Consequences of everyday things, memories, feelings and more as they become relevant.
[ .. consequences of scars & living on mountains .. ]
Weather was never kind up in the mountains; storms raged perpetually and the cold had teeth. The particularly damp storms never caught her by surprise, herald by aches. Aches resonating from deep underneath the layers of her frayed skin, faithfully just before any such storm made landfall. Had she cared a little more, maybe she would go through the effort of making it a conversation point among neighbors. The idea of indulging people with her everyday business was however distasteful, and always discarded.
This morning was winding to be one of those days; the tell tale whirl of northern wind causing the wooden walls around her to groan. There was a muted awareness of a familiar throbbing found in her sleep, though stubbornness came more innately to her, the pain ignored in favor of a few moments more of lingering unconsciousness. If she were the sort of person to have dreams, perhaps she would’ve imagined herself succumbed on top of some sort of mountain out in the wilderness. Instead, there was no comfort of thoughts or dreams, merely darkness, and the mum, distant hiss of the encroaching, waking world.
When she woke, it was with sweaty alarm and only moments later. Consciousness was greeted with a more prominent awareness of pain and with her body tangled between blankets, telling of a night of restless sleep. Existence felt heavy and wished to keep her in bed, but she would sooner lose the small idea she had of self before she caved into what she called laziness. With newfound determination, the bottom of her bare feet soon met the icy touch of the hardfloor.
The morning routine came instinctively to her, like clockwork. Rouse herself from bed, brave the cold and drag herself downstairs to prepare for the day. Preparations included what any sensible adventurer would practice - tidy and clean your equipment, plan rations, brood and mentally prepare oneself over a warm mug - but they also included some more personal tastes, such as grooming.
She was hardly the sort of person to fuss over physical appearance; it was both jarring and awkward whenever she caught the eye of her own reflection, and she always made a point not to stare at or avoid anything polished or reflective. In spite of this lack of interest for all things grandeur, explicit care was made for what seemed now a morning ritual up in her mountain log home: moisturizing one's face.
Pain and its many variations were effective teachers, and she had enough self preservation to not make a repeat of her first month living up on this mountain - and so from consequence, the ritual was born. The weather was so very frigid and bitter unlike the mild climate back home, making her skin susceptible to chafing and tearing to the point it bled, particularly around the dead and brittle patches of her mottled skin. The sting of the tearing was bearable and often times unnoticed, given the lack of feeling on the left side of her face, but the itch that followed was its own, terrible beast.
And so just as she had done the day before, and the day before that, a small, familiar jar was twist open and a generous amount of salve scooped up.
Though simple and private was the practice, it was not only a quiet moment where she could reflect on whatever thought bobbed to the top of her mind, but also weigh her own voice - a precious time that often went unappreciated or forgotten between the rush and demands of the island, and the misdirect nature of her duties. The consistency was welcomed too, like an anchor. Certainly something never to be mentioned to others, less they would begin to draw annoying and false conclusions. The rough-hewn folk that lived here were like that - always prying to know the more intimate details about one's lifestyle, always assuming. The distance she had established between herself and them was comfortable enough, and she fully intended to keep pulling things this way.
In the end, it was unlikely anyone else in this town had invested as much effort and care into gingerly dabbing their face with a buttery nut balm each morning, but it was both a consequence and disguised gift she would simply have to embrace. One of scars and living on mountains, and ultimately a palpable reminder of both reality and herself.
The mild, sweet scent of oil and nuts found her nose as she twisted the container's cap tight, tucking it away for when she would find it again tomorrow.