Amalie

• Laura Sharman, Grade 10, O'Connor Catholic College
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

She stood beside me, her eyes downcast in a passive glare. My eyes followed the curve of her face and watched as her painted lips pouted and her round nose scrunched.

I knew that beneath their hooded lids and charcoal lashes her blue eyes burned with a fervoured vibrancy that normally echoed from her every movement. But today, the echoes were smaller, only a whisper in a crowded room. Something was muting the song of her soul, suffocating the notes that sang with joyous resonance, and from the trepidation clear on her face, it was something here.

Her hair was elaborately done, a rare sight for her; normally her hair was wayward and free of restraint, like her, a trail of chestnut ribbons that chased her as she ran and danced in delight. Sunset flowers interwove amongst the strands that always found their way into the path of her vision, the vivid colour of the petals the only clear reflection of her normal flamboyant spirit. I knew it was a habit of hers to impatiently swipe at the curls and furiously tuck them behind her ear as the same fire of her eyes poured from her mouth. But again, the ardour of her was missing.

The lips that normally housed an amused smirk and snapped with quick wit turned down at the corners and pursed in a dejected sulk. The hands that usually found themselves flying through the air as she talked with such enthusiasm now sat compliant; a courteous fold over her stomach, a guard against whatever it was that was making her so...different.

Her typical vibrantly coloured clothes were nowhere to be seen; the dress that covered her body was common, something seen on every other young woman and I always counted on her to stand out in the crowd, a red poppy in a sea of sunflowers. But today, her petite frame only held a pale blue and white lace, a modest cloth that smothered her in its mottling smoke.

This smoke was clogging her vivacity and verve, choking the blissful harmony of her soul. Everything about her today, from the decorous style of her hair to her meekly folded hands, was wrong. The loss of her warmth and ardency was cutting me and she wasn’t no longer here to stitch my wounds.

And then he came.

With a swagger so prevalent in men like him, he strode into room and just like that her fire rekindled, but in a dulled roar, without her normal vigor; this was a controlled blaze, a restrained light that struggled to break free from the confines of social limitations. But this is what was expected of her, to find a normal suitor, live a normal life with a normal family and normal house.

But she wasn’t normal. She was so far from the word and yet she strived to achieve the dreaded concept.

She smiled at him.

And my fire was smothered as the girl I loved chose her world.