Page 2 of Creeping Beautiful

And you never quite know if she’s just immune to the chaos or if she’s controlling it like some force of nature.

I don’t care what she’s done or will do in the future. It doesn’t matter how many years pass or how many other ways I know her, in my mind she is this girl. The Eye of Indie. The one I first met when she was ten.

This afternoon she is swirling dark skies pouring out tears. Drenched through to her skin, cornered, wide-eyed, filled with fear, and with no way out.

She needs something.

Not specifically me, just one of us. And I’m easy to find.

Indie’s long straight hair always looks dark even though it’s blonde. Her face is too pale even though she tans brown in the sunshine. And her eyes remind me of angry thunderheads backlit by wild blue lightning.

That’s a storm right there if ever there was one.

But she always comes with flowers too. There is always another, hidden side to this girl.

There’s no telling how that flower will present—a small bud tucked behind her ear, an embroidered patch on her old, ripped jeans, or a new tattoo on her wrist.

I have seen her with all three in times past but this afternoon it’s just a graphic design on a t-shirt partially visible through the opening in her jacket.

But let me be clear. Because it would be a mistake to assume her obsession with botanicals and her Bohemian name accurately describe the monster inside her head.

Indie Anna Accorsi is fragile like footsteps on thin ice. She is soft like the skin of a poisonous snake. And she is quiet like a panther watching you from a tree.

You do not take your eyes off her.

Today Indie is faded, ripped jeans and tough-girl brown boots. Black leather jacket with a maroon-checked flannel underneath, and a vintage band t-shirt peeking through the haphazard button job.

Guns N’ Roses. I recognize it—used to be black, now faded to gray. White skull flanked on either side by red roses. She stole it from me when she was eleven—and immediately I start wondering how much thought she put into this little impromptu visit.

Indie Anna Accorsi is not spontaneous. She is a well-thought-out plan.

She wears a faded pink velvet choker around her neck. Also, something I recognize. And she’s turned the cuffs of her flannel into fingerless gloves. Small holes at the wrists with thumbs poking through.

She is not the Eye of Indie right now.

And I did that to her.

I made her—I shaped her into this wicked paper-doll of a girl.

This isn’t bragging.

It makes me sad to see her. It makes my heart hurt in a way I can’t explain. It fills me with regrets.

But it wasn’t just me.

I wasn’t the one who broke her, but I definitely played my part.

When I open the door, it’s raining so hard there’s a waterfall rolling off the awning covering my stoop. The loudness that comes with the storm is like a background soundtrack to a very sad movie.

Indie’s leaning against the old wooden fence on the far side of my gravel driveway smoking a cigarette. How she even keeps that thing lit in this downpour, I’ll never understand. It’s like she’s got a shield around her hand and the rain never touches it.

She didn’t knock so I have no idea how long she was standing outside looking through the front window of my shop. From the state of her drenched clothes it was a long time. And right now everything about her is cold and wet.

Something about her is always cold and wet.

“Indie,” I say. But my whispered greeting is way too soft to make it past the pounding of the storm around us.

Lightning strikes off in the distance. Right above her head like she’s the goddess of storms. And then, seconds later, the low rumble of thunder formally announces her arrival.