Shadows of Redemption

Chapter One

Fire is everywhere. It glistens in every single room. Fire lights paths down hallways you never would've seen without it. It makes my food for me; it helps me drink tea; fire is lovely. The fire is outside as well. It's not as small as the flames at home. Its immense size can cover this entire earth with light. I can see through my bedroom window during the day. Sometimes it is hard to see the star from my two windows, the leaves from the trees make it tough to see. When I see it, it hurts. Such bright fires are not familiar to my eyes. The ones in the house are small and dim. I've wondered if the star is warm like the flames are. Ruth says it isn't too hot anymore.
Ruth knows a lot about what it's like beyond the glass. She knows what day it is and what it feels like. Sometimes she says it's getting worse. I don't question her about it; she doesn't enjoy talking about outside often, only on good days. It's hard to catch her on a good day. She says I wouldn't like it out there. I trust her. She brings me food and water for tea. She protects me from the outside. I appreciate it.
My bedroom. The only room with windows that you can see through. Beige cloth hangs from a wooden stick above the foggy glass. I can move it open or I could close it. Ruth wants the curtains closed, but I like the temporary light. The stools next to my bed are antique. Ruth says they are worth a lot, but she never sells them. I have a closet to the left side of my bed where I store my dresses. The dresses are all light, dusty colors. They are old. Ruth says dresses are better because they are easier to clean, but she wears the same jeans and shirts every day. The tags on my clothes say Nightgown throughout my closet. I wonder if one day I'll fit in Ruth's real clothes. Next to my dresser is a box of undergarments. Next to those is a box of slippers. I wear slippers every day, all day. The floors are too dirty for bare feet. Nobody cleans the floors, mostly because there are too many floors to be cleaned. I've tried to clean while Ruth is away, but it is all too much. Ruth says I shouldn't be exhausting myself with things such as cleaning, especially when I can barely see the ground. She doesn't like it when I help her. She says that she is strong enough on her own. I wonder if I am not strong enough on my own and if she has to help me.
Ruth makes me sit in the kitchen every morning and brushes out my hair. She says nothing most mornings. It's all routine. Every morning I wake up, wash myself, get dressed, go downstairs, eat, and then get my hair brushed. It's the same six steps every day. When Ruth brushes my hair, she hums a song, so softly I sometimes feel like I imagined it. It's a comforting song. I look forward to it in the mornings. She runs her fingers through my dark, outgrown hair. She says my hair was short when she first met me. I think about what I would look like with short hair now. I told Ruth about my idea of cutting my hair, but she didn't like it. She cried, telling me that my hair is beautiful now. That's when she spent more time brushing my hair in the mornings. She loved my brunette hair, filled with dead ends and knots. I was thankful, but I knew I should brush out my hair. I knew it was therapy for Ruth.
Ruth is much older than me. She knows more than I will probably ever know. I have only known her for sixteen years; she tells me. Sixteen years of her fifty-six years of life. She has raised me since I was three. She has kept me safe these years. I am thankful for her. Ruth has helped me survive. She tells me to not think of her as a mother and that she is only a temporary friend. She told me that six years ago. Daily, she brings me food in cans and tins of water from outside. Every year, she is getting more and more fragile. Her hands shook about two years ago. I noticed it when she tried to tie a flower around my wrist. She wasn't able to tie it anymore. I asked her what was wrong, but she said she just needed some sleep. It's been two years and her trembling has gotten grim. It's hard for her to brush my hair, let alone unlock a door. I have to help her pour tea into a cup, so none goes to waste. She has taught me how to lock the doors leading to the outside safely, as well as describing to me the location of the food storage. She never takes me, though. Ruth says it's only in case of emergencies. I fear her spirit is gently slipping from my grasp. I know I cannot hold on to her for long.