Everette

Can a heart so pure, ever truly stay pure without a little darkness? Sometimes to understand darkness; one must dance with it first...

   I remember how mother used to brush my silver hair; with love and patience. As a child, it was our way of bonding. But through the years, I'd grown to believe that this simple activity would lose its appeal. Everything began to gradually lose its appeal; it was like watching a bug drown in water. I am forced to watch it drown.

In my little village, there's an Inn, though it's a bit run down. We hardly get any travelers, and when we do, they don't stay for long. Most of them seem to be on their way to the kingdom, judging by the way they're dressed. Pretty garments with their chins up high. Important people. They seem happy. I wonder if they're happy because they're important or if they're just...happy.

People who aren't happy often come to the tavern. Sometimes I see happy people go in them, like me. I enjoy the ambiance, even though it can get a bit rowdy. There's a certain beauty in overlapping noise, I think. Beyond the stone pathway on the other side of the village, is a small shrine. People often come here to pray, hoping they can feel again.

A bony creature rubs against my leg, interrupting my walk. I stop, looking down at the black cat. It meows weakly, its eyes a black void of hunger. When I kneel down to pet it, it looks into my emerald orbs for a moment, but then immediately runs off toward the shrine.

I begin to quicken my pace, lifting the hem of my already tarnished dress. Some villagers stare at me oddly, wondering what strange adventure I was up to today. Or probably because I wasn't wearing shoes again. It was a habit of mine; I felt more freedom without shoes. My favorite part was running in the grass, even after heavy rainfall. Mud was fun, despite what girls my age would think. When I was younger, it was a habit my mother grew to despise. Even in my twenties, I haven't lost my childlike wonder.

Up ahead, the cat skips along the stone pathway. It almost looks like it was having fun! Even if it was starving, it still seemed to find ways to be happy. The cat could become a great role model for the people here. Even if circumstances seemed bad; you could still find joy in something.

"Kitty, come back!" I shout, breathless. The cat doesn't look back.

When I reach the top of the hill, my knees give in. I fall, catching myself with my hands. I was always frail growing up. I wasn't malnourished. Mother fed me. We just...didn't have a lot of food. The village was fairly poor to begin with. Sometimes we'd receive help from the kingdom. Riders would come and bring us food and clothing, though not in the best condition.

Still, I was grateful. I know the Queen was a busy person. She didn't have time to help out little villages like ours.

Not realizing I was staring into the ground, a sudden hand touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

I turn, noticing that it was Mr. Weis. He's an elderly man that's usually seen praying at this time. Just before sunset. He has one hand behind his back, and the other outstretched to me. I take it, noting the way his lips form into a smile. It was genuine, reaching his eyes. Usually, people smile at me and it never reaches their eyes. When they frown at me, I could see hatred brimming in their eyes.

"Sorry," I apologize, patting the dirt off my dress. "I was chasing after a cat..."

Mr. Weis nods, his other hand coming behind his back. An effort to help support his posture, I'm sure. We begin to walk toward the shrine, admiring the birds resting on the arch of the shrine. Mother used to describe a birds chirp to my whimsical voice. I always thought it was an interesting comparison.

"Always at your adventures, I see."

"How have you been?" I ask, hearing the accent roll off my tongue.

"Fairly well. I'm grateful every day, being able to see my grandson live out his days. He reads to me each night, you know. Learning new words makes him happy, I can tell by his tone. Before, he always sounded so uninterested." He was practically glowing.

It was usually like that in the beginning. "I'm glad to hear it," My smile grows wider. "Little Wren is always a joy to play with."

He would be at tonight's firefly festival. Every year, children and adults participate. The tradition is we get an empty jar, and catch as many fireflies as possible. For whoever catches the most, will have luck all year. I've never won before, given the fact that children have more endurance than me.

Mr. Weis smiles again, the wrinkles on his face profoundly more noticeable. He still has a lot to live for. For instance, watching his grandson, Wren, grow up to be a knight. He wants to become strong, leave the village and go on fantastical adventures. I suffer with the same wander lust, after being cooped up for so long.

