𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐳:
Isadora Flores: a girl raised in captivity and brainwashed to believe she has a deadly disease that restricts her from the outside world permanently.
That was until one...
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"Rowan?"
"Yes?"
"Do you ever feel so out of control of every single thing in your life, you just want to rip all of your hair out?"
His head snaps in my direction, Eyes squinted in concern. "I'm Sorry—What?"
Embarrassment knocks on the door of my stomach. "Sorry." I blurt. I hate how much I talk. I also hate how things just fly out of my mouth before my brain can approve of the words. I can already feel the heat crawling it's way up my body; To spare myself the embarrassment I turn to look away.
"Don't apologize," He says, words suspiciously soft. "I'm just confused on what you mean by that."
"Um—I just mean," I pause to think properly. "Like, Do you ever feel like you don't have a choice in anything you do in your life."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I don't know. I just feel very out of control of my life, and I always have." I start to explain. "Y'know, since we don't really have many choices in our circumstances. I've always been.. Confined to one place."
"Whether it be that false sanctuary, Or this sanctuary." I say. "I'll never have to choice to live a normal life. And for that reason, I feel like I have no control in anything I do." I finish, I suck in a large breath to compensate for the beaths lost in my sentence.
His head falls to the side in the slightest bit; He just stares at me for maybe a minute. He waggles his eyebrows before looking forward again, sighing. "You've been trapped in that place your entire life, It's understandable to feel that way." He reassures me.
"Have you ever felt like that?" I ask. His attention drops back to his lap. "Yes, In the beginning. But I got over it eventually." He tells me.
"How?" I ask. I'm asking too many questions, I wish my mouth would pry itself shut.
He shrugs in response. "I don't know.. I just—did?"
"I hope I get over it soon." I grumble to myself. It becomes quiet, awkwardly quiet—Uncomfortably quiet, Making words splurge out of my mouth before I could even think rationally about them.
"So, What are you drawing?" My body betrays me and leans into him to peer past his shoulder and onto the sketchbook in his lap. My senses snap back to me in an instant and I'm like a statue—as stiff as a board.
The crisp wind blows loose strands out of my face, and sends goosebumps up my arms; Whilst shaking loose dead leaves off the dark oak branches currently giving us shade and coverage from the beating sun, and right into our laps.
They are orange and brown and dead.
"You just can't let it be quiet—for even a minute?" He says, eyes peering on the sketchbook. I side-eye him. "No. It's weird and awkward." I say. "Sorry If I want to talk to you." Sarcasm.
