curiositykate

Evie often dreams about death. Not the actual process of dying or some kind of afterlife, but actually being dead. Lying there, glassy-eyed, waiting for somebody to find her. She sees it as though she's somebody else, walking in to find her gracefully spread across the floor. No mangled limbs or ripped flesh, just her still lifeless body lying somewhere. She practices being dead in the bath. Her hair swirls around her face; her arms hit the side of the bath with the movement of the water. She parts her lips slightly, trying to look surprised, maybe, or as though she was in the process of having a wonderful idea. There is a thud on the bathr

Isobel is seven. She is not graceful enough to be a girl. She had ballet lessons once, but she grew impatient of moving slowly and wearing matching socks. The only good bit was pretending to be a horse, galloping and cantering across the wooden floor. She'd like a horse. No – a pony, something small and lazy like her. Or something clever, like a fox. Or a tiger, but not one of those orange ones, a big white one, like the one on the postcard that she has pinned up on her bedroom wall. Isobel picks the scabs on her knees and doesn't brush her hair every day. She kisses the girls in kiss chase. She watches Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles every da