Paloma Sandoval // d10 // fin
Mar 1, 2018 1:03:50 GMT -5
Post by flyss on Mar 1, 2018 1:03:50 GMT -5
[googlefont="Oswald"][googlefont="Mr Dafoe"][googlefont="Abel"]
SWANSKI
PALOMA SANDOVAL
District 10
"Thomas," her voice is but a whisper as she speaks, voice echoing off of the damp walls in small, fragmented waves, the monotone whirr of a fan in the other room occupying the silence as Paloma waits for her brother to rouse. "You ought to be dead if you're sleeping in this late." She flicks him on the forehead and makes a move to stand; the boy only mumbles, pulling the fitted sheet he uses as a cover over his face as a feeble attempt to hide from dawn.
But Paloma is not surprised. After all, there is no real need for a 13 year-old Thomas to wake up and feed the chickens or water the tomatoes or clean up the horses' stable. This had already been done by she, the oldest of the Sandoval children, hours before the sun dared to kiss the lips of the horizon and far before the farm's rooster stood atop its perch to sing its morning song. Every animal and every plant had been taken care of and accounted for. Breakfast was already sitting warm on the gas stove two rooms away. This act was only a part of their routine, Paloma's parental warmth giving Thomas the comfort that their real mother and father never have.
Matias Sandoval and Helen Jackson-Sandoval weren't bad people by any means. They worked hard, a job on an wealthy man's ranch 15 miles away occupying most of their waking hours. However, choice did not tie them to this arrangement. A debt they owed from childhood locked them in a life of servitude, their wages paid not in money or food, but in forgiveness. A family built on strength, with the bricks of two fearless parents and three restless children, was wrecked by a wolf-shaped statute of limitations not yet run out. Paloma, only 12 at the time, was left to repair what only Ripred could fix, with a seven year-old Thomas and a six year-old Loreto crippled by a childhood ruined. Orphanage was the only other option, one which Sandoval pride would not consider.
As she stands in the corner of the room, her legs brushing the end of her younger sister's bed and her hips brushing her own, Paloma stares at the reflection of her face in the foggy glass of the window and wills herself to see a better life. This, too, is merely routine, and yet, it always feels so different. With everything else, she knows what will happen: if she rakes the leaves, they will no longer be scattered; if she washes the sheep dog, he will no longer smell bad. But when she stares-- when Paloma Sandoval surrenders herself to the mystery of life-- she never sees the same thing twice.
Today, she sees herself in a garden full of sunflowers. The sky seems to glimmer as goldenrod yellows and periwinkle blues play tag in the clouds, and a subtle wind chuckles at the fun, sweeping over the leaves and blossoms and grasses with what seems like a playful nudge. Grabbing a single flower off of a nearby bunch, Paloma places it in the front pocket of her sunwashed men's overalls. She smiles. Everything about this scene is wonderful: the heat and the beauty and the peace.... she wishes more than anything to share it with her siblings so that they can know what serenity feels like. For now, though, she resigns herself to holding onto what she can. A reluctant sigh fills her lips as she parts from the hug of her daydream, her back cracking as she turns to grab a sea-green hair brush from the window sill.
Behind her, she can hear Thomas groaning as he rises from his sleep-crusted tomb. He yawns and works a knot out of his curly, black mane with his fingers, his looks of little importance to him compared to his comfort. To this, Paloma scoffs. Every morning, she takes careful care in brushing out her own umber lockes. They stretch down her breasts and back in waves, caressing every curve she's earned from her 18 years on planet Earth. She's of a bigger weight, treated well by her hard work, and there's a glow to her that expresses not the lack of health but rather the its surplus. Her lips are like her mothers, full and always smiling, and when she does smile, her eyes form the smallest of wrinkles, just like her dad.
"Papa said that him and mama might get to come home for a couple of days while el hijo de Satanás has visitors." She turns to Thomas as he crosses the border from room to hall, and speaks with a caution reserved only for moments like this. She wasn't going to tell him until they knew for sure, but something in her heart told her that waiting would only make him angry. He didn't understand why their parents had to be gone so much, that their sacrifices were the reason he hadn't starved to death in the corner of the district square. Paloma watches him with a gaze bordering pity and fear. The boy's shoulders stiffen, and even though his back is turned, it's obvious that his eyes are open wide.
