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Wooden leg... glass eye... nose of wood...

Little Gudrun is in the kitchen, preparing some molasses. That's how it looks like, besides being brown as chocolate. You get brown each time you mix all the colors as one. It may look like chocolate, but does it taste like the same? No, too hot to be given a taste. A single touch of a pinky tongue, and it all ends up being unmeaningful. The burmecian girl struggled so much to give it her all, to end up as nothing but a waste of time. A waste of taste. Even water shares of a taste, despite others telling her that water is pure, it's clean, doesn't have any color. She can see herself throught the glass, because the water is too clean for someone so filthy to be saw, and reflected back as well. The molasses on the fridge is too dark for anything else to be seem. Worse, though, is eating a food with a runny nose. Anything done with runny nose is awful. The only way to prevent it from getting out is to look at the ceiling, but there are people in front of you.

I can hear you clearly, Fratley. Now, Gudrun doesn't. He went out, and she doesn't wonder if he'll come back. Sure he will, but when, and how? These are questions whose answers are the same, though some days takes less, other days take more. None of them are dry, but outside ain't leaky. As usual, Gudrun is preparing a dessert to herself. So much sugar, but her teeth will fall anyway. And children teeth are ugly, to be fair. Yellow instead of white, black as coal... no wonder why they are meant to fall. Nobody, not even the elder, wants to hold them, or even put these teeth inside their own mouths. It fell, so let it fall. For some reason, they grow up once again. Milk teeth, that's how they are called by. There is no reason to cry over spoiled milk, only if you payed that much of gil for it.

I should thank Shannon later for going at the market with me. Gudrun doesn't believe that her caretaker would like to prove one of her sugary recipes. Maybe she prefers something less sweet, like a tea. If there is a thing that Gudrun appreciates being best served cold... it's coffee. She also hates coffee for the same reason, because everyone is able to taste it boiling like hell, now her tongue burns if she does that. And they all do it on a single sip as well, with a bitter aftertaste left on the throat. Once, same sugar pouring on her hands used to be valuable as gold, and those who stole it were arrested and condemned on a same way of someone guilty of manslaughter. It kills people to this day, slowly overcoming the whole of your body, so do the legionary ants, who appreciate of flesh. What were once small black dots becomes a tidal wave devouring anything walking on same path. That's the reason why burmecians don't leave their kids alone, due to their size.

There are many tales surrounding the colonies of ants deep within the earth, small kingdoms made by the paws of same workers, forever meant to work for their queen, tasked to lay eggs on a same way a printing press makes news appear above a paper. Not that handwriting is still a common way of writing, althought outdated by many who share of engines into their homes. The fireplace is enough to make noises, pleasants as each drop of rain falling outside. Far more outdated than writing nowadays are the beliefs of such a thing as a wicked arm, whom Gudrun shares. One of the few who have the ability and skills to use it. She can use the right arm as well, to hold into something, or someone. To climb a tree, to be found at Fratley's lap... I only did it this morning because I didn't wanted the stairs to share of any holes. It ain't funny to tumble, or to laught at the one who is tumbling.

Gudrun once asked Fratley to fix the swing made by his, once found outside the window, same for the tree hitten by a lightning bolt coming from the skies. Fratley couldn't afford any of his time to make another tree grow. Sure, grass became taller ever since, and Fratley dug the earth to plant a seed on the tree's place, but what was meant to be a cherry tree didn't grew enough to satisty his daughter in time. Or even make her care about a swing, and someone else to be pulling her. The cherry blossoms are something beautiful, but when they begin to wither and fall on the path below, making that mess... Who else is there to clean them? Two dishes, Gudrun washes both without making any complains. Why is there so many forks and knives? Now that's something worth of complaining. No, it isn't. Mother carried on of many expectations. I was the only one she ever brought alive. There is also that chair, who shall remain empty. Even when there are visitors, nobody and their asses are allowed to sit there. Not even mine.

For some reason, it's taking some time for the molasses to melt. Don't play with fire, Fratley said. Shannon is watching me with an eye. Anything I do will be her fault. I don't want her to go, because I really like her. She doesn't treat me like a child. Or a monster to be afraid of. The children followed his out of the town... Come on, rats. Come on, kids. On each night, ever since the day her ears began to listen, and her mind to understand each of his words, to remember how he recited the verses of an old poem as a lullaby, Gudrun recalls how much she used to be afraid of the fluterist. The nights spent with wide eyes open, and it took a few minutes for them to be closed. Either due to boredom, or because Gudrun now realises that these stories do not hold on of the same effect. They used to be told by her father, but mirrors happen to be everywhere.

If standing like the glass belonging to each window, or a puddle of water being distorted by ripples, so does the sight of burmecians other than herself. And to jump over same bed with the hopes of not breaking it. Even a fearless knights shares of its own fears. To hear some of her father's words weren't enough to bring any sort of relief. If nobody feared being bitten by a snake, or being stomped by those hideous feet... Gudrun doesn't wear any high heels, or clogs of stone. Swollen and elephantine in aspect, these are her feet of clay, meant to shatter at any moment. It's far easy to shed of tears when under the rain, and with a helmet covering her face with a shadow upon her eyes. Heavyboned. Crippled... Gudrun would be it, if she didn't had a strong will to ignore any of these names. She already had been born with one. And a Crescent following aftewards same.

If they looked at my hair instead, she wonders. But there are other virtues to be shared, not meant to be forgotten. That's why Gudrun keeps her hair hidden. It'll get soaked as soon as she get out of this shelter, or cave, as some of her friends call her home by. Only because of her. Nothing is said about the kid whose tail is flaccid like pancake. The King have a limpy worm to be called by tail, and no one complains. Many of Gudrun's friends say that to be different is a bless, others that it's a curse. For her, difference ain't a disease, nor it's a condition. That's how I am. If others do not agree, then it's time to kick some butt. Fratley wouldn't agree with that. Gudrun doesn't know what her mother would say, but the burmecian girl thinks that she would refuse such inconsiderate thing coming from her daughter.

Gudrun could had spend the rest of the day watching butterflies drown. They can't fly in the rain, who hits their small wings like bullets. Why butterflies are called like that? They don't taste like butter, and they do not take flight like flies. They do not make any noise, they do not suck our blood during sleep, they do not make the bottom of our eyes hurt... There is nothing to be seem at the bottom of the fridge. Not that much of molasses left for Gudrun to enjoy with a single bite. A cake. A carrot cake, her caretaker suggests. Cream and treacle are her favorite as well. Anything other than soup is a candidate to be her favorite food. It'll take some time to prepare the cake, even with slices of carrots in hands. But in the end, it doesn't matter. Gudrun is enjoying doing something. Something that matters, that makes time go forwards until father's arrival.

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