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ꜱʟɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴍʏ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ɪꜱᴀʙᴇʟʟᴀ.
"ɪ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍɪɴᴜᴛᴇ; ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ɪᴛ."
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ.
In which (y/n) thought she had seen the last of Isabella when she left her at the wall. 19 years later, sh...
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(v.) the act of gazing vacantly into the distance without a thought
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The next few weeks are critical. I'm adding meat to the bare bones of the escape plan, and working around Leslie's absence. My presence feels ghostly in the house. I hover around the house, appear when needed, and act the same as always. In reality, all the life is drained out of me. I'm maintaining a facade while simultaneously emotionally distancing myself from the kids again- the ones I won't be taking with me. It's exhausting, seriously.
Isabella is near the same. I hardly see her, and when I do, her face is phlegmatic. The stoic expression is mournful in contrast to her typical resting smile. The children have stopped asking her to play due to her constant refusal, and she spends most days under our oak tree, spacing. Even mother throws pitiful looks her way.
Throwing myself into my work, I do my best to ignore Isabella's state of distress. It pains me to do, but I have her best interest in mind. The sooner I can get us out of here, the sooner she'll really start feeling better. At the moment, I'm knotting the linen tablecloths from our attic into a sturdy rope, with the assistance of "A Field Guide to Knots" by Bob Holtzman, written in the 20th century. I found it under a table in the library, propping up an uneven leg.
My hands are red and callous with effort, and I don't think the color white has ever repulsed me more. The repetitive process is doing wonders for my mental state, as you can probably tell. Each finishing pull of the knot gets more aggressive, and I don't realize until I hear an audible tear. I look closely at the line I've created and estimate it to be about 2000cm. I pull out a ruler just to be sure. About 2500cm- I'm impressed.
The other preparations aren't quite as tedious as this one. Unlike Isabella, I've been playing with the kids every day. I help mother carry food boxes, and lift the kids in any situation possible to get stronger. Whether it be helping them climb a tree, or carrying them from the chaser in tag. Within weeks, I can feel muscle tone under a soft layer of fat. It's almost therapeutic to be working towards something other than our escape. But of course, all of this is to ensure our survival outside the orphanage.
In other news, my muscles aren't the only thing growing. Since Leslie's departure, my body has shot up, I'm 165cm now. The tallest in the orphanage. It's a cruel irony, even more so when you consider how many times my mother has pointed it out since then.
"You're almost as tall as me" she says, and she's correct. Our mother is on the taller side, around 175cm. It would be nice to be taller than her one day; to see her stand in my shadow. I distance myself from my mother too. It's a daily struggle to not rock her shit.
I ponder my achievements as I'm walking to the wall. The rope is in my bag, and mother is down for a nap. There's a chill in the air, and my body shivers periodically. As someone who doesn't get cold easily, the weather catches me off guard. I make a note to leave the orphanage bearing blankets for the two of us. Winter outside the wall is sure to be twice as brutal. It's not quite snowing, but come January, and the ground will be covered in a soft layer of it.
