✄ .・。.・゜✭・. out in the open, no one to save me the kindest of whispers are cruel ━━━
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██ 003. / NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK
█ ✄ ... / IT WOULDN'TBE Reaping Day without the mellow hum of the sewing machine, rising with the sun.
It had to be older than Paisley herself — a rickety old thing, made of cheaply-procured iron and smothered in peeling black paint. The intricate designs that used to cover the surface had worn with time, the mechanisms slowly becoming stiff, but still — it did the job just fine. Most homes in Eight had one, but there were few occasions that they really got any proper use. Mostly, they were just used for repairs — fixing bursting seams, or adjusting clothes as children grew bigger to save wasting money on anything new.
She must have been up since before dawn, because little light seeped through the paper-thin curtains as she worked. It wasn't until she had been at it for hours, that the sun finally greeted her to bathe the room in pink. Ever so slowly, the monotonous hums of the machine were met with the melodic chirping of the birds, whistling together along with the wind. With a yawn, Paisley pulled the scraps of fabric Gus had given her yesterday out of her pocket, laying them flat on the table to survey them with closer inspection. There were at least a dozen of them, all of various shapes and patterns, but Paisley only needed three or four — just enough to finish the handmade skirt that she had been fretting over for days. She really didn't think she'd get it done in time.
It was a little after seven, by the time the rest of the household began to stir. Burton appeared first, followed closely by his wife. Somehow, his stern and yet sluggish face retained its tough composure, despite the dark circles framing his drooping eyes. Neither of them said anything, instead navigating around the kitchen to complete their tasks in silence.
It would be obvious to anybody looking, that between them, the Fawn family had hardly obtained a wink of sleep that night. But it wasn't the exhaustion that was making Paisley feel so unwell.
What unnerved her the most was the animosity. The excruciating tension in the room that was thick enough to cut it with a knife. The Fawns never went into a Reaping angry — ever.
It was their one unspoken rule.
Paisley's eyes situated themselves just a centimetre above the machine, giving herself enough coverage that she could observe the room without anybody catching her staring. Her father's attention turned towards the kitchen counter, filling the teapot with water from the stove, whilst the quivering strain of her mother's fingers attempted feebly to fix the buttons of a blouse. It was at times like these that Paisley's mind fought desperately for the memory of what her parents used to be like — before the darkness of depression had stolen all their light.
