Fragments of Familarity

It begins as a rare grievance, a softly muttered complaint, a sharp flicker of panic, before settling into a dismayed resignation that comes with being born on the high, rocky grounds of Apórrimma. One cannot be picky here, cannot shout their gripes with the world and expect the world to answer accordingly or even at all, in fact. The world, known as an unconcerned acquaintance at best, does not answer to them, does not turn its head, or provide them with a smidge of acknowledgment that relays a promise of reassurance. The world in which they see, their world at the top of the underground, is set high and out of sight within alcoves etched into the cave’s walls.

And it truly begins with Juno, umber-skinned, coily redheaded Juno, the girl who always adorned the usual jades and dark browns that consist of Apórrimma’s colors through frilly persistence. Her quiet sniffles and resignation simmered to a low boil at the realization that her flower hairpin was long gone. She had been searching for it all day within the high, rocky foundations of her village with that same flicker of panic everyone soon learned to restrain. It became startlingly clear to her that she would most likely never find it again, and it left something rather rotten and sour growing in her stomach. She ruffled her fluffy curls in frustration, in some stubborn, petulant type of frenzy that she hoped would somehow prove to the world she was serious enough to have her hairpin back in her awaiting hands.

But, as expected, the world looked elsewhere, shifted its gaze, set its stance in the other direction.

And she knew, somehow, umber-skinned, coily redheaded Juno knew. And it finally clicked in that moment, settled and festered, that deep-seated resignation. She became familiar with it, became a companion to it in that moment before the tears bubbled and trickled from her eyelids. She wiped them with a reserved kind of countenance as she walked home.

She remembered her sister Ladia getting it for her, wrapped prettily with lacey gold ribbon, with a rare pristineness she rarely got to see. She had cradled it with gentle fingers, unfurled the pretty ribbon just to reveal an even prettier hairpin that glistened over the candlelight. It was gold, carved into a poppy, her sister had excitedly informed her. She had no clue what an actual poppy looked like, but she had been so happy at the fact that her sister thought to get her something so beautiful that she had claimed that the imitation of it was better than the real thing.

Ladia had laughed, saying that poppies were even more beautiful, and she hoped that Juno could see them with her someday.

And when she returned home, with those memories encasing her mind, red-eyed and deflated, she ran to her bed before Ladia could see her, know the truth of her carelessness, see her raw-rubbed eyes and unadorned hair, and just know.

She ran and ran.

Then she froze.

Because her hairpin was there on her windowsill, the same as it had always been, with that lacey gold ribbon she kept wrapped tightly and securely and pristinely, just like when Ladia first gave it to her.

She stared, astonished, before her lip wobbled, and new tears started cascading in rivulets down her puffy cheeks. She hastily grabbed the hairpin, pressed it affectionately against her chest, as if it were the very key to the emotions swirling in her sternum.

She knew in her heart it wasn’t Ladia.

She knew in her heart it wasn’t the world’s way of repaying her either.

She didn’t know exactly what it was, but she knew it was something closer, something real and tangible.

And so it continued with Sol, whose black, short curls framed his face, a contrast against his bruised, freckled olive skin. He had always had a mini jar of seashells, an item he had meticulously saved up for a long time when he was smaller, a little more hopeful. It was for a boy who sent his heart aflutter in a way he couldn’t understand at the time. He had planned to give it to him, to show his appreciation for the way he made his cheeks warm and his head happy, but he never got down to it. Not when times got tougher, and the jobs started getting more reckless, and the food started getting scarcer despite how scarce food already was.

He never had the hope, and he never had the heart. Not anymore, not after everything he’d done to get his home back in order in any way he could.

Sol felt like he wasn’t good enough for the boy, so he stayed away, remaining only a distant memory that would sometimes cling to your head when you needed it. He had kept the jar; however, left it to sit and collect dust under his bed.

