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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A girl lies flowers at the gravesite of a mansion. A man falls for the doe eyed girl, and there, their conversations flow on. But he is not all that it seems.

Submitted: March 08, 2016

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Submitted: March 08, 2016



She was the like the flowers that grew amongst the weeds in my garden. The daisy’s that pushed through the undergrowth, being wrangled and strangled by the thorns who took power. No one could contain her as the wildflowers did, and that was what brought such temptation to her danger stricken exterior.

Was she sweet underneath like the lilies planted so long ago? Did she still hold the purity they stand for? Or was she the darkness I once feared as a small child, as I hid under the covers of my mothers arms?

I couldn’t help but long to hear her voice, whether it be sweet like a rose, or harsh like the thorns that conquer it. So I fell from my window view, to the barrier of my front door, until I found her curled to her knees in the soil she planted with.

Her knees were bony, parading from underneath her milky skin. She was pale, oh so pale, as if the sun had never kissed her, except in formations that created dark freckles here and there. Not a spot of her whispered perfection, and what a sight she was; not one that made your skin crawl, but one that allowed sanctuary from the constant berating of perfect bodies and sculptured minds.

Her hair darkened into a flamed red, even in the struggles of the morning rays, and those blue tinged eyes were dulled grey, and bored. The dress she wore was new, yet old-fashioned, the white deeming her younger than her years allowed her to be. She was young, of course, but she looked like a child, and maybe that was the air of grace she acted to carry; whether it be true was a different story all together.

“They will not grow.” I spoke in my smoke laden monotone, motioning to the tulips loose in her grasp, bundled in their purple haze.

“They do not seem to grow.” She whispered, her voice recovering from the bitter august air. As she smiled, I could see the slight crookedness of her bottom teeth, yet with all her imperfections, I could still call her beautiful. If not in a perfect society, then in one with a little more lenience toward differences.

“The weeds trap all that is planted, strangling life from them.” I explained in an almost teasing tone. She already knew this, yet she continued to plant more, every day, outside of that broken down house.

“Perhaps it’s the weeds.” She shrugged, her mumbles clinging for her own ears, and not those of others.

“Weeds are death.” I spat, if not physically then in way of words

“Weeds are life. They have life, is what I mean. Not all that are labelled wrong, are wrong, or ever hope to be. Weeds are weeds, they are not flowers. But a flower does not choose to be a flower anymore than a weed suddenly decides to be born a weed.” Her shoulders shook with laughter, and the sound echoed against the brick building.

“Why do you come here? I do love the company, but certainly you have other things to do? Others to see, to talk to.”

“I don’t think I could ever give up on this place, even if no one is left to inhabit it. The inside is for the spiders and the ghosts that travel in the wood. But the outside, well that is just for our view, now isn’t it? And we must find beauty in it, no matter the darkness.” She concluded, leaving no room for question or dismissal.

Our conversations were never back and forth; she stated things similar to my own agreement or conclusion.

“I think everything with a darkness inside of it, is beautiful.” I agreed.

I could not help but stare at the aching black bricks of the once beautiful house. It never used to be a house. No, one day it was a home, full of children, and mothers, and fathers. It was a proper home, one that was cared for and loved. But love can only take you so far when it comes to the bores of real estate.

So now, it was an enchanted house with two big windows covered in green moss, a front door that creaked with the wind, even when closed, and the bricks so dirty, you couldn’t tell what colour they first were. Those very same bricks were covered, of course, with weeds. Pesky little things that strangle and wrangle the life out of beautiful things, and part of me believed they got that concept watching the very same happen to the humans of this world.

But this human, was different, and she never judged upon my small frame and black complexion. I was but a feeble man, and yet this pale-skinned, fire-haired girl looked down on me in a kind manner.

“Though, darkness could indeed be seen as beautiful.” She stopped her planting, to simply ponder the thought for a moment or two, but soon those moments passed.

Her thin fingers led to dirt covered fingernails, and the soil took home under the ridge at the end. Her white dress was clumped at the end with the damp dirt weaved into the lace bottom, but she either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.

 “We have talked for hours on end, and yet I have never given my name.” The realisation hit her, and she seemed appalled with the prospect.

I would have very much liked to know the name of such a girl, but I would never utter so. She was the brave one, so I stood silent, and watched contently until she continued.

“I’m Halarna, pleased to meet you.” She smiled, and I repeated that name over in my head, at least a thousand times.

“I am pleased to meet you Halarna…” I nodded curtly, and she looked at me as if she was happy I was there.

I think maybe, just maybe, she was. Our conversations always seemed to go on, no matter how we talked, or what about.

She was not perfectly written. She is a character with the flaws that people deny. But if you read her mind the way she writes it, you will always love her.

Perhaps one day I would gather the courage to ask her to go with me. Or, better yet, perhaps one day, she would hear me.

“I’m Raven.”

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