Wind, fresh from the arctic circle, ruffled at her boots as she stood on the cliff. A spot where, only a year ago, she’d once decided to jump, but her knees had given out at the last moment. Now, Avrid stood on the cliff in a secret fume with the site; her composure set, her mind set.
She was going back to her father’s to stay for the winter. But really, she was going home. She cared nothing for her mother’s big house of crystal and glass, as sterile as a secret government laboratory. At her father’s, she could make a mess in her room and no one would frown in disappointment. At her father’s, she could stay up late without being taxed for it in smiles and hugs.
Not that she’d ever admit her disappointment over less hugs and smiles. She was a teenager—there were traditions to keep up. Showing any vulnerable side meant that it would be brought up at the most embarrassing moment, later when she was unsuspecting.
It would be around adults, though, not around other children. She’d seen all of the family films proclaiming the worth of friends, she knew what was supposed to happen, but nothing like that ever worked out for her. They were either intimidated by her reputation in England (she’d beaten up some of her old bullies, been sent around schools as a problem child) or intimidated by her mother’s pocket book. Parents warned their kids: don’t mix with the Norwegian girl with the strange name, she’s violent and her mother likes suing people.
Sometimes an innocent would be brought to the mix, a transfer student or someone new. And for a few days, up to a week, someone might try to “fix” her or befriend her. But not long after, word would get around of Avrid’s past, and the new flowers would wander off in fear and trepidation.
Or, that’s what she imagined, anyway. She’d never actually talked to any of them, just made appropriate sounds when they tried to carry a conversation.
Now, turning away from the cliff, she imagined that perhaps they were much better off without her. What did she know of other people? Precisely nothing. How could she possibly be a good friend when she didn’t know the archaic rituals of true friendship? Surely it was nothing like film, where a spat was fixed with an ice cream cone or a goofy and charming incident.
She was better off by herself, with her camera and her scarves and her color-faded view of reality.
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
