Violet had a very dream like recollection of her life before the massacre.
She recalled her parents, loving and soft and smelling of wood and smoke for some reason.
She recalled parks full of kids her age and older and younger.
She recalled her mother brushing her hair in the mornings.
She recalled her father helping her pick out names for her dolls.
She recalled so much, or perhaps nothing at all? It blurred together and had such a dream like air to it. Violet wondered if it never happened at all.
She wrote it all down, drew pictures. If ever she found something that drew one of these memories, she’d hoard it, no matter what the thing was or who it belonged to.
Sometimes she’d sit in her room, with her scrapbook, staring at all the things she’d hoarded over the years and trying to recall more.
But then she would, and she didn’t know if it was real.
She was the clingiest of the children, specifically, clingy to May.
Violet spent most of her time, with the others kids, playing, if she wasn’t there, there was a fifty-fifty chance you would find her in her room, or curled up near the desk where May would be studying.
She was quiet and most of the time May didn’t even know she was there.
May constantly apologized for getting up to go find more books and tripping over the small girl or stepping on her tail.
But Violet never cared or held it against her.
Violet was shy and rarely spoke, but she was easy to please and had the sweetest smile. She was drawn to beauty, butterflies, flowers, shiny stuff.
The moment she lay eyes on Itazu’s dragon from, with her golden scales in pretty patterns, she fell in love. She filled up an entire notebook of drawings, but never did figure out how to make her yellow crayons resemble the sparkling gold.