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Clare Martin Clare Martin
Recommendations: 12

From Green To Icy Pastures

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She had a friend.

How can I describe my life as it is?
I think of it as smoke with no fire. The house is clogged with the rolling, black fumes reeking of misery and despair, bringing warmth but also tears, clogging our throats with those agonized, shaking sobs, the kind where the more we try and catch our breath the more desperately our lungs cling to oxygen. But there is no light with this warmth. There is no fire with this smoke. There is no love to dry these tears, no voice to soothe these sobs.

I no longer see the sun the way I used to. It was so perfect, a rolling flash of splendorous light, spreading itself, like a blanket, over the icy depths of this world. Its warmth dried my tears and its light guided me along the road that I wouldn't be walking without it. It brought out the best in me; the scars that reminded me I was a survivor, not a victim, the shine that bounced off unnatural red hair (I dyed it to match my mother's) and the omen of my life, what allowed me to wake up and not fall back asleep. There was hope with this sun. But's just the sun. It gets too hot in July. It vanishes in November. And it's as shy as a child on his first day at school, ducking behind the clouds, safe in its little cocoon of self-assurance.

If only the snow was easier to come by. Winter is upon us, truly, now. I do not fear the cold, I relate to it. We're both so misunderstood. Shunned because we do not burn like the embers left in a grate of white ashes. Hated because we glaze our paths with our ice, which they see as threatening. How could something so auricular and bright be dangerous? Lost because we are not wanted. Lonely because we are not found. And sad, so very sad, because we try to protect others with our silhouette of mystery, but those we love fear us as we do not. Perhaps that is why I never see snow.

Perhaps the fire knows that its light is not welcome. Perhaps the sun has shown itself in its truest form. Perhaps it is why I fear the day more than I do the night. Because I am cold. A misunderstood, pale, melting snowflake, so easily shook off a fingertip, so easily vanquished in the sun, and so carefully swept from the road into the sea by uncaring, hateful caretakers.

Who needs the snow when Clare is around?

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Next: The Tyrant's Protege (A Prologue)