imelda clark / district 5 / wip

imelda clark / district 5 / wip Apr 28, 2024 16:09:16 GMT -5

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Post by d8 🐀 setta furey on Apr 28, 2024 16:09:16 GMT -5

The church stones are grey and cool underfoot all year round, but in winter especially so, so cold they feel wet. It gets so cold that the walls start to sweat it out, weeping for Imelda so that she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t cry, as a rule, hasn’t since Maggie ramped up her intensity. Being good doesn’t matter so much as being balanced — her duty is to act as a counterweight. Grief is a terrible thing, but the guilt that followed has been much, much worse.

Grief, guilt, girl. Imelda is these things and not much else. The garden is much the same these days. It decays alongside her, alongside them all. Upkeep falls by the wayside for everyone. The trees need pruning. Imelda cuts her hair up to her chin with blunt kitchen scissors.

Open palm against cheek, open palms pressed together; the sting is always the same. Imelda isn’t sure she deserves it, but she takes it regardless. Maybe it’s undeserved, but it’s righteous nonetheless. It's a penance for living when her father is dead, for failing to take care of Maggie, for every fruit that rots under her negligent watch. She goes out sometimes, turns over the fallen fruits one by one, shoves her thumbs through the dark, wet splotches on their skins. Each seed is something her father could have and would have cultivated. Now, stone fruits turn sour with just a touch of Imelda’s hand. They make what they can into preserves — Imelda works day and night. She starts working while Maggie is still praying at her bed, she finishes working long after their mother has gone to sleep, lamenting her aching knees all the way. Still, it’s not enough.

Everything their family built rots in the grass, from the fruits to the trees to the Clark women themselves. She can’t find it in herself to fault either her sister or her mother, however. Grief pulls at all of them, tugging insistently on their hands, a different face on it for each of them. She wonders what grief could be to her sister, to her mother. It has long since melded with guilt and shame in Imelda’s mind — it appears to her in reflections, a horrible, sickly thing that wears her face and prods her to smile and snarl interchangeably. Glass jam jars, puddles on the church steps, the damned mirror her sister sits in front of; Imelda can’t look too long at any of them.

When she dreams, Imelda sees the sun. Gold, purple, bright spots shining through stained glass. Her father stands at the pulpit, holds out his hand and she runs to take it. When she touches him, he crumbles, a flurry of petals and ashes scattering across the altar. In real life, the sun is something of a myth to her. Her days start too early, the thick leaves of the trees block out its light. Dapples of it still break through, spotlighting warm, rotting fruits where they lay, gone too far for Imelda to save. The fruit is wet and warm in her hands; sticky, thick, stringy. Something less than flesh, but more than blood.

She hasn't left the church grounds since he died. No matter what abuse she's subjected to, Imelda refuses. So her mother goes to town with what little Imelda manages to make. The only exception is that day every year, because if that happens to Maggie, Imelda doesn't know what she'll do. Will she be brave enough to volunteer? And if she did, how would Maggie react? She can see her sister now, fervour burning through her, screaming that she doesn't need her help. And Imelda knows she doesn't want it, she isn't so sure on the matter of need. The stone walls of their home, icy smooth, are all that keep them safe. The trees too. It's best to let things grow thick, to let things rot, to protect them, to keep others out. To keep Maggie in. Imelda had friends once. When she first secluded herself, they tried to visit, but the threat of reinfection — whether it be rose plague or otherwise — loomed. Imelda pushed them all away.