"I believe the world is a beautiful place," Mr. Weis says out of nowhere, his gaze shifting to the greenery around the shrine. There was mostly moss covering the statues, but moss was still a part of nature. And nature should be respected. "it's people that make it ugly."

I frown at that, looking off toward the horizon. My hair dances in the breeze, accompanied by leaves that seem to dance all around me. My hand absent mindedly reached up to my neck, tracing my cross necklace. Mr. Weis has plenty of wisdom. He told me once that he could see the color of people's auras. He told me mine was a pristine white, while others a dim gray. I didn't believe him at first, but then I understood.

Mr. Weis couldn't see the color of his aura, but that made sense. If I could see it, I'd say it was a dim gray. Not because he wasn't a good person, but because he was dead.

Everyone here was dead.

* * *

When I get home, light has already turned to shadow.

My home is across from the inn, surrounded by a wooden fence with poor workmanship. The fences weren't even aligned evenly, and some protruded forward. I'm sure the next storm we get would wipe everything out. I enter through the door.

I find mother in my room. She's sitting on my bed, staring through the window. My room is small, the bed taking up most of the space. A single candle flickered on my bed stand, mother must've lit it. She loves candles. Turning her head slightly at the sound of my footfalls, she speaks, but I was unable to see her expression. "Come here, darling."

"Yes, mother." I walk over to her, noting what she was wearing. Her usual hand-me-down dress, a faint blue and white color. It used to be vibrant in color, but lack of proper washing rendered it to this soiled state. Her hair was becoming gradually gray, and she always kept it in a ponytail, hanging down her shoulders. And her eyes. Her eyes were the same color as mine, but light didn't reach them.

Her dry lips curve awkwardly, attempting a smile of some sort. I sit at the edge of the bed, placing my hands on my lap. After a couple of seconds, mother begins brushing my short, shoulder length hair.

When I was little, mother always brushed my hair. For her, it was calming-- and she needed to feel that.

At first, she was gentle. But when she felt a knot in my hair, I could feel the brush get caught in the knot. She yanked-- hard, on accident or purpose. Causing my head to tilt, I cry out. She sighs. "Honestly, how do you keep getting knots in your hair?"

"I-I don't know-"

"Haven't I told you to brush every day?"

She doesn't give me the chance to respond between the pulling.

"And these split ends," She pauses, holding out a piece of my hair. "Your hair used to be so much prettier, darling."

I watch a strand land on my lap. My hands instantly clutch at my dress, and I am reminded of how patient mother used to be when she brushed my hair. Now, that love and patience turned to something sad. I hoped after her death, brushing my hair would bring her some kind of peace again. But I was wrong. Through each effort, she'd only get more annoyed.

My mother was alive again; but her humanity wasn't.

It affected people differently, being revived from the dead, that is. They feel empty, completely and utterly lifeless. The things that used to bring them joy, doesn't bring them joy anymore. But it gets better. It got better for Mr. Weis. I wanted to hope it'll get better for mother.

My hands were getting clammy. At this point, I was worried she'd rip all my hair out. The knot was gone, but she still continued brushing. And brushing, and brushing, and brushing. . .

"Please stop," I whisper, my lip quivering. There was a moment of tension before her hand falls to her side. And she falls forward, burying her forehead against my neck. I jump, my heart immediately skipping beats. I was afraid of my own mother. The silence in the room was unnerving. There was only the sound of cicadas singing outside my window. I wanted more than anything to be outside with them. I wanted to feel the summer breeze against my skin, to bathe in the moon's glow.

I was beginning to wonder if mother fell asleep.

But then the stillness of the room was replaced by a sad, cracking voice. "Why?" She begins, letting the dreaded word hang in the air. "Why did you have to bring me back to life?"

I listen to her cry, transcending into a convulsive sob that could shatter the very ground beneath us. Her words sting my heart, and tears begin streaming down my face. I make no effort to wipe them, and just sit there as she cries into my very soul. Even when her finger nails begin trailing down my skinny arms, I make no attempt to move.

