Brigit's Flame July Week 2: It Hurts When I Do This
[[This is...a bit of a sketch on a character for an original work. Inspired by Dixie Chicks - "Not Ready to Make Nice".]]
Week 2: It Hurts When I Do This
The grass princess, sighed, looking from her family shrine to her family house. Many years had passed since she had been home. Her own rage had made her leave. Now, she wasn't sure she could accept the inheritance her parents gave her--the whole plot of land with the garden, the shrine, and the elaborate house.
Her father's incessant need to push her beyond her boundaries had hurt. Her mother's need for her to be the perfect obedient daughter had hurt too. Her childhood had been stolen from her at seven when her elder brother fell ill and passed away. She'd been forced to play the role of both son and daughter. She chose to leave home at sixteen unable to resolve her own needs with those of her parents. That pain and bitter rage had kept her away for so many years, furious at her own family. Of course, it was much too late now, and she still wasn't ready to forgive and forget.
She sighed, walking around the grounds, examining the garden. It had been her favorite place to sit and have some peace as a child. Plants always listened, people didn't. The plants didn't care for perfection. They had simple needs--a little water, some kind words, equal parts sun and shade. She was surprised that someone had been taking care of them. A neighbor, according to the letter she'd received. The garden had been her realm.
She bent down, caressing the petals of a beautiful deep burgundy rose in a far corner of the garden plot. "I always liked you," she murmured aloud. The rose had always been so different from all the other flowers. Her parents liked reds and pinks, but she had always liked the dark roses hidden in the corner. It was so rich in reddish coloring that it sometimes looked almost purple. It was distracting from the colorscheme of pinks, whites and reds.
Her spirit calmed slightly and she sighed, standing up and walking toward the shrine. Once in the shrine, she lit the stick of incense from the container and stuck it in the appropriate dish, kneeling in front of the stone panels now engraved with her mother and father's names at the bottom.
Speaking aloud, she sighed, "Time hasn't healed everything. I'm still mad. I still can't forgive the fact that I was hurt. I'm sorry it's too late to fix it. But, I'll try to keep the house."