Wren westerly stepped out of her bedroom door, her stomach coiling into knots.

Not nervous are you, Wren? asked the sludge. Its voice was raspy and bitter in Wren’s mind.

Wren ignored it and stared down the brightly varnished staircase that led to the living room and kitchen of Aunt Nancy’s aggressively tidy house. The stairs looked the same as they always did, but today they didn’t feel the same. Wren didn’t want to go downstairs. Going downstairs meant the day had started, and Wren was not keen on today.

The day itself was a picture-perfect Sunday. Wren looked out the window and saw sunshine, blue skies and merrily drifting clouds. Any other day, she would have enjoyed merrily drifting clouds. Today, she hated them. The clouds continued to drift across the sky, unbothered by criticism. Wren exhaled heavily. She didn’t hate clouds. It wasn’t their fault she was feeling this way.

Then whose fault is it? The sludge wound sinuously around the knots in Wren’s stomach, tightening them further. She took a hasty step downwards, her foot landing louder than usual.

Everglade’s fault, hissed the sludge. Everglade’s FAULT.

Wren gritted her teeth and took another step, then another, and another. At least Aunt Nancy isn’t already waiting, Wren thought. Aunt Nancy despised—

‘I despise waiting.’ Aunt Nancy sailed out from the kitchen, her lavender heels click-clacking on the tiles.

She raised a silver eyebrow at Wren, who had frozen mid-step. Spurred into action, Wren took the last half of the staircase in a hasty series of leaps, landing breathlessly on the hallway runner.

‘Are we late?’ Wren wheezed, placing one hand on her hip in an attempt to be casual.

‘We’re not early.’ Aunt Nancy’s eyebrow dropped like a guillotine.

Aunt Nancy was intimidating. This was confusing because, on the surface, Aunt Nancy had no right to be intimidating. She was tiny and, in Wren’s opinion, old. Fine lines criss-crossed her light brown skin like cracks on an expensive teacup. In fact, if there was ever a fight between Aunt Nancy and a teacup, most people would put their money on the teacup. Unless they actually knew Aunt Nancy. Then, they’d do whatever she told them to.

Wren tried to do most of what Aunt Nancy told her to. It was just that Aunt Nancy asked her to do so many things, and a lot of them were, frankly, impossible. And then there were the things that Aunt Nancy didn’t ask her to do, but still expected her to do. As if Wren, a somewhat chaotic twelve-year-old who happened to be the most hated person in town, could predict the expectations of Aunt Nancy, the most terrifying member of the Everglade Council, and the kind of person who organised their sock drawer for fun. After nine years of co-habitation, Wren assumed she would disappoint Aunt Nancy in most things, and that Aunt Nancy had developed a flow chart demonstrating how.

‘Today is a serious occasion,’ said Aunt Nancy. ‘It should be treated appropriately.’

‘Of course,’ said Wren, her eyes wide with what she hoped would be seen as innocence.

‘Then why’ – Aunt Nancy gestured towards Wren – ‘are you wearing that?’

Wren glanced down at her outfit. She was wearing a vibrant orange t-shirt and red corduroy jeans. She’d tucked yellow pom pom wildflowers into her thick chestnut braid, and she had rainbow laces on her sneakers.

Words to describe Wren’s outfit would be colourful, or fun. Words that would not describe Wren’s outfit would be serious, or perhaps, suitable.

Aunt Nancy was wearing a dark purple pantsuit the colour of a fresh bruise. It conveyed sophistication and a subtle hint of torture. It was appropriate. She tilted her head to the side, waiting for Wren’s answer. She looked like a judgemental eggplant.

‘Um, well …’ Wren scratched at a mole on her arm. Her bronze skin was a warmer shade than Aunt Nancy’s, especially after a summer of wearing t-shirts.

I’m wearing these clothes because these are my favourite colours, Wren wanted to say, and maybe they were hers too.
I’m wearing my hair like this because she taught me how to braid, and I’ve seen the gardener pull out these wildflowers over and over, but they always grow back, and I like that. I chose to look like this because today hurts, and it’s the only way I can get through it.

All the days hurt, muttered the sludge.

‘… I don’t know,’ she said, finally….