Her eyes were the colour of a newly bloomed bluebell from the valley, enchanting, delicate. Like the flower her gaze was never direct, preferring a shy earthbound focus.
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Julia Clairisse Smith's father left last spring for another woman, the whole town knew. Her mother, Laurel Smith still is yet to come to terms fully. Because of the major embarrassment, the Smiths moved to Avonlea in hope of leaving the humiliation behind. The last month has just been about picking and moving into the house. Her father, Archer Smith had been a part-time butcher before, that's all Julia's little brother Nathan knew how to do was raise cattle. He was to find a job in town or on farm.
Julia Clairisse Smith was a beautiful person, not in looks, though she was pretty enough. It was like God had planted a seed of perfect caring in her soul and it was ripping her apart as it grew. Every time she saw the imperfections of the world for humans, animals and the environment it was like a vice to her head. The pain built inside her until anxiety took her prisoner. How was she to change what she saw? What was the good of enlightenment if there was no way to make a difference? Volcanic frustration balled inside her, only exploding around those she felt safest with. She wanted to take that seed of understanding and cast it far away. What was the point in seeing, feeling the pain of people in disparate parts of the globe? Why couldn't she shut it out like everyone seemed to?
Her only talent was to write, create fiction; when she's done working she writes. When she doesn't want to go to school, she writes. It's like an addiction she can't control. Everything in her head, she distorts in a poem. Julia could make the simplest things sound beautiful.
Something always felt off as Julia looked at herself in the mirror and she knew exactly why. It for sure wasn't because of her eyes. They were passion in ice. They were translucent, glossy, like the palest blue glass, too soft to be turquoise, too bright to be baby blue. Julia's friend liked to describe them as the colour of newly bloomed bluebells. The dissatisfied feeling she emotion she supposed while gazing in her reflection was because of her stupid black hair. It shone like the sea at night, the black strands utterly white where the bright rays fell. As she moved, so did those brilliant bands, like echoes of the northern lights. However, the bold haired girl hated its tint and everything else about it. She found it plain, common, ordinary even. All the girls she knew had dark locks. She felt just like another clone while standing next to them.
Her distaste for her inky waves were the cause of one of her favourite fantasies. Julia enjoyed imagining that she had copper hair. She would bear fiery curls that were so luscious and exquisite that she'd look like a princess. Red hair reminded her of the burnt orange sunset over the Golf Saint Lawrence, it was warm and it tumbled over her shoulders like rusty water.
However, Julia knew very well that she was stuck as who she was and nothing could change it. Oh how she hated reality.
