Glitch (The Write Awards 2013 Winner)

Glitch - Chapter 13

Wren had taken on the appearance of shattered porcelain. Purple hues festered under her eyes, her skin had sunken to an ashen grey with dried tears leaving a spectre of horror and, most noticeably, stains of broken red skin bound across her wrists in a visibly painful grasp. Her eyes focused on an unknown point in the distance as Freya attempted to call her name. She still seemed to be gripped in the throes of a nightmare; unable to surface. On closer inspection Wren was trembling; as if every portion of her skin was attempting to cast off an unwanted touch.

It had taken her all day to return. Daylight now filtered through the closed curtain to create a muggy glow in the room. The strength of the sun picking up the buttercup tones in the floral patterns. And despite having all day to prepare an opening line to console her friend, Freya could not locate the words. Most of her planned speeches seemed too inconsequential or too patronising when faced with the sight of Wren. She looked too delicate to shower with clumsy words.

“Is there anything…” Freya was not given the chance to finish her cautious mumble. On the breaking of the silence Wren’s faced had crumbled. She began stumbling over tears intermixed with sharp intakes of panicked breath. Without warning she had interrupted Freya’s speech by crashing into her arms. The timid approach to consoling her friend instantly disappeared. She clutched Wren into her arms hoping to hold together the seams by force alone. The gesture was more than she could ever put into words. Empty phrases of consolation fluttered away from her mind as she provided her support by way of a hand to hold. Exactly as her Mum had done to her all those days ago.

Freya sat by Wren’s side until the tears had subsided and her pace of breath had returned to normal.

“I’m alright now.” Wren scrunched up her sleeve to dab away at her tear-stained lashes. Freya hadn’t realised her scepticism had betrayed a path onto her features, but they must have as Wren felt compelled to reassert her claim.

“Really, I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Freya briefly squeezed the hand by her side to offer the support her simple reply failed to offer.

“We need to get ready for the Ball.” Swept away in a motion of obscure determination Wren flounced across the room and passed over to the wardrobe where two formal dresses had been placed in preparation by the convent.

“We don’t have to go! We can just stay up here and…” Freya leapt to her feet while spouting a stumbling plea for a change of heart.

“Of course we have to. They would notice…”

“Well they can go to hell. I won’t let them…”

“We have to keep up the appearance of normality. Didn’t they tell you? We’re going. Tonight. Andie has everything sorted. Supplies, plans, an escape route. We can’t arouse suspicion. We just need to get through tonight.” Wren concluded by thrusting a dress into Freya’s hands. It was a relatively simple garment. Jade green, a sash across the left shoulder and material fluttering down in an effortless pillar of elegance. After gazing into the determination blaring in Wren’s stare, Freya obeyed and padded away to the bathroom in order to change.

In silence they performed the vapid routine of preparation; providing each other with an extra pair of hands to clip hair into place, an extra voice of advice and an extra pair of eyes to measure the symmetry of eye make up. Wren had painted delicate flicks of eyeliner at the corner of Freya’s eyes. She muttered something about accentuating feline features. Gazing in the mirror there was something distinctly cat-like about her characteristics decorated in make-up. The almond eyes and the sharp nose were given extra definition that pierced through the reflection in the mirror.

Within the hour they had preened themselves to fit expectation. Two empty dolls regarded their appearance with quiet dissatisfaction of the confines they had placed themselves in. But under all the accentuations nothing could cover up the crinkle of concern that blemished the mask of vapid beauty. A flutter in the bottom of the mirror’s reflection suddenly redistributed Freya’s attention. She swivelled her head to catch a small scrap of paper settle into a motionless state of waiting. Her hands greedily unfolded the creases to discover the message it contained.