Satine [ONGOING]

SATINE (X)

Satine awoke between soft pillows, tucked into a blanket tightly as the birds chirped in the distance. The sun was just starting to peek over the mountains, sending warm sunspots dancing around the dusty wooden room. The walls were blue, hence why they called it the blue guest room, but the paint was peeling off in many places. She had missed the striped patterns against the wall and the perpetual smell of lavender that reigned in the house. Her mother loved to put little pouches filled with dried pieces of the flower in every single drawer of each and every room. The scent was ingrained in each drawer, each wardrobe, even hanging onto the surface of the walls and sheets. She slowly pulled herself out of bed, ignoring the aching of her small wounds and tired muscles, allowing herself to revel in the nostalgic feel of her childhood home. There was a part of her that wondered if any of it was even real, if she and Florence had truly made it all the way here alive. She turned slowly to look at the bed at the end of the room against the wall, right beneath the window. Florence was still sleeping, her face was relaxed and peaceful, for the first time Satine noticed a small gash running halfway down her cheek. A flash of the aeroplane shooting at the crowd around them forced a tear out of the young woman. She quickly put her mind to something else, searching for some of her old clothes. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she made her way into her old room, which it seemed that Paul and Gabrielle now shared. She opened the door slowly. On every wall, plastered all across the wallpaper were drawings of all kinds, made with watercolour, ink, pencils. She took a second just to look at them. She had never been very apt with a pencil, she couldn't draw a round circle without concentrating and she found herself wondering if it was her sister or her brother at the origin of all this artwork. She hoped it was Gabrielle, because she could come to terms with a twelve year old producing such nice illustrations more than she could a nine year old. The house was incredibly quiet, obviously her siblings were at school, she had not expected herself to wake up in the early hours of the morning after her first night in a comfortable bed back at home. She opened her old wardrobe, smiling widely from ear to ear as she noticed some of her old clothes still hanging there untouched. She slipped into one quickly before making her way back into the guest room to make her bed and give Florence a quick kiss on the forehead. She wouldn't wake her up, but she did hope she would wake soon. After a whole night's worth of sleep, she imagined she would be much more herself, and she had missed her so desperately. The kettle started to whistle downstairs as Satine made her way down the stairs with the lightest steps she could force her feet to take. She found herself wondering whether her mother was the one awake or her father, but then quickly realisation hit her and she laughed at her own train of thought: her father could not work something as simple as a kettle, or at least, if he did know how to do it, he wouldn't. He would sit at the table bitterly and somewhat patiently, waiting for his wife to do it. Satine rolled her eyes at the thought. Her grandmother was fast asleep in her rocking chair by the sofa, the sight of her almost brought tears to Satine's eyes. At some point she had sort of assumed that she had died. A lot could have happened in those eight years, but the more she explored the house, the more she realised practically nothing had. The house was just as she had left it, her siblings might have grown, but other than that the place was untouched, unchanged. Suddenly, a sound she now recognised as Madeleine waking up slightly unhappy — something like the weak start of a cry — pierced the silence. Of course her mother would have put her down here, just as she had done with her back in the day and then Gabrielle and Paul, which Satine recalled perfectly. At the other end of the living room, in a corner, was a wooden crip, slightly elevated, which if she remembered it correctly, her grandfather had built, or maybe it was her great-grandfather, in any case it didn't really matter who it was: It was a family member.

"Well hello to you too," She said to the little thing softly right before picking her up. She was still rather warm, Satine put her hand against her forehead, pursing her lips. She couldn't decipher if she had a fever or not. She appeared to calm down in her arms, so in any case she wasn't in much discomfort. "Did you sleep well?" She asked, letting her small fingers wrap around her thumb. This very simple gesture suddenly forced something akin to a sob out of Satine. It was a miracle that she had made it this far, that Florence and she had kept her alive. She could not explain how she had gotten so attached to her in less than two weeks, she guessed horrific experiences had their way of pulling people together in unexpected formations.