Write

The scent of ink permeated through the room. An open bottle knocked on its side spilling obsidian on to the parchment and oaked desk. The sense of vellichor always seemed to surround her in the same way one associated the scent of parchment and smoke.

An old soul. They whispered these words in passing. Halls littered with murmurs of discontent; as their hawklike eyes scanned her every move. Every move made was calculated. Echoes of the past enshrouding her as weights chained to every limb kept her there.

With her thin index finger, she slowly drew on the spilled ink. Random shapes and letters appearing on the wood. A forgotten language spilling past her lips in muted whispers.

The aroma of ink permeated through her skin and into bone. Each breath coming out in no more than thin gray wisps. An old soul. They're numerous facades that she held to hide that. A young child no older than thirteen grew tired of hiding. Gold colored eyes that glimmered in the low light. Eyes that are bright against her dark brown and copper skin.

Ala was placed into this role at the age of nine. Told to hide at the tender age of twelve. Was made a spectacle at thirteen. Will die at fourteen on the verge of fifteen. Rinse and repeat. The blank inked swirled into a spiral, losing the bright gleam as the candle burned lower. Wax dribbling down. There was a growing cacophony of noise whenever she went out. A buzz that grew in her ears till the growing discord caused her to shut down. A sense of unease that followed her every step. Haunting eyes staring back at her reflection causing the whispers to babble incessantly.

"It won't stop," she mumbled. Sapphira mentioned it once while chatting absentmindedly. A passing comment as she twirled around in place, overzealous movements dragging her eyes back and forth. Your old, I'm young. Strange to imagine how the older girl seemed younger than her.

Staring at the mirror provided Ala with the chance to see blank eyes; liquid gold hardened from the knowledge of years before her. Meanwhile, Sapphira was able to continue living; blissfully unaware of the universes tragedies filling every crevice. She was indoctrinated at thirteen. Hidden away at sixteen. Made a spectacle of herself in front of the riots at seventeen. Will die at eighteen blissfully unaware or uncaring. A childhood gleam haunting those that gazed into glazed eyes.

"An old soul, a young life," she chanted lowly before rising to her feet. Even now she could hear the marching feet. Feel the riots and screams shattering her bones. Pleas to live danced between each finger. Within the soles of her feet, the souls of the stepped on pleaded to rise. Each strand of thick brown hair held reminders of the ropes.

Yes, Ala thinks to herself. It's hard to gaze into a mirror that shows nothing. Sapphira tried to be an older sister. It was hard to be an older sister when they lacked knowledge. The knowledge that Ala wore, enshrouding every fiber of her dresses. She couldn't help but, continue covering herself in these thick and heavy fabrics. Saddening to know it pushed Sapphira and the others away. Maybe they weren't meant to last?

The noises dulled the closer she got to the library. Each step was light but felt and sounded like a thousand stomps to Ala. Here in the library, she's surrounded by ancient reminders; she could breathe. The gray wisps of breaths filtering out in the large space.

Running a finger against the covers she murmured the names. Each spine holding a tale from long ago. Here Ala could close her eyes and push away the murmurs. Listen to the fantasies others spilled to life. Drops of ink forming tales of grandeur.

Years later her story will shift and change. A little messed up like the ink on the oak desk. They'll pass her tale along and the thick woven strings will fade away from her figure. Ala was nothing more than a tall tale to them. Yet, here at this moment she can't help but, be a bit selfish. Desire flooding through her veins and letting her nearly glide throughout the room. The books bringing much-needed comfort. Here she could dream. In this place, she can be Ala. A thirteen-year-old girl with no desire but, to be fooled.

She wondered if she could ever put her feelings to pen. Gazing up Ala allowed herself a small smile. The ink on the desk will dry. Her message will be read. Corrupted and changed to fit the narrative. But, it would be read and she truly hoped her feelings will be felt through the cold and dried out ink.