beard and she could pass as a boy, much to her dismay.  She'd have to roll in her lips, too, but that was easy enough.

She pulled off her pajama shirt and tossed it to the side, trading it for the small bra.  She clipped it in front of her chest and turned it, slipping her arms under the straps as she walked towards her bed.  She snatched her shirt off the hunched-up covers and slipped it over her head before she discarded her loose cotton shirt and slipped on her jeans.  The shirt tucked into the denim with ease and the leather belt dangling on the coat rack slipped through the belt loops,  pulling the denim flush against her shirt-covered waist.  She peered at herself in the vanity, still standing, and frowned.  Her hands scraped over her skin as if that would wick away the exhaustion from her face.  She ardently wished it would.  It would fix a few of the too many physical issues she had.