Ornamental

• Chloe Anderson, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2022

15/06/1826 11:59pm
:
The hands tick over at 12am, and a girl, dull as she, sits peacefully on this floral, rose embroidered chair, drinking lukewarm tea. She solemnly traces her cup with her finger and she takes another sip, listening out for the ringer. The sirens, the silence, the way my pupils dilated, the Ribbons that lace her bleached blonde hair, tied up in two, with little to no care. Frills, and jewels bedazzling her figure, one who doesn’t realize her world is newly unfamiliar. The crashes, and cries of the fallen sky, collide with her home and damage her eyes. Resting beside the unlit fire, with warm porcelain in hand, echoing the liquid sounds, the reverberate off the broken walls.

28/06/1826 11:24am
:
She walks down the marble staircase, lifts her skirt, and drops her feet into the rising water. She pulls her petticoat away from the surface, and rests her head in her laced palms. She kicks puddles of water, cold seeping into her shoes, and the droplets float into her lap. It was an uneventful day, and no part of her home was severely damaged.

22/08/1826 6:51pm
:
The stars are falling, once again.
A few minutes pass as she regains her train of thought.
The vintage, tall standing, once ticking clock, has now been crushed into embers.
The impact forced her body to fall to the floor, exposed, lying vaguely on the carpet, body sprawled and confused. The silence is trifling, and she waits until the flames engulf her kitchen, to finally stand.

I notice the fear in her eyes, as a candle falls upon her ragged diary. The way the past she shall not express is thrown together with words of her own once written in ink, now drenched in thick, waxy gloss.
“It’s revolting. That texture”.
The words smudge from the burning wax, dripping from row to row, all those days spent scribbling, now nothing but a faded memory for her. Unfortunate, really. But her time is almost up.

25/07/1826
:
The weight of her frilled dress is pulling her down, and the observatory, which was once pristine, was being chased by flames, and so was she.
She stood completely still, holding her breath, now walking back to where she was mere moments ago. Delicately, She sits back down into her now burning chair. The shining bullets that rain upon her, while I sit on these flames, watching. I cannot move her away from the fire, and I cannot see, breathe or speak to her. I’m now nothing more than an ornament, resting inside an abandoned home.

“How comfortable.” She says internally as I remove her from this world. My documentation of her went well, I hope the boss will agree.”