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CHAPTER ELEVEN ᴛʜᴇ sᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʟꜰ ☾
Perhaps her favourite thing about the beach days was the lingering smell of salt and sand. It stained her skin, her hair, her clothes. Violet could scrub her body raw and still feel the faint scent of the beach tickling her nose afterwards. It was like a temporary perfume, gracing the air around her, and it was on those days that Violet would feel her calmest.
It might've been a placebo. For all she knew, it was a trick of her brain leaving the traces of her favourite place in her wake, but either way Violet didn't care. It was the memory of those happy hours huddled around a fire, listening to the churning of heavy waves, that Violet truly felt at peace with. There, by the beach, was the only time that Violet truly felt natural, as if the world was finally fully aligned and how it was supposed to be.
It was ironic, really. Her father would always say how much her mother had hated the beach at La Push. It was too gold, the water too rough, the sand too coarse. Nothing like the beaches she'd grown up on before moving back to Forks, where she'd inevitably met Robbie Green. It was ironic that she'd given birth to a babe who would need to be dragged from the sea, rather than return home, bare feet black from the coal-flecked sand and hair crusted with crystals of salt.
Maybe that was why her mother had left. Many days had been spent down at La Push with Billy Black and the rest of her father's friends, who once upon a time had welcomed her mother happily. Violet remembered them with a comforting warmth. She remembered the few lucky days in which they would be blessed with a cool sun and lack of rain. The picnic blanket spread across the sand. They would be the only people for miles down that beautiful stretch of coast and so their fire, come the evening, would be large enough to see from each end. And most of all, she remembered the stories told around those hot flames, and the complaints her mother would share because of them.
It was with those old memories in mind and with newer, fresher memories of the past weekend, that Violet entered the engineering classroom that Tuesday. For once her hair was down, falling flatly past her shoulders. The smell of salt and sea followed her, hair falling rough against her skin as she down at her desk and began to work.
The girl didn't even lift her head as she pushed her way into the workshop that morning, letting the doors swing shut behind her. Rosalie dumped her bag down in the same place as last time and slid to stand in front of the longest bench in the empty room, and even still Violet didn't lift her head. The only noise came from the old fan that stood at the very end of the table, and even that could not mask the sound of Rosalie's purposeful steps. But when she leaned her arms against the desk, Rose saw the smile that played on her lips and the slight daze of her eyes and found herself laughing lightly, the sound barely audible.
The noise only just surpassed the whirring of the fan, but Violet recognised it anyway, shoulders jerking in surprise, head flashing upwards, hair falling across her face. Rosalie had never seen her with her hair down before, she thought and wished that perhaps she had.