But with the dangerous jobs he took, something was bound to go wrong in his life. His house was ransacked, scattered, and scrounged for anything he had.

And for some reason—for some damn, stupid fucking reason, he checked to see if the jar was still there.

It wasn’t, and even after all the other important stuff that had actually been taken, been snatched from his very home, the jar being gone, not being a sight he’s always checked in the morning, made him dizzy, made his eyes water with anguish. He had wondered why he kept it, but he knew. He knew he wanted tangible proof that he had some kindness left in him, that he was capable of it, that he could be of benefit to others without it having to be of any benefit to himself.

He had laughed then, hysterically, unabashedly, feeling that familiar, hungry kind of resignation gnaw at his chest. He had planned to find the assholes who looted his home, but a slightly taller form, a familiar face stared back at him once he arrived at the foot of his open door.

“Amari,” he had uttered, heart swelling with warmth and a peculiar fright. He had looked different, but the same just as much, with his sepia skin, with his chestnut locs that had been cut shorter, now reaching the base of his nape, with his kind eyes and kinder disposition.

The boy had smiled sweetly, sadly, holding the jar of seashells Sol never had the heart to give to him. Sol had stiffened then, not uttering a word, but he didn’t have to. Amari looked at him like he knew, like he knew all the feelings and reasons and specifics that made up his life today. He stepped in, nonjudgmental, accepting as he cleaned up the mess Sol’s home had been turned into.

Sol soon followed along, sniffling, wiping his tears as he helped.

“I wish you would’ve gave these to me sooner,” is what Amari whispered. “Then you wouldn’t have had to be alone for all this.”

Sol choked on a sob at the other boy’s words as he continued to clean, but Amari stopped him, grasping his trembling hands in a tight, reassuring interlocking of their fingers.

“I wish you had told me.”

Sol restrained another wracking sob, tightening his grip on Amari’s calloused fingers.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can mutter.

Amari pulls him into an embrace, a longing, heavy type of embrace that presses impossibly deep into your limbs, that sways you side to side like the sweet swing of a hammock.

“I hope you know you could have told me.”

And it happened again with Mr. Augustus, with his porcelain-pale skin and tired eyes that sagged with the darkness of eye bags, with his straight, honey-brown hair and peach fuzz that began its natural growth back on his chin. His feather quill, the one he used to write his letters, his stories, and petty little poems, had up and vanished. He thought maybe he had misplaced it in one of his tired, drunken stupors or dropped it in a crevice he couldn’t hope to reach, but he scrounged and rummaged until his fingers were in the most splendorous of aches.

He had slept on it then, thinking, believing, that if he just went to sleep, it would pop up in the most obvious of places.

But it didn’t, and that deep-settling resignation churned once again. He had groaned in utter frustration, remembering, deeply reminiscing, about when he made the origin story of that very quill, how it was the first story he ever wrote with it, just after his lovely Valorie passed away.

The feather, as pristine and as white as it once was, belonged to a bird of the autumn sky, which carried different seeds to the parched, brittle land of the soil above Apórrimma. The bird carried them to the soil’s many graves, dropped fertile seeds in hopes they would grow by the time spring arrived. It was in tribute; this bird’s doings, to the many people who were vanquished by the great disease that plagued that sorry land.

And just by remembering that, Augustus grew angry— angry at the fact that he lost his quill again, angry at the fact that the only person who listened and read his stories with such intent was withered and gone just like the autumn winds he had written about.

He stood up in a rageful fit, pulling the covers from his bed, shoving the little pictures he had off his walls, throwing the collection of books he had on the floor, causing turmoil and mayhem with what tremendous effort he had to damage.

In this enraged fit of his, he had tripped on his tousled bedding, slipping and hitting his head against his bookshelf. He had crumpled to the floor, his vision turning black as he lost consciousness.

When he awoke, his head was throbbing with a sharp pain, persistent and alive as it scurried in his brain. He saw a blurry figure of cloaked black placing his quill against the sturdiness of his desk. He couldn’t make them out, but he wondered absentmindedly if they had borrowed his quill, now returning it to its rightful owner.