"Why don't they just stay there? We do fine without them." Thomas's words are pointed. He shakes his head and pushes himself forward into the hall, legs wobbling as anxiety mounts. "I don't even get why they come home at all," he pauses, turning back to his sister with eyes that could kill. "I saw them for maybe 5 minutes last night, and they didn't even say hi."
"You know they're busy, pequeño Leon. Mama and papa cherish every moment they can with us." She follows him as he continues his trek to the kitchen, picking up her brush on the way out in case Loreto's braids had fallen out in her sleep. "They do this for us," she says as she approaches Thomas, arm stretched out to touch his shoulder as a sign of comfort. "Now eat. We'll be going down to the market at noon to trade some beef for this week's vegetables."
To this, he accepts defeat and fills his plate with warm sausage, scrambled eggs, and a spoonful of reheated gravy. This Sunday morning, though just like any other, leaves all three Sandoval children restless for another day to come. Paloma grabs a notepad and pencil from the cabinet and snags a seat between her brother and sister, writing down any items she forgot for today's trip. When finished, she turns to Loreto with a motherly smirk.
"And how would you like your hair today, princesa?" As she waits for the response that she knows will come, Paloma focuses on the weight of the brush in her hand. These kids deserve so much, she thinks longingly. The world should be theirs.
"Two braids, please, manos celestiales" Loreto's Spanish is more broken than her sister's, but Paloma can't help but smile at the innocence that hugs each syllable. She agrees warmly and begins at the front of the angel's head, weaving each strand of hair until the face of the girl not yet grown is framed by nothing but her own grace. Admiring her work, Paloma stands and picks up any stray plates and silverware that hadn't found heir way to the sink.
"We'll leave in 10. Thomas, make sure to tie Rocio to the porch so he doesn't get out." Of course, Rocio, their white-but-greying sheep dog, has already been taken care of. He lies out back, tongue panting wildly under the shade of the cracked, wooden veranda. Life is well, normal even, in the life of the Sandovals, and as Paloma gathers the beef, a water jug, and her wallet into a small cloth bag, she leaves the house wondering what this next month will bring.
May Ripred keep up safe, no matter the troubles we face.
But Paloma is not surprised. After all, there is no real need for a 13 year-old Thomas to wake up and feed the chickens or water the tomatoes or clean up the horses' stable. This had already been done by she, the oldest of the Sandoval children, hours before the sun dared to kiss the lips of the horizon and far before the farm's rooster stood atop its perch to sing its morning song. Every animal and every plant had been taken care of and accounted for. Breakfast was already sitting warm on the gas stove two rooms away. This act was only a part of their routine, Paloma's parental warmth giving Thomas the comfort that their real mother and father never have.
Matias Sandoval and Helen Jackson-Sandoval weren't bad people by any means. They worked hard, a job on an wealthy man's ranch 15 miles away occupying most of their waking hours. However, choice did not tie them to this arrangement. A debt they owed from childhood locked them in a life of servitude, their wages paid not in money or food, but in forgiveness. A family built on strength, with the bricks of two fearless parents and three restless children, was wrecked by a wolf-shaped statute of limitations not yet run out. Paloma, only 12 at the time, was left to repair what only Ripred could fix, with a seven year-old Thomas and a six year-old Loreto crippled by a childhood ruined. Orphanage was the only other option, one which Sandoval pride would not consider.
As she stands in the corner of the room, her legs brushing the end of her younger sister's bed and her hips brushing her own, Paloma stares at the reflection of her face in the foggy glass of the window and wills herself to see a better life. This, too, is merely routine, and yet, it always feels so different. With everything else, she knows what will happen: if she rakes the leaves, they will no longer be scattered; if she washes the sheep dog, he will no longer smell bad. But when she stares-- when Paloma Sandoval surrenders herself to the mystery of life-- she never sees the same thing twice.
