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| IX. Kiss My Scraped Knees, and Tell Me I'm Alright |
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When Marion was a young child–perhaps no older than six or seven–she liked to imagine that her mother was a kind, beautiful woman, with a warm smile and even warmer disposition. She'd spend hours daydreaming about the woman she had created in her mind, that was until her father scolded her for sitting around.
As she grew older, she realized that her mother was probably not the beautiful blonde from her childish fantasies. Marion didn't look much like her father, so her mother must've had the same brown eyes, dark hair, and round face that she did.
Now, all she wished for was Béatrice: the woman who'd taken her under her wing, kissed her scraped knees when she fell, and gently caressed her short, choppy hair. Béatrice was gone now, and the woman she'd taken to dreaming of had never existed in the first place.
The searing pain in Marion's hands increased tenfold as they barred the heavy doors to the church, the adrenaline that once coursed through her veins slowly watered down until she could feel everything. She let out a pained whimper, and clenched her jaw shut. She couldn't move– even the slightest of movement sent a wave of fiery pain up her forearm.
Blood dribbled down her fingers, staining the stone floor she stood on. Marion let out a quiet gasp when Amicia put a hand on her shoulder, her companion's face contorted into that of a worried woman– a look Marion hated seeing.
It made her look too grown, the way the skin between her eyebrows wrinkled, and her words would grow soft and gentle. It was like the scared child she had become was molded into a worried woman.
Silent tears flowed out of Marion's eyes as Amicia led her over to a wooden bench, right next to a stone altar littered with wax candles. The dark-haired girl took a seat, her eyes locked on the ugly wounds on her palms. Amicia kneeled down in front of her companion, Marion could tell she was trying hard not to cringe at the bloody mess.
"Will she be alright?" Hugo's little voice echoed through the church, making both girls turn to look at him.
"I'll be fine, Poppet... it's just a scratch." Marion lied, trying to alleviate the boy's worries.
Marion watched as Amicia sucked in a deep breath, and the latter looked back down at her companions' hands. The wounds were long, and appeared to be deep enough to need stitches. They had nothing to clean the wounds with, or dress it...
Marion's eyes flickered to the lit candles, an idea popping into her brain.
"Amicia, why don't you and Hugo go try and find a way out of here..." The dark-haired girl spoke, her tone left no room for protest.
Amicia's eyebrows furrowed, "But... your hands, we can't leave them like this–"
Marion shot her companion a look, before turning towards the candles once again. Amicia's eyes widened once she realized what Marion was subtly referring to.
