Small rays of sun, not yet caught by the overflowing clouds and trees blocking the view from the window, slip into the room, dancing across the floor in quiet, tip-toed steps, eventually twirling into faded shadows, shadows that rest heavy, like a suffocating smog set to choke the bustling city underneath. There is hardly enough light to see four steps to the front, but Vera does not turn on the lights. She never does. Instead, she rests for just a while longer, feeling momentary peace in the waves of blanket surrounding her, lulling away restless thoughts and tempting her to succumb to sleep once more. She could drown in the sheets, closing out the indifferent world and stay in the infinite warmth of escape, the warmth of a womb and a mother’s arms and ignorance. But as always, there is a constant, billowing sense of alarm pounding in the back of Vera’s mind, forcing her to pull herself as tight as possible, so that not even a drop could leak through the impenetrable defense.
Bare feet padding across the chilly wooden floor, Vera makes her way to the dressing table and hanging mirror sitting aloofly in the corner of the bedroom. Aconite flowers carved into its golden frame, the mirror stands in striking, luxurious contrast to the bland, oatmeal beige of the wall. Petals layered on petals, leaves falling across other leaves and petals and stems, bees and birds and butterflies resting lightly on the edges, flitting about in the garden, wings outstretched to the sky, captured within that rigid, rectangular frame. And equally captured within is Vera’s unfeeling reflection. Gray eyes that might’ve shone silver in her childhood are held center stage to the thick curtains of light blonde hair framing her face. In the mornings, Vera’s hair flies freely in every direction, as if blown by a sea breeze bringing the scent of salt, and seaweed, and sulphur to the edge of a cliff just overlooking some beautiful beach scenery. When she didn’t live in the Metropolis, it was a result of her restless shifting in sleep, turning about like a barrel thrown down a half-pipe. Now, she no longer shifts as she sleeps, but her hair never stops flying.
Vera pulls down those flighty strands, anchors them with brushes and misted water and dry shampoo, tames them as she would the spirit of a wild beast. It cascades down her back in waves, thick ropes dropping off the side of a ship. It will soon be tied in intricate knots, in an updo that squeezes her just a little tighter each time she pulls the last ribbon through. But for now, she feels the weight against her back and neck, a source of warmth that never lasts past the morning.
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She takes each section and pleats it neatly, one strand over the next, then the other strand pulling over, until the finished sections coil around themselves like snakes, like maybe, if she willed it, she could become Medusa, and turn the world to stone. She doesn’t. Instead, she ties her hair up with her favorite red ribbon, and turns away from her reflection with disgust.
She laughs, once. It rings hollowly, unable to fill the space between the walls, and sinks back into the silence soon after. Soon, the room has forgotten that scornful smile. Vera has not.
She pushes up on her knees, stiff from the past half-hour’s disuse, and stands, wobbly, like a fawn learning to walk for the first time, but missing the innocent hope and curiosity towards the world that could be explored with working legs. Her face disappears from the mirror, replaced with the fine, white linen of her nightgown, draping across her form in soft curves, contrasting with the rigid lines of her expression. Vera pulls her creaking joints together, until they are once again placed in a picture-perfect position of high-class elegance and etiquette. The legs move, almost of their own volition, towards the closed window on the other side of the room. Outside, languidly resting in the swaying branches of a young tree, is a bird with feathers darker than the Metropolis night, yet glittering with iridescent stars (a phenomenon never seen in the ever light-polluted city), echoing the ironic beauty of an oil spill. Vera watches as the crow tenses up, aware of her presence, and flies towards the smoothly rising sun. He is not Icarus, and his wings are not wax, she reminds herself. Her eyes, the faint trace of longing hid, buried, under layers of hope disappointed, time and time again, turn away from that blinding sky. Her own wings have long since melted away.