#❛ ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴡᴀsᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ? ( closed para. )

[bitchcassidys-blog]

spring always smelled like wildflowers.

no. no, not always – there had been a time before now, eighteen years where spring had never had such an easily recognizable smell, where it had crept slowly, silently upon her, making its presence felt in little ways. shoots of yellow in the school gardens, hardly seen through the weeds which choked them. the touch of a hand to her shoulder as she sat, hands clasped, head bowed, a hundred voices echoing, our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, and hanna’s own, silent, fervent prayer, get your hand off of me, get it off, get it off, get it OFF –

chocolate, too, a guilty little secret as they passed the bar around in the midst of lent, caring little for the promises to god they broke. a bar of chocolate never killed anyone. hadn’t jesus died for their sins ? surely, he’d appreciate them making sure he didn’t die for nothing. perfume, her mother’s, changed with the seasons. she always smelled of some sort of flower, and spring brought roses, and the wrinkling of her nose, god, it was overpowering. grey clouds breaking, the sun peeking through. ten degrees celsius outside, and half of dublin stripping off. aglæca, at least, could be called warm in the early months of the year.

she preferred the wildflowers. they had been in the first bouquet she had pressed into someone else’s hands, the first year she had arrived, volunteering for the spring festival – not that she had intended to. she had been on the island barely three weeks, and when someone had approached her asking if she wanted to help out, she had panicked, blurted out yes before she knew what she was agreeing to, and quickly found herself swept up in the preparations for it. it was the best possible way she could have found herself integrated into the community, and she had signed up for it again and again, nine years in a row – but not this year.

she had to admit, it was strange ( yet not bad ) to stand on the sidelines this year, watching as others did her usual job. volunteers darted in and out of the crowd, doing all they could to spice it up – handing out flowers, throwing handfuls of glitter, offering drinks to anyone who passed, modern-day maenads, and it brought a smile to her face. they had already intercepted her, and she had let them weave flowers into her hair, dust her face with gold powder, press her favourite flowers into her hands, and she carried them now in the crook of her arm, looking for a moment like she was attempting to emulate their monument.

anyone who would have glanced toward the spot where she stood just a moment later would have found it empty, with hanna having quietly disappeared in the direction of the sculpture. she had never really bought into it before – she was, after all, an irish catholic, even now, and most years too busy to slip off and see to it – but she carried, this year, a tribute in her arms, and in her pocket. she was in luck, it seemed; few people were gathered in front of the sculpture as she reached it, and she recognized none of those who were. awkwardness seized her, and the flowers felt heavy in her arms. how the fuck did this work ? it wasn’t exactly church, but … furtive glances cast towards the others who were paying tribute yielded no answers. it seemed she would have to do it her own way. well, fine.

perhaps it had been a bad idea to wear a dress, she realized as her knees touched the ground, cold in the shade of the sculpture, but what could be done about it now ? from her arms, the flowers, held upright as she bowed her head, just a little, and wondered what to say. she knew some prayers, but they seemed so awfully out of place. imagine saying a hail mary to a god they honoured by letting goats run riot ? she probably wouldn’t mind. the bitch gave birth in a stable, and the corners of her mouth twitched at the idea of it, the mother of christ herself, waving a hand towards her, ❛ g’wan ahead love, say my prayer, you should hear what these other gobshites are saying. ❜ that had to be some sort of blasphemy, right ? oh well. she was going to hell anyway. she went to church now out of habit more than anything.

in the end, she said nothing, did nothing, wished for nothing. a minute, two, passed, and there she knelt, eyes shut, until she felt satisfied that she’d made enough of a dick of herself. her second piece of tribute was not so easy to locate, buried as it was beneath the flowers which had been crammed into her jacket pocket, but – aha ! petals spilled out as she withdrew her hand, gold ring glinting in the afternoon light. those who gave it a cursory glance would assume that the stone set into it was an opal, perhaps an old diamond, but it was neither, not even a stone at all. hanna had carefully sanded the nub of bone down herself, and though it hadn’t been set into the ring very carefully ( glued in, more likely, hanna swearing all the while, cursing the task she had assigned herself ) – well, it looked presentable enough, didn’t it ?

it was a stupid thing, probably, and had anyone asked why this was the tribute she was offering, she would have snapped at them to fuck off and mind their business. but, finally, after so many years, the thought of home no longer conjured up an image of that house in dublin, of weekends spent causing trouble on grafton street, but instead of aglæca. now, she thought, home, and she saw the amphitheater, and all the performers there. penny’s bakery, where she turned on the charm to try and get everything she bought discounted. the library, the bar, beloved haunts, second homes. the sound of ruby singing in the shower. dinah’s dressing room, that tiny piece of wonderland, filled with costumes from all over the world. seth’s bedroom, though she’d admit it to no-one. she thought, home, and aglæca sprang immediately to mind, as if there had never been anywhere else. she had found it in a time where she was lost, and those who lived there had welcome her with open arms, and well – had she ever really given anything back ? it certainly didn’t feel like it. but this, this ring hidden in the midst of the wildflower bouquet; this ring had the very bones of her in it. in laying it at the feet of the sculpture, she was paying tribute to aglæca as much as she was the gods they worshiped.

getting to her feet, hanna quietly brushed herself off. in the time it took for a heart to beat, she disappeared – where she stood, there remained only a handful of scattered flower petals, of gold dust, and the faint smell of wildflowers.