I could only try to blink away the droplets lingering on my eyelashes.

* * *

Fireflies accompany me as I venture beyond the shrine, following a narrow path that leads to the meadow. All I wanted to think about was catching fireflies. But when my hands trail along the scratches on my arms, all I could think about was mother. Wrapping my hands around my tiny frame, I try to forget. The more I try though, the more persistent the pain becomes

Her cries echo into my ears, and I could almost feel blood dripping from them. But that was an exaggeration. What I actually felt was a fist crushing my heart, squeezing until there was nothing left. That's how it usually felt, when others were in pain. When I bring someone back to life, we become connected. However, I'm still trying to explore the depths of that connection.

There are good days and there are bad days.

I blink furiously, my vision blurring. Tears were threatening to fall again, but I wouldn't let them. I lift my gaze from the ground, and ran. I ran until my tears couldn't catch up with me and all I could think about was catching fireflies.

Before reaching the meadow, I have to pass a bridge first. When my emotions would get the best of me, I'd come here to gather my thoughts. There's the sound of water, coming from a stream that travels underneath the bridge. The bridge is old, and flat enough to where you can sit at the edge and let your feet rest in its current. Usually, I'd stop here to rest, but now, the last thing I wanted was to rest with my thoughts.

In the distance, I see silhouettes. Short and tall. Children and their parents. I smile, thinking of how the festival was a great opportunity. Tradition usually makes people nostalgic; it could coerce humanistic emotions within them. I notice how bright the moon is, making everything around me glisten. From the blades of grass to flower petals-it was beautiful.

Little Wren was the first to notice me. When he does, he drops his jar and runs over to me. We hug quickly, his tiny arms squeezing my neck. He has freckles, black hair and brown eyes. He wasn't wearing any shoes, like the other children. They liked to be barefoot, too. "Come play with us, Evie!" He calls, brown eyes lighting up just like a firefly.

I could feel the stares of the adults all around me. Save for Mr. Wren, who waves and smiles at me. I wave back, making an effort to smile at everyone. The others give me an almost pained expression.

Children run and scream all around me. Wren jumps around like a grasshopper, quick on his feet. He'd caught two fireflies before I could even blink. Melly, a girl with double pigtails and a broken tooth catches one in front of me. Arthur pushes her-playfully-both of them rolling around in the grass. I kneel down, catching one near my foot and grinning like a child.

I was given a jar. And by the end of the night, I'd caught a total of six. Like previous years, the children had much more energy than me.

I wasn't sure how much time had transpired, but it seemed like the festival was drawing to a close. Jars lit up with fireflies, and there were barely any left around us.

Everyone gathers at the center, and all at once, we raise the jars to the sky.

When we open them, the fireflies fly toward the sky, painting a pretty picture. One that I would remember. The children, with their mouths agape, their eyes in awe. It was a silent type of calm. I couldn't quite describe it. I felt so warm, watching their peaceful expressions. Even the adults, their pained expressions seemed to melt watching their little ones look so happy.

This was the second chance I wanted to give them.

After walking back home, I try to hold onto this peaceful feeling. Mr. Weis walks into step with me, holding Wren's hand. The boy couldn't stop boasting about how he'd caught the most. I laugh; listening to Wren go on about all the fireflies he'd caught like it was an epic tale.

"Then, there was a dragon! Right in front of me, blocking the path! I just had to get that last firefly, you see..."

"Right, right..." I tease. "And what weapon did you use to defeat the dragon?"

"A sword, of course-" His heroic tale is cut short when we hear a strange, almost foreign sound. A horse's neigh. It's stationed right outside the village. Someone was here. For them to have a horse, it was probably someone important. Mrs. Doreen, the innkeeper, walks outside of the inn then, looking relieved to see me.

"Ah, there you are, Everette." She begins, "there is a man here to see you. He's waiting inside."