He didn’t know, but when he awoke once more, his unmistakable mess had been cleaned up; his bedding back in place, his books back in their original crannies on the shelf, his pictures back and hanging on the wall. As if, miraculously, he had never thrown such a tantrum at all.

He had laughed once he had gotten his bearings, committing to the idea that he would have to write a story about this particular occasion.

And it persists, endures, this occasion with Lady Eira. An older lady whose age did not show so evidently on her russet-dipped skin. Her braids were covered with a green, floral-patterned scarf, and her eyes gleamed with a youthful glimmer that troubled some who would gaze too intently.

She swirled a coal-colored braid that peaked from beneath her scarf, smiling with a quiet resignation that she had lost her matches. It was rather cold in the particular alcove where she lived, and she had hoped to get a steady fire brewing, maybe even light a cigarette or two whilst she enjoyed the warmth the embers would burrow into her skin.

But alas, they were missing, and she laughed as a familiar cloaked figure approached her home, those same matches held in their hand, a cigarette poised in the other.

“You’ve been out and about, haven’t you, sweet pea? It’s been a while since you’ve visited me.”

The cloaked figure hummed, handing her back her matches. The figure planned to leave, but Eira, as slick as she was, hastily pulled off their hood, revealing a young, russet-skinned woman with a long coal braid scrunched hazardously in a low bun. The young woman barked out a laugh, throwing her hood back on playfully as Eira chortled rambunctiously and without restraint.

“You only came here to return my matches, huh? No hi or hello or hug for this sweet mother of yours?”

Her daughter snorted, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

“Was never in a mood for a hug, mama. You know that.”

“Zariya, you’ve been out scavenging for Above knows what for I don’t know how long. Why don’t you take a breather, sit by this fire I’m about to make? It’s the least you can do for taking one of my matches.”

Zariya sighed, heavy and bothered as she followed her mother into the house. She sat down, poised and stiff, before her mother pulled her hood back off.

She could only groan as Eira laughed again, soon setting up the fire.

“I wanna see my daughter’s pretty face. It’s a shame you keep it hidden in that dreary cloak all the time.”

“People don’t need to see my face. I do what I’m supposed to, then I leave. I can’t have no people following me around, asking how I found this, how I found that. It’s irritating, makes my damn skin itch.”

“Well, you’ve always been like that. You’re gonna be all alone, girl, with that type of mindset hanging over your head.”

The young woman laughed, taking another long drag of her cigarette.

“I know, I know. You say that all the time, but I really don’t mind the life I’m living now. I’m helping people here, giving them something to hope for.”

“And what about yourself, dear? You got something you hope for?”

The girl hummed thoughtfully, staring intently at the fireplace, the smoldering wood flickering with ash.

“I think other people's hope is my hope. This little sickness of mine makes it easy, makes me see all these memories and feelings and all sorts of things.”

Zariya smiled then, and the resignation was potent, a heavy thing.

She gave her mother a quick kiss on the forehead before standing up.

“I’m sure I’ll find some hope on my own, but until then, I’ll just leech off of others.”

She leaves her mother’s house, walking through Apórrimma’s gloominess with a methodical stride to her feet. She sees umber-skinned, coily redheaded Juno, and the little girl rushes over happily to her before whispering a low thank you from her smiling lips.

Zariya stiffened, stunned into silence at the fact that the girl knew, before hesitantly crouching beside her.

“I’ll find that hairpin for you again if need be, but don’t go losing it on the regular, okay? The memories that little pin brings are a special thing.”

The girl sniffles, her smile bright as she nods enthusiastically, giving Zariya a soft, warm kind of hug.

They both shiver.

“Thank you again, Ms. Zariya.”

Zariya stiffens as Juno pulls away before she happily runs down the village path.

How did she know her name?