Iridessa Swanson {d9 - fin}

[Python]

age: 17?
harp player
collector of stuff and thangs (look at this stuff, isn't it neat?)
terrified of thunderstorms

[Python]

I r i d e s s a

Chalk-

I saw it in the neighbor's yard, abandoned and scratched into a tiny pink stub. I snatched it before the her nephew returned, and scrawled a pink heart across the sidewalk. It snapped into fragments the moment I connected the lines, and my naive, six-year-old heart metaphorically broke with it. My mother's voice was a ringing in my ears; "If you're selfish, there will be consequences." This was proof that she was right, and that's when I vowed to collect instead of use, to cherish instead of erase. One must not steal in the first place. One must find.

I found our empty cookie jar in the garbage. Mom got a new one for Ratmas, as big and red as her heart. I filled it with sand and dropped the crumbles of pink chalk inside, thinking it was creative instead of ridiculous. I stuck it on my shelf as decoration. It's been there since; a silly project from when I was young and sweeter and not so scared of the outside world. Everything was an adventure back then. The sand could symbolize earth, the ground I tread on. The chalk is me, I guess. A little broken, but still bright. Mom lied and told me it was a beautiful piece of art. I laugh at it now, but the air tastes like nostalgia and I love it. I'm addicted to it. Memories, sentiment, the fearless years.

That's why I collect.


Shirt button-

There was a silver button missing from my grandmother's blouse. The man directing her funeral couldn't explain why it detached, and I was too timid to return it once I found it on the floor among the chairs. I collected toys and pieces of the outside up until that point. Rocks, twigs, leaves, acorns - always the peculiar ones. They were lined up on my shelves and stored away in chests. Mom said I was becoming a tiny hoarder. I was seven, and didn't know what that meant, but I liked the idea of a title. Tiny hoarder it was!

Grandma hadn't had much to her name. She left behind figurines, knitting supplies, and a harp, which was her most prized possession. My lullabies had been syllables forged by strings instead of lips. In the midst of a storm she would play at my bedside as I hid beneath blankets, cowering with every crackle of thunder. I've been afraid of storms for as long as I can remember. When a tree collapsed against our roof and caved into our home, I was nearly pinned and suffocated by the debris. We had to move somewhere safer and smaller. The districts wouldn't pay for our damages.

There is comfort in music, so I learned to play the harp after she passed. Of all the objects I kept of hers, I didn't want her favorite instrument to collect dust in a dark corner. The figurines sit on my shelf, aligned from animals to all of the miniature factory workers you can buy with a few cents at the cheap markets. The knitting supplies I gave to my mom because she told me I couldn't keep everything. But the harp - I begged for it. I had to keep it so I could continue the legacy. I wanted to create and collect. Small things can make life feel more worthwhile.

Like this button. It's small and seemingly insignificant, maybe even useless, but it's part of her. There are very few things you can own after death; a grave, a casket, and the clothes you rest in. This button makes me feel connected with her. It's silver like spirits from the afterlife.


Knife-

I regretted it. The fault was nowhere near me, but I made the decision to hang out with the wrong crowd. Curiosity kills, they say. We all got detention for vandalism even though I never laid a finger on those walls or spray cans. We stayed so late cleaning the walls and sitting in desks that we watched the sky change from blue, to purple, to black, like a bruise.

I couldn't see the stars that evening, and it worried me.

One distant rumble and my hands began to tremble. Storms are a terror and I couldn't see when it was coming, or where it was coming from. We were blind, but only I was afraid. Nobody cared about weather. One or two complained about the possibility of wet clothes, but that was the least of my concerns. Mom calls it an irrational fear, but she didn't see her world crumble in front of her eyes. What she saw was the aftermath, the leftover fear staining my eyes and lips. "It was a long time ago," she says, "You should've grown out of this." She expects so much of me, and I can't meet half of the standards. I'm an inadequate, disappointing child, and when I became stranded in the storm I knew I couldn't count on her for sympathy.

Rain pelting against my skin like frozen bullets, I sprinted through alleys with my eyes glued to the ground. Every bolt of lightning made me think the earth was cracking like an egg. That's how the world would end; thunder as the warning siren, the screams of the heavens telling me that hell had been unleashed. I sought refuge in a warehouse and huddled behind a stack of hollow crates, shivering with every frightened breath. The night was dark and full of terrors. It was no place for a helpless girl.

Then I saw a beacon of light - silver like my grandmother's button, like the soul it represented. I thought it meant something. A guardian angel, perhaps. A distraction meant to help me swallow my fear.

I watched it twinkle until the storm faded.

It turns out, my savior was a knife. The blade was what tempted me to believe that it was angelic. The crusted blood on the handle warned me otherwise, but I knew what it really was.

Protection.

Mom was horrified when she saw it. She told me it was dangerous, illegal, and who knew what kind of bacteria and diseases it carried? I pretended to acknowledge her requests, but concealed it in a wooden treasure box under my bed. It remains unwashed to this day. Erasing the blood is sanitary, but it doesn't feel right. I don't like to alter what I collect.


Sweater-

Sometimes I peek into dumpsters, searching for anything my obsessive hands can reach. Our attic and our basement have empty shelves to fill, because my room has become a burden from my collecting. I find useless things that have meaning, memories, or stories. A black sweater with holes is just a filthy thing to my parents. To me, it tells a story. A story of bullet holes and street wars. I'm not as naive as people think; I know what brews in the dark depths of nine, I'm just lucky enough to have never witnessed it. I just collect bits and pieces of aftermath.

There are enough bullets in my jewelery box to string a necklace.


Ribbon-

It's red like a heart, like blood. Or a strawberry. It was tied around a teddy bear's neck for decoration. I thought of it as a collar instead, as slavery. A little girl watched the Peacekeepers arrest her father that day.

I have what's left.


Chain necklace-

It reminds me of everything silver, a color I have grown overly fond of. It's cheap, I found it in the street like I usually do, and I knew it once belonged to someone else. Lost treasures become my own. I wrap it around my wrist for good luck, especially when I play my harp.

Luck is all I have, I think. I'm lucky that the freak accident didn't kill me like it often kills others. I'm lucky that I haven't stumbled upon criminals, only their stuff. I'm lucky that I can appreciate useless things, because otherwise I'd be miserable.

I'm lucky I was born that way.

[Python]

done

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

wow u r goo at writing. really goo.