Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2020-08-30 12:48 pm
white_oleander) wrote2020-08-30 12:48 pm
Entry tags:
Room 210; Sunday Afternoon [08/30].
Part of Astrid felt a little bad about just holing up in her room with a small pile of books the day after new students had arrived, but it wasn't like she was a social butterfly even on the best of days, and there'd be plenty of time to get to know them in the weeks ahead. So a quiet afternoon of reading sounded just about right, especially since her last visit to the library lead to an interesting array of random books that it had decided to throw at her, and she figured that was a good enough selection process as any.
Currently, she was idly flipping through on on American history, examining printed photographs of Civil War battlefields under a magnifying glass for inspiration. Because there were details you couldn’t see without the glass, that the bodies in the photograph of Gettysburg had no shoes, no guns, no uniforms. They lay on the short grass in their socks and their white eyes gazed at the clouded-over sky; you couldn’t tell which side they were on. The landscape ended behind a row of trees in the distance like a stage. The war had moved on, there was nothing left but the dead.
In three days of battle, 150,000 men fought at Gettysburg. There were fifty thousand casualties. In that moment, Astrid struggled with the enormity of it. One in three dead, wounded, or missing. Like a giant hole ripped in the fabric of existence. Claire died, Barry died, but seven thousand died at Gettysburg. How could God watch them pass without weeping? How could he have allowed the sun to rise on Gettysburg?
She remembered they, her and her mother, once visited a battlefield in France. They took a train north, a long ride. Ingrid wore blue, there was a woman with thick black hair and a man in a worn leather jacket with them. They ate ham and oranges on the train. There were stains inside the oranges, they were bleeding. At the station, they bought poppies, and took a taxi out of town. The car stopped at the edge of an enormous field. It was cold, the brown grass bent down in the wind. White stones dotted the plain and Astrid remembered how empty it was, and the wind passed right through her thin coat. Where is it? she asked. The man stroked his blond mustache. White plaster in his hair.
Astrid stared at the short rippling grass, but she couldn’t picture the soldiers there dying, the roar of cannons, it was so quiet, so very empty, and the poppy in her hand throbbed red like a heart. They took pictures of each other against the yellow-gray sky. The woman gave Astrid a chocolate in a gold wrapper on the way home.
Astrid could still taste that chocolate, feel the poppy red in her hand. And the man. Etienne was his name. The light came down from a skylight into his studio, glass honeycombed with chicken wire. It was always cold there. The floor was gray concrete. There was an old gray couch bolstered with newspapers, and everything was covered with white dust from the plaster he used making his statues, plaster covering wire and rags. Astrid would play with a wooden sculptor’s doll there, posing it while Ingrid posed for Etienne.
So much white. Her body, and the plaster, and the dust, they were white as bakers. The old space heater he placed near her stool didn’t do much but buzz and throw out the smell of burned hair. He played French rock’n’roll. Astrid could still feel how cold it was. He had a skeleton hanging from a hook that she could make dance.
She sent Astrid down to the store for a bottle of milk. Une bouteille du lait, she rehearsed as she walked. She didn’t want to go but Ingrid made her. The milk came in a bottle with a bright foil lid. Astrid got lost on the way back, wandering in circles, too frightened to cry, holding the milk in the gathering dusk. Finally she was too tired to walk, and sat down on the steps of an apartment house by the rows of buttons, darkened except where the fingers touched, there it was bright. A glass door with a curved handle. Smell of French cigarettes, car exhaust. Flannel trouserlegs went by, nylons and high heels, woolen coats. She was hungry but she was afraid to open the milk, afraid Ingrid would be angry.
Suddenly she saw the blank windows of her dream.
Ou est ta maman? the nylons asked, the trouserlegs asked. Elle revient, Astrid said, but she didn’t believe it.
Ingrid jumped out of a taxi in her Afghan coat with the embroidery and the curly wool trim. She screamed at Astrid, grabbed her. The bottle slipped from her hands. The way the milk looked on the sidewalk. Shiny white, with sharp pieces of glass...
