Grace has grieved not only her best and perhaps only friend, but also the life she used to have. Fleeing to the woods for a sense of comfort, she finds much more; starting with a mysterious woman who tells her that she's Peculiar.
Miss Besra tells...
The hallway was quite small, with wooden trim reaching the lower third of the warmly colored wallpaper that made the corridor seem more compact than it really was. Me and Clyde fit comfortably in the hall as we raced over the thin rug that ran drearily beneath us. I could barely count the doors that they had passed, hardly registering that two of the four were open, before I tripped on the chair that guarded the fifth one.
We had arrived at far end of the hallway, where the chair and a small side table inhabited. A tall lamp sat on the stout surface - yet another object that felt out of place in the house.
Clyde twisted the knob of the door before us, which blended effortlessly with the wooden frame that surrounded it, and let go of my hand as he swiftly walked ahead of me.
Through the door was a grand room that was finely decorated with a mass amount of photos that took up nearly all the space on the walls. There were three windows that were perched on each of the three walls. A corner writing desk was tucked into the far left, with a wooden bedside table to separate it from the queen sized bed that was fit against the left wall, under its window. At the foot of the brass-frame bed sat a short chest which perfected matched the large, patterned rug that co weed most of the floor's hardwood.
A coatrack stood in the far right corner, with two matching dressers that laid horizontally on either side. Next to the dresser in the right hand wall sat a homely twin bed, that seemed to be pushed last-minute into the room. Its shape lined up along the wall to miss the inward swing of the door and catch the light of that wall's window on the pillow.
Nearly all the photos, which ranged from portraits to backdrops, were organized in rows on the dark floral print on the walls. This pattern clashed quite well with the light-pattern trim that encircled the very top of the walls, where they hit the ceiling. This blend, however, did not make the hoard of photographs seem any less chaotic, which made me sure that such a style choice could only be made by a queer person, like myself.
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Sat on the thick cover of the bed was a girl with dark hair, cut to curl thickly at the top of her neck. She sat cross-legged as her round, chocolate eyes focused on the task as hand, which seemed to be cutting the very tip of a feather with silver scissors. Her plaid, corduroy jacket complimented her black skirt which was nearly identically colored to the thick, black boots that laid on the floor beside the bed. I assumed that this was Vivienne.
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