Black Sapphire | Xaden Riorson | S/H

XLVII

・・・　・・・　・・・

     I wake up to the periwinkle light of dawn. Birds are chirping outside, and as I sit up, I can even hear the chatter of bunnies I've tuned myself to listen out for.
     I press my cold fingers into my eyes to dull the swelling headache. It helps a bit to soothe the puffiness from my tears.
     My mom's room is completely unchanged. Since the moment she died, I haven't changed a thing. I reach over and pick up my pillow, hugging it to my chest to stare at the ceiling. I brought one of mine in here back when I was 14 so I didn't ruin hers. I'd sewn and stuffed it myself, prepared the plucked feathers from the chickens and pulled each slightly loose thread.

     There's not much to her room. A large bed centered between two skinny windows on either side of the wall, each side featuring a wooden dresser. The one on the left is low set and scruffy, hand-made by my grandmother, and the other is almost pristine, with finely rounded corners and red velvet lining the drawers. Both are covered in dust.
     I move the blanket away and leave the room. It's bright in the house, with sheer curtains only partially drawn on windows I would be opening if I could stay. The kitchen sits empty but the overlapping tables in the living room just to its left are certainly not. I move toward them with a heavy breath in.

     My death shrine. It's untouched, but not for long as I quickly begin to dismantle it. I first move the sacrificial bowl into the sink. The bowl is empty, considering I didn't die at the house, but must be present so the gods know I would've put something there if I had the opportunity. Underneath it is a large, flat plate full of long-dead herbs that used to smell sweet which I set by the door to be dumped into the river.
     There are a few pieces of jewelry laid out around the circular table's edge. I adorn myself with them, hanging from my neck and wrists, looping over my ears and hugging my fingers and ankles. A variety of jewelry owned by a variety of people, all of which are dead except for me.
     The final piece left on the table is the large piece of cloth my death dress was cut from. I pull it off the table and set it by the door as well to be burned before I leave.
     The lower tier of the tables, this one wooden, features a pile of wheat ash. I scoop up the pile with my hand and move toward the sink. It doesn't take much water to mix it into a goopy paste, letting me place a singular handprint on my right arm just above my elbow after pushing up the short sleeve just a bit. I wash the rest of the dark mud off in the water and wash out the bowl.

     The last thing I do while I'm in the house is go into my room. It's a small little thing. A bed and a tall wardrobe are the only furniture in the room, pushed far to the right considering how skinny the area is. I open the top of the wardrobe and begin taking all of the jewelry back off to put into a satchel.
     Inside are a few pieces of handmade clothes hanging from a wire rack. I grab one in particular, a jacket with a sprawling and intricate charm sewn inside its back. I stuff it into the satchel as well.
     I make sure both doors into my room are locked, one from the living room and one from outside, then move back into the house. I didn't bring anything other than the clothes and weapons I was wearing, so it takes only a glance around to make sure I've gotten everything set back to normal.