Page 17 of Born for Silk

Between the feeling of sharp stabs at my thighs and the look of pure hatred in Iris’s eyes, I cannot breathe.

Or think.

A squawk from overhead startles the girls enough to loosens their hold. Iris and Ivy stumble back, leaving Lavender alone and holding me. So, I pull my legs free and kick upward, connecting with her chin.

“Oh!” she cries out, and the others gather her from the dirt. They look no worse than expected from today—muck-up day wild. It is normal for the girls to get dirty after our ceremony. They pull Lavender away, and all three disappear into the foliage like wraiths that never were.

Just breathe.

On my back, I blink ahead at the branches reaching in and out of the sky like green fingers scratching a cloudy, grey canvas. We are everything we aren’t meant to be, full of jealousy and bitterness.

Is this life?

I don’t want to look down, though I can feel the wetness between my legs, which means Iris broke skin. The sickening sensation makes my throat burn.

I hear my bird screech; the scent of my blood probably bothers him. No longer alone, I brave the sight. I push to a sitting position; fire explodes along my thighs, snatching a defiant whine from my throat.

I’m hurt.

Stabbed.

My white dress is destroyed, crimson-stained fabric muddied with dirt and purple sandules.

I push off the ground.

Absently, I toe the pond, a snake of blood rushing to meet the water, spreading out like dye. I blink at the water as though he can see the tiny molecules approaching him. “I have to get out of here.”

Without a second thought, I pin drop into the pond, instantly enveloped by watery arms. And it’s so quiet and still, for a moment I consider death. What it must feel like. Cold. Quiet. Weightless. Where do we go? To The Crust? What is The Crust? Is it a place or state of mind? Or are we just sown back into the dirt, food for the flowers. What about my thoughts? Where do they go?

My dress floats around me, dancing on the wings of fluid. I blink, focusing underwater—no stinging. No salt; it’s fresh water. I search but cannot see far, rocks and trees blocking the distant body of the pond.

What will you do?

I resurface with a gasp, and the warm air hisses along my skin. “I will say I fell in,” I chant the plan to an empty bank. “The wound will heal. I’ll pretend it never happened.”

You must go through it, Aster.

Go right through the adversities to the other side.

Meaningful Purpose awaits you.

Walking back into the quadrangle, dress and hair stuck to my body, dripping like a drowned beast, I keep my head high as the other girls turn and stare.

Their clothes are covered in purple. Their hair is tousled by excitement. Smiles are wide, then fall when they look at me.

While I’m an unusual sight, sure, that’s not the reason for the hostility. It’s muck-up day and no one likes me. So, being pushed into the pond is a reasonable assumption for my drenched state.

Low conversing suddenly invades me like buzzing bees, but I stride right through the chattering girls, straight toward my housing.

Vines strangle the sandstone buildings that surround the courtyard, thick green snakes that hunt for something long lost. Something natural. Air. Sun. Wind. Nothing is real in the Silk Aviary. The glass dome shields us from the Redwind, but the vines get so confused. Twisting themselves into knots in search of something more.

At the entrance to my personal chamber, I push inside. Leaning on the beautifully carved oak door, I decide quickly and quietly that today never happened. Nothing good can come from drawing attention to myself in here.

Moving fast, I hide the stained dress and my knickers in the mattress until I have time to clean them in the washroom. I bury the sensation of raw flesh, walking through the ache until I can bear each step.

I pace in the room, flexing my hands.

It’s fine.