rowena winters / d11 / (fin)

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

 

R o w e n a   W i n t e r s
d11. seventeen. teenage sorceress.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

R o w e n a

“Rowena, what is that smell?”

Her mother's words, like a tempest, swelled against their paper-thin walls and cured her tiredness. Immediately, Rowena rose to her two feet, aghast.

“It's nothing, mom! Just burning some sage to welcome the new year.”

The words were feverish, contrary to her well-being. As long as she could recall, Rowena had only fallen ill twice in her long sixteen years, once when she was a pigtail-wearing four years old and and came back home from school flushed, another when she was thirteen and decided to smoke a hand-rolled joint. Who knew one could, very unfortunately, be allergic to cannabis?

Of course, her disbelieving mother did not believe Rowena and was now making her way to the room. She worked posthaste like her existence had been condensed to a bare thread, and now, it indeed had.

The cauldron near the window bubbled with every content she'd meticulously threw inside — cloves which bled good luck, a coin she scooped out of a shallow wish fountain, and some finely diced sage.

This time, she was not lying, there was sage involved. She simply did not feel that it was a necessity to disclose the other ingredients, and the deeper intent behind this ritual.

It was more than for good luck.

It was an attempt to earn back everything she once lost: two houses, one father, and the pair of socks she'd painted designed upon. Some things were more trivial than others, but a loss was a loss to Rowena Winters. Each one weighted the same, each one laid itself down as a burden on her heart.

Most assumes that she would be, and connotes her with, cold due to the last name Winters. That she was all frozen over, and that her annual visitation brought along the death of a many floras and faunas. Her connotations were of black ice, frostbite, and icy nights.

But, winters bring forth cozy fires and fresh water. The snow she sheds would thaw as she exits, giving life to more plantations that grow in lieu of the ones she'd wilted to death. Her cold would, ironically, make the world more vibrant than it was before, coloring it with varicolored socks and scarfs and Ratmas ornaments. Her nights were icy, but they would lull the summer babies to a deep, cool slumber.

She was a season of change. The little deaths she let slip through the cracks were mere collateral damage. The one death she would always regret, was her Father's.

Before Rowena could ponder on any further, her slide door was drawn open and she was greeted by the irritated gaze of one Ms. Winters. Suddenly, Rowena was not so sure if her petite frame could hide the cauldron and its drifting trail of steam behind its height.

“Seriously, Ro?” She crossed her arms over her chest. It was strange to see her Mother like this: stern and lecturing. “You know the neighbors have been complaining for a week now.”

“They are a bunch of hooligans! The smell shouldn't even reach their window, which is like several feet away from ours!” A silhouette arrived in the periphery of Rowena's eye and she didn't need to guess who it was. She turned to the window, looking at her neighbor. “Yeah, Jake, I am talking about you and your absurd lies. If you don't like the smell of herbs, just close your goddamn window.”

Her mother's hand pushed her back and she stepped forward, to the light and soft sunbeams that made Rowena realize how worn she'd become. “Do not mind her, dear, she's just a little cranky today.”

She heard Jake's “she's cranky every day.” as her mother closed the window. Silence hangs above them for a few seconds, but Rowena hears the disappointment before her mother could even open her mouth. “We need this house, Rowena. It's our third. We cannot live on the streets again, and that's going to happen if that neighbor files a complaint to the landlord, do you understand?” She doesn't respond, so her mother repeats:

“Do. You. Under. Stand. Rowena Winters?”

Sighing, she steps away from the cauldron after mumbling a “Yes, I understand.” aloud to her.

Her mother makes a sigh, combs her fingers through the mob of hairs – a collection of grey strands and dark rivulets – before leaving the room. Rowena subconsciously replicates her sigh, exhaling as she kills the tiny flare beneath the cauldron. Its green bubbles disintegrate.

She closes the window, harshly so that it startles Jake, and looks around for a moment — at how the sunlight escapes from the windowpane and the crevices in the walls, and at the beautiful mess that is her small room, nestled near the bottom of a rundown tenement. There are unfinished books, sprawling over the cheap wooden table, and potion glasses sit in their chambers, collecting dust.

No matter how much she moves, and has to move in the forthcoming future, Rowena knows how to make anything a home that reeks of mysterious shrooms and is crowded with her possessions.

She strides over to the table and leans down to retrieve an item: a worn scrapbook that is ineptly facing the oppression of time. Fingers tremble before she opens its page — as if reluctant of the contents within.

Inside, are pictures and scribbles, poems that she could translate to incantations, trivia about special plants. She's been cultivating these pages for two years now, making it a physical storage for memories that she fears forgetting.

Between a page dedicated to poisonous flowers and relics, lies his picture. Mother used to say that Rowena had his features. Now, she cannot imagine it: her shoulders are not that broad, and her smile did not transcend the sun's.

“I miss you, Dad.” She mutters, nails scratching the side of his grainy face and sentiments and memories scratching the red of her heart.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

she's ready to be snatched!

[sbeeg]