Author:Le Jaseroque
Title:
The Light Pours Out Of Me
Description: A short narrative of Katrina
Van Tassel, before the murders.
Violence:
None
Sex: None
Language: Mild.
Purple flowers twirling between her fingers, and the flutter-close-flutter-open of her eyes—eyes that drank in everything without motive or question fell upon the birds as they chirruped and chirped to each other—tittering. Fluttering.
Springtime had come late this year—at least the semblance of it—and having come late was loathe to withdraw.
A trail of bruised violet petals lay behind her, and the last flower slipped from her fingers as she spun round in the tall grasses—sunlight illuminating her hair like a pale, floating halo.
Katrina Van Tassel paused in her movements—the sun of her cheek—warm and dappling and spraying her with the patterns of leaves.
“Who is it?” she called, half turning, recognising the footfall as Brom’s. But she did not turn completely—and pretended she did not know who had come upon her in her ruminations. “Is if you, Theodore?” She stifled a small laugh.
There was a silence and a frowning intonation bordering on offense, “Theodore?”
She turned now, smiling—her smile gently chiding and welcoming all at once, and Brom made his steps toward her, realizing in these few moments that she had only been teasing him.
He was not sure if he liked it.
“Was it wicked of me to pretend I did not know who you were? To call you ‘Theodore’ when I knew you by your steps?”
He seemed to pause and think at her question, instead of answering it straightaways—and this—to her—was enough.
She laughed again, tossing her pale head. “Well, if it’s wicked of me then I recant—but you’ll have to catch me if you want the rest of my answer---“
She was off and running like a blur of gilt-winged mischief—and she turned back over her shoulder, calling out “Hurry up---“ another peal of laughter, “---Theodore.”
*********************************
He had not been able to find her---let alone catch her, and after listening to him crash about in the leaves impatiently, she had emerged—and they both had laughed at her ingenuity.
They had sat together that day---under the shade of leafy spring, and for the second time that year—the first being quite clumsily—and ill-timed, just after the death of her mother—
--for the second time Brom had asked her hand in marriage.
And, for the second time that year, Katrina had refused.
He had retreated into sullen silence, and left her soon after, though he had masked his disappointment thinly with a jest and a smile.
She sat alone for a few moments more before drifting off into a sea of memories, and the gentle strains of her mother’s clear voice.
She slowly unwrapped the book from the shroud of a cloak she had disguised it in, and opened it’s leatherbound cover almost reverently, her fingers tracing the engraved embossed lettering, and her eyes closing a moment.