two years ✵ wce

Instructions

— Charlie was a boy’s name. When people heard of the Hawthorne heir, Charlie, they thought of a sprightly young boy with bright eyes and perfect manners. Perhaps he was a little rough around the edges, but in that mischievous, boyish way that was more charming than harmful. People thought of a boy with smooth skin like ivory and impeccably neat blonde locks the same shade of his parents. People thought of eyes like the summer sky and rosy cheeks, a beautiful child who would grow into a handsome man. People did not think of Charlotte, who would only respond to the name Charlie and nothing else. People did not think of the girl with ruddy cheeks and tanned skin marred by perpetual scars, bruises, and dirt stains. People did not think of the knobby knees and long legs she hadn’t grown into yet, nor the intense yet muddy brown of her irises, nor the tangled brunette strands of her hair that resembled a thorny briar bush in its messy, chaotic state. People did not think of her voice, loud without trying, raspy and rough like a match always on the verge of ignition. Charlotte Ann-Louise Hawthorne was a puzzle, one that left her parents shaking their heads in disappointment and confusion, asking how their only child had ended up nothing like her family. She was a firecracker, someone who fought all the rules laid out by the tall walls of the manor and the cold marble floors that coated every room. People whispered, stared, judged the rebellious daughter of the Hawthornes. But Charlie was not a rebel. She just… was. She herself asked her what made her so different, why her blood boiled under her skin, why her temper was so short, why she looked and acted nothing like her parents, and couldn’t change herself to fit their standards. The truth was, there was no reason. Charlie was simply herself, and nothing would change that. But different was not acceptable in the house. Every act of defiance came with a consequence. Soon, Charlie spent more time locked in her room than out. She didn’t mind, not really. Not when she could be alone, without the suffocating expectations and rules. So she waited. Time passed, became a routine. Meals were delivered thrice a day, short messages on the occasion. Drawings appeared on the walls, made in fits of boredom, until the room was more canvas than bedroom. Sometimes, she heard people. Muddy, garbled conversations slipping through walls and distorted voices that made Charlie’s head hurt if she tried to listen for too long. They faded soon after, melting into the background, and she returned to her art. It was a routine, one that had long since become her life. The days had bled into hours, maybe years. Time didn’t exist when there wasn’t a clock in your room. Everything was a blur. Charlie didn’t care. She didn’t care about much those days. She just kept drawing. — “Wake up.” The words made the crayon—was it a crayon? She couldn’t tell, couldn’t care—pause against the wall. Her eyes widened as she turned around. Immediately, though, the world spun and she whipped back around, pressing her forehead against the stained wall with her eyes squeezed shut. The voice repeated again. “Wake up.” Only then did her eyes shift to the side, catching a glimpse of the window. It was morning, the sun shining blindingly as it often did in the height of summer. The glare hurt, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Carefully, slowly, she inched to the side, reaching out to the window. Her fingers pressed against the glass, cold to her touch, and something akin to a revelation overtook her. The latch unlocked—whether of its own accord or her unconscious movement she didn’t know—and the window swung open at the gentlest touch. The light enveloped her, a dawn she didn’t know she’d missed, and as she closed her eyes, for the first time since the door had locked shut, she smiled. — (cont below) —