Page 5 of Hellebore

Isabel may be nearly an adult, but she is as innocent as a child in her mind. The world is safe to her, and my mother – callous and snide – has no respect for her soft heart.

Mother hums beneath her breath, as though considering. “An ill fate for a woman of faith, but nevertheless… life continues.”

A sob grips my chest. How did someone as sweet as Isabel come from such a wicked woman?

“H-how did she die?” Isabel asks quietly, avoiding looking towards me or mother.

“Strangled, apparently. Quite symbolic,” my mother tuts. A sharp sorrow splinters my ribs, shards of despair burrowing into my chest. How could that ever be an act of symbolism? Symbolic of what?

“Symbolic?” Isa asks as though reading my thoughts. “Well, her breath was stolen, the very breath our savior gave her. She rebelled against divine creation and thus, he silenced her from whence the dissent came.”

“I asked Santa for a way out of here,” Francesca had said as she leaned against the timber slatted wall of the hideout.

It was the peak of winter, cool sun sharp across the mountains, trickling through the trees. Christmas felt like an age away, yet our plans had begun – our escape. We clung to hope of help from anywhere.

“If only Santa were real,” I sighed, anxious.

“God, Santa, Satan… none of it is real, my friend. They’re all just tools to make children abide rules put in place by generations before.” Francesca replies with a sly smile. “Likely men, keeping their wives in line with tales of punishment and torture in the afterlife, if they so much as show their ankles.”

“How wise you are, sweet Raven.”

She giggled, shaking her head, her dark locks tousling over her shoulder. We shared that trait, the sable hair, though hers was always glistening in the sun, while mine was akin to cinders left in a fireplace.

“One day, I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to fly away and never look back. I’ll pickpocket to survive, until I meet a gloriously rich man who will dote on my every whim.”

Such a dreamer. I loved that about her.

“As long as you take me with you,” I urged, gripping her hand as the sunlight streamed through the cracks in the roof above us. Her face shone as though she were immortal. I both adored her and envied her. She was my entire universe, for as long as I could remember.

“What shall we do when we first leave?” She asked, her eyes sparkling as she tilted her head back to allow the sun on her face.

“I want to find the biggest, juiciest steak that was ever made. I want it bloody and crispy and everything mixed into one.”

“Disgusting. I love it,” she let go of my hand, pacing across the floor towards the opposing wall. “What’s this?” she asked, lowering herself to the floor.

I joined her, my knees creaking as I squat into the dust. “What’s what?”

“This.” She pointed to a marking on one of the panels. I gently pushed aside overgrown weeds, clearing them for a better view. A pentagram. Five points carved into the splintering timber of the hideout wall.

“Fucking hell,” she breathed and my chest involuntarily constricted. I couldn’t stand when she cursed. My mind wandered to lashings and soap in my mouth, and my body responded in fear.

“Frannie!” I whispered sharply at her. It really was no wonder why my mother began to dislike her so much when she hit puberty. She was born to push boundaries, to rebel and cause havoc. It’s one of the reasons I adored her so. She was everything I couldn’t be.

“Oh hush, little rabbit. It’s just a word.” She leaned closer to the marking, brushing her fingertip against the lines. “Carved, with a knife I suppose. Who would have done this?” she asked, as if I should know the answer.

Nicknames are an interesting occurrence. The way they grow on us like a second skin, from moments that were never meant to matter. They cling to you, following you like a shadow you can’t shake.

I still remember when mine began.

Little Rabbit.

It grew from layers of tacky glue and torn paper, sticking to me like the paper mache’ it was born from.

Francesca and I as adolescents, sitting quietly at my mother’s pristine dining table, handmade paste sticky between our fingers, our laughter echoing through the room. The moment bubbles inside my mind, scalding and wounding as her innocent face fills the space between the heartache.

She was the raven, the dark bird who signified the death of the holy one. And I, a rabbit – the symbol of his rebirth, his awakening into a new, fertile life. We spent longer than necessary creating them, cutting paper, placing them with precise fingers. All for a play curated by the small community chapel for Easter celebration. A story of our savior, so they say, that proceeded for no more than thirty minutes.

But we adored them, they gave us the ability to adapt personas we would never be brave enough to, normally – and that felt like true freedom.