Already, though she is barely half a year old, Cassady has begun to understand certain things about how the world works. Firstly, that her family is not normal. And that despite her mother’s odd mannerisms, Kellyn doesn’t hate her. they could, Cassady supposes, have hated her. She was a burden for years before she was even more, after all, and she’s not exactly the ideal child. Flesh falling off could easily have turned them off. But they don’t hate her. They’re just odd.
Secondly, the world is big. Much bigger than she originally supposed, with the first few weeks of her life in the Tundra. And the people outside of the Tundra say way more than the people inside the Tundra. It’s like a Kingdom of functional mutes. The outside world is way more exciting. And more colorful.
Thirdly, that she’s quite sure there’s as much still to learn as there are stars in the sky or white flecks in her coat. And that someday she will learn them all.
She ignores her mother’s voice floating back to her – she isn’t that far behind, it’s not like she’s going to get lost – but when a new voice joins the chorus her head comes up, eyes brightening. Then the girl slips up into a trot and surges forth to join them, ears pricked towards the bright stranger. Of course, she’s purple, so she can’t judge. “Hello!” she chirps as soon as her mother falls silent and gives her an opening. “Are you from here? It’s much greener than the Tundra. Is it always so green here?” She is bright where her mother is reluctant, and perhaps it is enough to make up for Kellyn’s reticence.
cassady