Today, she sees herself in a garden full of sunflowers. The sky seems to glimmer as goldenrod yellows and periwinkle blues play tag in the clouds, and a subtle wind chuckles at the fun, sweeping over the leaves and blossoms and grasses with what seems like a playful nudge. Grabbing a single flower off of a nearby bunch, Paloma places it in the front pocket of her sunwashed men's overalls. She smiles. Everything about this scene is wonderful: the heat and the beauty and the peace.... she wishes more than anything to share it with her siblings so that they can know what serenity feels like. For now, though, she resigns herself to holding onto what she can. A reluctant sigh fills her lips as she parts from the hug of her daydream, her back cracking as she turns to grab a sea-green hair brush from the window sill.
Behind her, she can hear Thomas groaning as he rises from his sleep-crusted tomb. He yawns and works a knot out of his curly, black mane with his fingers, his looks of little importance to him compared to his comfort. To this, Paloma scoffs. Every morning, she takes careful care in brushing out her own umber lockes. They stretch down her breasts and back in waves, caressing every curve she's earned from her 18 years on planet Earth. She's of a bigger weight, treated well by her hard work, and there's a glow to her that expresses not the lack of health but rather the its surplus. Her lips are like her mothers, full and always smiling, and when she does smile, her eyes form the smallest of wrinkles, just like her dad.
"Papa said that him and mama might get to come home for a couple of days while el hijo de Satanás has visitors." She turns to Thomas as he crosses the border from room to hall, and speaks with a caution reserved only for moments like this. She wasn't going to tell him until they knew for sure, but something in her heart told her that waiting would only make him angry. He didn't understand why their parents had to be gone so much, that their sacrifices were the reason he hadn't starved to death in the corner of the district square. Paloma watches him with a gaze bordering pity and fear. The boy's shoulders stiffen, and even though his back is turned, it's obvious that his eyes are open wide.
"Why don't they just stay there? We do fine without them." Thomas's words are pointed. He shakes his head and pushes himself forward into the hall, legs wobbling as anxiety mounts. "I don't even get why they come home at all," he pauses, turning back to his sister with eyes that could kill. "I saw them for maybe 5 minutes last night, and they didn't even say hi."
"You know they're busy, pequeño Leon. Mama and papa cherish every moment they can with us." She follows him as he continues his trek to the kitchen, picking up her brush on the way out in case Loreto's braids had fallen out in her sleep. "They do this for us," she says as she approaches Thomas, arm stretched out to touch his shoulder as a sign of comfort. "Now eat. We'll be going down to the market at noon to trade some beef for this week's vegetables."
To this, he accepts defeat and fills his plate with warm sausage, scrambled eggs, and a spoonful of reheated gravy. This Sunday morning, though just like any other, leaves all three Sandoval children restless for another day to come. Paloma grabs a notepad and pencil from the cabinet and snags a seat between her brother and sister, writing down any items she forgot for today's trip. When finished, she turns to Loreto with a motherly smirk.
"And how would you like your hair today, princesa?" As she waits for the response that she knows will come, Paloma focuses on the weight of the brush in her hand. These kids deserve so much, she thinks longingly. The world should be theirs.
"Two braids, please, manos celestiales" Loreto's Spanish is more broken than her sister's, but Paloma can't help but smile at the innocence that hugs each syllable. She agrees warmly and begins at the front of the angel's head, weaving each strand of hair until the face of the girl not yet grown is framed by nothing but her own grace. Admiring her work, Paloma stands and picks up any stray plates and silverware that hadn't found heir way to the sink.
"We'll leave in 10. Thomas, make sure to tie Rocio to the porch so he doesn't get out." Of course, Rocio, their white-but-greying sheep dog, has already been taken care of. He lies out back, tongue panting wildly under the shade of the cracked, wooden veranda. Life is well, normal even, in the life of the Sandovals, and as Paloma gathers the beef, a water jug, and her wallet into a small cloth bag, she leaves the house wondering what this next month will bring.
May Ripred keep up safe, no matter the troubles we face.
We are bound to inherit all the sins of our parents.