Even though it was a library book (she wasn't sure anyone would even notice if it never even found its way back), Astrid looked up and reached for the scissors on her bedside table. She carefully cut out the picture of the Gettysburg battlefiled, and put it in an envelop with her mother's name and the address of the prison written carefully on it, and dropped in four loose cut-out words inside before sealing it shut and placing on a stamp:
WHO REALLY ARE YOU
[[ *gives canon a tiny nudge forward* taken from and slightly modified from Chapter 27 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Door and post are open! ]]
Currently, she was idly flipping through on on American history, examining printed photographs of Civil War battlefields under a magnifying glass for inspiration. Because there were details you couldn’t see without the glass, that the bodies in the photograph of Gettysburg had no shoes, no guns, no uniforms. They lay on the short grass in their socks and their white eyes gazed at the clouded-over sky; you couldn’t tell which side they were on. The landscape ended behind a row of trees in the distance like a stage. The war had moved on, there was nothing left but the dead.
In three days of battle, 150,000 men fought at Gettysburg. There were fifty thousand casualties. In that moment, Astrid struggled with the enormity of it. One in three dead, wounded, or missing. Like a giant hole ripped in the fabric of existence. Claire died, Barry died, but seven thousand died at Gettysburg. How could God watch them pass without weeping? How could he have allowed the sun to rise on Gettysburg?
She remembered they, her and her mother, once visited a battlefield in France. They took a train north, a long ride. Ingrid wore blue, there was a woman with thick black hair and a man in a worn leather jacket with them. They ate ham and oranges on the train. There were stains inside the oranges, they were bleeding. At the station, they bought poppies, and took a taxi out of town. The car stopped at the edge of an enormous field. It was cold, the brown grass bent down in the wind. White stones dotted the plain and Astrid remembered how empty it was, and the wind passed right through her thin coat. Where is it? she asked. The man stroked his blond mustache. White plaster in his hair.
Astrid stared at the short rippling grass, but she couldn’t picture the soldiers there dying, the roar of cannons, it was so quiet, so very empty, and the poppy in her hand throbbed red like a heart. They took pictures of each other against the yellow-gray sky. The woman gave Astrid a chocolate in a gold wrapper on the way home.
Astrid could still taste that chocolate, feel the poppy red in her hand. And the man. Etienne was his name. The light came down from a skylight into his studio, glass honeycombed with chicken wire. It was always cold there. The floor was gray concrete. There was an old gray couch bolstered with newspapers, and everything was covered with white dust from the plaster he used making his statues, plaster covering wire and rags. Astrid would play with a wooden sculptor’s doll there, posing it while Ingrid posed for Etienne.
So much white. Her body, and the plaster, and the dust, they were white as bakers. The old space heater he placed near her stool didn’t do much but buzz and throw out the smell of burned hair. He played French rock’n’roll. Astrid could still feel how cold it was. He had a skeleton hanging from a hook that she could make dance.
She sent Astrid down to the store for a bottle of milk. Une bouteille du lait, she rehearsed as she walked. She didn’t want to go but Ingrid made her. The milk came in a bottle with a bright foil lid. Astrid got lost on the way back, wandering in circles, too frightened to cry, holding the milk in the gathering dusk. Finally she was too tired to walk, and sat down on the steps of an apartment house by the rows of buttons, darkened except where the fingers touched, there it was bright. A glass door with a curved handle. Smell of French cigarettes, car exhaust. Flannel trouserlegs went by, nylons and high heels, woolen coats. She was hungry but she was afraid to open the milk, afraid Ingrid would be angry.
Suddenly she saw the blank windows of her dream.
Ou est ta maman? the nylons asked, the trouserlegs asked. Elle revient, Astrid said, but she didn’t believe it.
Ingrid jumped out of a taxi in her Afghan coat with the embroidery and the curly wool trim. She screamed at Astrid, grabbed her. The bottle slipped from her hands. The way the milk looked on the sidewalk. Shiny white, with sharp pieces of glass...
Even though it was a library book (she wasn't sure anyone would even notice if it never even found its way back), Astrid looked up and reached for the scissors on her bedside table. She carefully cut out the picture of the Gettysburg battlefiled, and put it in an envelop with her mother's name and the address of the prison written carefully on it, and dropped in four loose cut-out words inside before sealing it shut and placing on a stamp:
WHO REALLY ARE YOU
[[ *gives canon a tiny nudge forward* taken from and slightly modified from Chapter 27 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Door and post are open! ]]