The Maladaptive Dreamer
Isabella Leicester, 14, few days after her adoption
“The sunset is quite beautiful today, isn’t it?” a voice chimes by her side.
Isabella continues to peel the apple on her hand. Tightly gripping the fruit, she makes broad strokes.
“Can you hear it, Bella? It’s the sound of the waves clapping,” the voice continues. The voice akin to the sweet chimes of a small bell.
The red peels off.
“Don’t you ever wonder how it is on the other side of the sea?” the voice mused once more. The voice grew louder this time.
Isabella turned to face the window, eyes softening.
“Who knows for sure, ma?” Isabella murmurs wistfully. A soft grin slowly grows. “Perhaps it’s the rumored island where the fairies dance and the sirens sing.”
“And what about the fairies, dear?” the voice chimed back.
Soft, cold hands brush upon Bella’s bare shoulders, slowly caressing them.
The overhead lights flicker silently. She bears no mind.
“Haven’t you heard, ma?” Isabella continues, laughing. “They weave together dreams as they dance under the moonlight.”
The sun rays kissed her fair skin. A soft glow emanating from where her arms sat.
“And they dance to the tune of children’s smiles and the longing of the lonesome.”
Cold arms hugged her from behind. A whisper tickles her right ear as the voice speaks.
“And will you brave the seas to chase the land, my dear?” the hands shift. “What if all the land foretold never existed?”
“Then I shall proclaim it to the world,” Isabella sing-songed. “And do what the land has failed to deliver.”
A moment of silence fell between the two. Then Isabella hummed.
She hummed to the tune of bittersweet camellias and bells of old. Her song carries the color red.
Red like the apple she’s peeling. Red like her mother’s lips.
Her breath hitches.
“You’ll make for a fine fairy, dear.” a smile can be heard as the voice mused.
Isabella laughs. Quietly.
A gust of wind blows through the open window.
The soft hands lifted, the kitchen was silent, any traces of the voice gone.
A soft smile laid on Isabella’s face as she peels and peels.
The lights dimmed. The sun has laid to rest.
The yellow peels off.
Her smile dropped.
A plate of cut apples laid atop her desk once she entered he room. Their sizes vary, some were crooked. A small two-pronged fork was jabbed into one of them.
Yverra. An Elysium. The rumored island of the fairies, faes and sirens. A paracosm of her making.
Magic is interwoven into the air. When stars align, the sky sings. When the rain falls, the wind laughs with glee.
Yverra—the rumored island across the sea. An island far beyond what the maps could reach. An island hidden beneath cold clouds and heavy mist.
The island where stars are woven to existence to deliver the wishes of the children.
An island built on dreams and longing. A dreamer who longs for belonging.
The perfect pair.
“A similarity statement for triangles indicates that two triangles are of the same shape.”
The clock ticks silently. A pulsating rhythm, never missing a beat.
“To do so, you must show that these two triangles have the same angles. Like these pairs.”
The revision sheet sat in front of her. Silent, judging, and oh so intimidating.
The creek of the chair sounded through the room.
“But they look really different, pa.”
The pen by its side left untouched. The sheet left clean.
Ignore the angry red lines that mar the desk.
“Perhaps so, but if you look at it from the mirror, perhaps you’ll see that these two triangles are quite similar.”
(But I suppose if you look further, one might see the image of the star of guidance.)
He entered to room to see her asleep slouched over her desk. Red sprawling over the wooden top, review sheet blank.
He sighed and grabbed the duvet and tucked it over her shoulders.
He left the room with her none the wiser.
The Ivory Falls stands towering above them.
Sunlight beams through the small cove their little group visited, hitting the glistening water.
Her sleeves billow against the wind, long cotton skirt touches her legs as she stares.
The books tell the tale of the streams that heal. Some say that the coves of the North carry silver lakes and golden stone, kissed by sunlight and adored by the moon.
They promised the tale of renewal, and so she searched for it.
*Her hands itch and burn and crinkle. Her ears ring with the wails of the burning. *
All she sees is red. She hates the color red.
She found the promised waters. The glow of silver streams and rocks that shimmer as light bounces.
The water dances through the streams, the wind whispers, the birds sing. United under mother nature’s blessing, they celebrated.
The flaps of papers echo through ivory walls.The frantic scratches of a pencil too can be heard.
The cheers of joy echo through the walls of the cove.
The sun burns bright. The heat sears through her body. Her breath stops.
The world dulls ever so slightly.
“C’mon dear, jump in!”
The sounds of laughter roar through. Warmth encouragement brought her back.
“10 more minutes until the exam ends.”
The world shifts, lines blur. The world brightens. She is safe. She is loved.
She belongs.
“Coming!”
Let me stay here forevermore.
The ride home was silent. No one dares breach the frail veneer of solace that wraps the car.
And once she is back to the house, she runs and runs.
Her stomach screams as her throat burns. Her fingers clawing her arms to no end. She curled into herself and wept.
She never finished that paper after all.