Lately, Madoka had been feeling a relentless anger build up underneath her skin.
It had started ever since the close of winter break had washed her into a new school year, fresh and unexpected much unlike the now melting snow she was destroying under the club of her shoes, marching on to the usual place. And it had been over minor things, too: today it was her father casually mentioning bringing her to the new shoe place down in the city after school, yet having to bail due to a sibling related clause, a meltdown by her younger brother that was rectifiable only by hours of constant comforting. Though no promise was actually made, the illusion still upset Madoka, and though she no longer remembered the exact path her mind had taken to reach this sorrowful conclusion, the event had spurred the fourteen year old to reflect on her imminent future as an unfruitful secretary in an unnamed office building. It wasn't as if she was smart enough to do anything else, after all. Her grades were average, at best, and there had to be a million like her out there. A songbird, late to migration, sang a humorous song of its blunder. Well, at least one of us can be happy.
Her favorite place laid on a pleasant border, across from the bustle of the everyday warfare between people and their environment that was the city. Decorated with only the bodies of strangers, who tended to loiter around the docks at noon, she approached the very edge of a northern dock, unprotected by railing. Belated fishermen assembled their nets for the next catch tomorrow in the background. Madoka tried leaning as far over as she could, staring into the soupy space that the ocean kindly provided. She was looking for something, anything, that could distract her, and usually, this was the place that provided it. A strange looking feather, or water sculpted trash, or sometimes just the search itself helped relieve Madoka after a stressful day. A few young teenagers in the back jeered, pulling their beanies further over their brightly dyed hair, but she ignored them. After all, judging by their fashion sense – tight leather jackets padded by awful spikes, rainbow accents in their hair – it seemed that they were also looking for something, perhaps themselves, as well.
Perhaps they didn't have much separating themselves except fate and a few layers of clothing.
Her mother had once told her that the secret to beauty was simply pretending that she had secret admirers. She stared into the cool water and blinked. Reflected back to her was a frightened grimace that rose from the depths like a tourist boat pandering whale. Praying to above that her mother really was always right, she shut them tightly once again, half in the spirit of her mother's advice and half to shut out the disgusting vision in front of her, and concentrated on the boys in back. Slightly older, and engrossed in an engaging conversation about what Madoka hoped didn't elude to prescription drug abuse, she imagined them in a softer light – indeed, when she had first arrived to the docks, hadn't they smiled in her direction, obviously lovesick? The conversation took a turn toward a better route: now, the boys discussed, in elated, shocked grunts, the uncanniness of the fact that both found themselves in love with a total pink-haired stranger rather recently.
And the stars aligned for the middle schooler, who opened her eyes to be met with glorious, augmented reality. Her hair, straightened to the point of perfection, reached out of the abyss, and she swore the strands kissed her own cheeks as she faced the reborn water nose to nose. Maybe it was just her, but that same nose seemed to be straighter, the noticeable change surprising Madoka because she never considered herself as someone who really cared about her outward appearance to begin with.
She really couldn't see most of it, seeing as all that was visible was a transparent overview of her face, but her reflection appeared must have been some sort of elaborate dress, for when she moved her shoulders into view, a sort of lace shawl blanketed them. The universe played like a scripted act behind her reflection, stars whirling past her head at amazing speed on a velvet background, and the face on the surface turned into a sort of determined expression. And though her breath sent a destructive ripple through the liquid mirror, she could have sworn that her reflection was holding a bow and arrow.
Am I doing that right now?
Naively, she checked her hands. Empty. On the bright side, she didn't have time to remember how upset she was previously, because the incident had left her feeling renewed. With a straightened back, she rose from her kneeling position and skipped her way down the docks. The boys said nothing this time, merely staring at her as one only can when a stranger spends four minutes staring inexplicably into the ocean. She didn't care, because Madoka was filled with hope.
"The future will be fine."
AN) Writing is suffering, especially after a hiatus.