She Was

She Was
Summary: Some answers to the questions of "Why does Brendolyn…?
OOC Date: 11/03/2014 (OOC)
Related: None
The heart of a child
A collection of dates from age ten to seventeen

She was ten years old.

The door slammed shut on her room and she retreated from the world, from her family, from life. It was what she wanted but in hindsight likely not what she actually needed. The death of a loved one can be consuming, and this was. It swallowed little Bren whole.

Day One: Sheer terror.
She's gone. What will we do? What will papa do? What will I do? Who will teach me to be what I am supposed to be? Momma always told me to follow her footsteps but now they are gone. What steps do I follow now? What if Papa dies too? Or Me? What if I just.. never wake up. How can I sleep again? Was she in pain? Did she try to call for help? What if she isn't really dead and just sleeping so hard that she can't wake up and then she's buried and wakes up and dies in her grave? I don't understand. I don't know who I am anymore. I want my mother.

Day Two: Sorrow.
My chest hurts. My eyes can't cry anymore. Everywhere I look I see that she's not there, but she should be. She said I could be anything I wanted to be, I wanted to be her. Did she know that I wonder? Did she know? Did I tell her I loved her yesterday? I can't remember. What if I didn't say it? Papa's heart is broken too, I know it. Nothing will ever be unbroken again. Ever.

Day Three: Anger.
I will not sew. I will not sing. I will not cook. I will not brush my hair. I will not wear ribbons. I will not draw. I will not read. I will not. I WILL NOT! I did those things with her, I will never do them again. Ever. I will shoot bows. I will ride horses. I will swim. I will hunt. I will use a knife. I will drink ale and cuss. I will do whatever the hell I want to do as long as none of it reminds me of her. I am not sweet little Bren anymore, I am Brendolyn, and I WEAR BREECHES.

She was twelve years old.

For two years she'd engrossed herself in being everything except a proper little lady. Her heart came too near to breaking any time she thought of things like that, they reminded her of her mother. Her father doted on her and let her do as she pleased, and likely in part due to the fact that it was easier than trying to manage her temper and moods. But he was also proud. She was born with a talent for bows and an eye for hunting, she was quick on her feet and tough as nails, she'd grit her teeth through scrapes and bruises, brush herself off and carry on as if she was invincible. Someday he'd have to rein her in and marry her off properly but he had time, plenty of time. But time ran out. This time there was no retreat, no metamorphosis, no visible wound, no tears. They said it wasn't right, that Brendolyn didn't cry when her father died but she refused. The pain was beyond tears, the fear returned, the sorrow, the anger, but she was twelve now, all grown up and able to damn well take care of herself. She didn't need anyone anyway, they all just died and left her in the end. How does a broken heart break yet more? Pieces of pieces. Sharp shards and narrow slivers. She'd love her family, but only enough that it wouldn't kill her when they all died too.

She is seventeen years old.

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