✖ ✍ ♬ ✂
(( cracks my mcfucking knuckles and slaps this all under a read more ))
✂ - a vivid memory/✍ - a memory of their mother
“Mamma! Mamma, det har snöat!”
She could hardly bare to tear her gaze away from the scene outside, her nose and pudgy palms pressed against the frosty window. Her first snow in England! It snowed in Sweden all the time, but Mamma had always said that where Pappa grew up, it never snowed. But it had! She was certain it was because she’d wished for it for Christmas - because she had, last night, and now the garden was covered thick with a crisp white blanket.
“Shh, älskling! Pappa is still asleep!” The voice came from behind her, accompanied by the shh-shh of slippers on the kitchen tiles, and she whirled around, flying towards her Mamma gleefully. More than used to her rambunctious daughter, her mother stooped slightly and let her throw her arms around her, laughing and squeezing her. “Surely, you are not excited by snow, Saki? You’re meant to be Swedish!”
Flora only laughed, letting her mother kiss her on the head before squirming free and making a bid for the door, still only in bare feet and pyjamas. She only made it a few feet before Mamma snagged her, strong arms looping around her waist and spinning her around. “You’re not a polar bear, baby! If you’re going to play in the snow, you need your warm things on. Come on, let’s get you ready.” Together, they dressed her in snow boots, salopettes, and a thick sweater. In the mirror, Flora looked like an overstuffed ragdoll. Beside her, her mother looked radiant - pre-Raphaelite in her pyjamas, bending down to kiss her daughter’s flushed cheek. At seven years old, already impatient and yearning to go outside, Flora had no idea how beautiful her mother was. At two-times-twenty-three, Flora wished she had paid more attention. With one final check, Mamma finally let her dash over to the door. As Flora unlocked the back door and stepped out onto the patio, delighting at the crunch of snow beneath her boots, her mother called out, “Saki, you forgot your gloves!”
Her mother could wait. There were snow angels that needed making.
✖ - a repressed memory
Her head hurt. Her cheeks were hot, her eyes stinging, and a pounding headache tore its way through her temples. Nonetheless, the argument raged on. It’d been coming a while - her father had been silent at mealtimes, her step-mother had left the room whenever the three of them were in the same room, and, possibly the most compelling factor, she’d dropped out of university two weeks ago. In hindsight, that was probably the kicker, right?
“You treat us like strangers, Saki! I’m sick of this! What do you think you are doing?”
“Shut up! This isn’t my fault!”
“Isn’t your fault, you say? This isn’t your fault?! Well, now I’ve heard it all! Call Ryoko in here, and tell her that!”
“When was the last time you came to visit me, huh? When did you ever shut the fucking restaurant for one stupid day, and come and see me? I was all alone up there, Pappa!” Her voice cracked on ‘alone’, and she made an impatient noise, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes for a moment, seeing starbursts. “You might as well be a stranger to me, for all the time you’ve got for me.”
There was a long silence, then footsteps and the sound of the living room door opening, then closing. She was quiet, then sniffled, then raggedly began to cry.
♬ - a friend/best friend memory
Lolling back on the beanbag, one hand curled lazily around her Walkman, Flora reached out to take the proffered joint. She should’ve been home, like, three hours ago, but she just couldn’t be bothered. There were too many kids and too much work to do, and it was so freakin’ boring. This was way better.
“Jesus, Kiki, don’t bogart it. There’s two of us here.”
Flora rolled her eyes, waggling the joint between two fingers, “This is therapy. I need this. You’re bein’ a charitable friend. Sharing is caring.”
The other girl huffed. Her name was Ella, and she was the only person who’d called her Kiki in at least a decade. They’d reconnected after Flora had come home, disgraced, from university, and her connections made her a pretty good person to have around. “God, fine. But you’re letting me have the bed tonight, then. I’m not made of money.”
“It’s not money, though - like, it’s material posse-”
“Alright! Alright! Give it over, idiot.” Failing to hide her amusement, Ella grinned and reached over again impatiently. Flora raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips, directing a column of smoke into her friend’s eyes. The indignant squeal that followed was almost supersonic, and as Flora took a pillow to the face, the stub of the joint fell to the floor, all but forgotten.
