Brigit's Flame, March, week #3
Title: As Alike as Trees
Author: keppiehed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: domestic abuse, violence
Word Count: 1466
Prompt: “Weather”
A/N: Written for week #3 at brigits_flame. I would like to dedicate this piece to my sister, obleighvious. Although this is fictional, I still appreciate the sentiment that no one is in it with you like your sister. I'm grateful to have her in my life, and I hope she knows I feel like the lucky one. Couldn't do what I do, be what I am and have gotten this far without you, man. (Also, err … sorry for the My Little Pony incident circa 1986. Hope the public apology squares us?) :D
There was a house on the top of the hill, set apart by age and circumstance. It had been there longer than the collective memory of the townsfolk, and there it waited in judgment and in sorrow.
None of that is true. And how can a house wait in judgment? What does that even mean?
Hush, you. It's my story. I'll tell it the way I want to.
It's our story. It's important to get these details right. Our house wasn't like that. We lived in a trail-
Do you want to tell the story?
No. No, I … can't.
All right, then.
A family lived in this house, the kind of family you'd want to be part of if you could choose your own. The mother was kind, so kind. And she had the most beautiful long, blonde hair. Her daughters would watch her brush it every night, and sometimes, if they were good, she'd let them take turns pulling the bristles through the golden strands. She would tell them fairy tales and they would pretend that she was the princess. Those were the happy times.
We never did that. Mama had brown hair.
But we could have. Mama would have let us.
Yes. She would have.
There were two sisters who lived in this house upon the hill. They were as alike as trees.
I don't know what you're saying. Who says that?
I heard it somewhere. I like the sound of it. I want to say it in my story.
Our story. But it doesn't make sense. “As alike as trees”? Shouldn't you say that we're like two peas in a pod or something?
It's the name of a band. I heard them on the radio once. I don't even know what kind of music they play, I just heard the announcer say their name and I've remembered it ever since. Doesn't it have a certain poetry to it? And it's true, we are just that way. We're the same, down to our bones. And yet those little twists and turns have shaped us just a bit more into ourselves. It fits. We're as alike as trees. I'm keeping it.
That's weird. Why do you have to be so weird all the time?
Quit interrupting.
The sisters were not quite as lovely as their mother but they tried. They wore dresses every day with white knee socks. They played hopscotch and drank lemonade under the shade tree in the summer. In the winter they went sledding down their hill and made forts and started snowball fights. They were best friends, and their only quarrel was over whose eyes were bluer.
That part is true.
I know.
The father-
Don't. I don't want to hear this part.
But I was going to-
No. Not even for a story.
One day, the sisters found out their house was haunted. They would lie in bed at night under their matching eiderdown quilts and listen to the voices in the walls. The ghost would shout. But they never saw it the next morning. Everything was still then, as if he hadn't been there at all.
Why are you doing this? I said don't want to talk about this.
We aren't talking. I'm telling a story.
Sometimes children tell each other scary stories by firelight to frighten themselves, tales about spooky sounds and things that go bump in the night. The sisters never did that. They didn't need to. They knew their ghost was real, even if they couldn't see him. They heard the screams in the night that even the pounding of their hearts couldn't drown out. They felt the bumps sometimes when the wall would shake with the force of the crash. Then everything would fall silent and they learned that there were things worse than screaming.
We didn't dream that, did we?
No.
I'm glad you were there.
Me too.
It's hard to believe now that townsfolk didn't know about the ghost, but no one ever mentioned it. It was one of those things. Everyone knew their house was haunted; no one had to speak of it. In fact, the sisters felt cursed when they walked down their hill and ventured into town. The bell would jangle in one shop or another, and voices would falter when people saw who was there. Glances would slide away and no one wanted to see them. As if what they had was contagious. As if a ghost could be given. The girls stayed home, because they knew they were safe there. The ghost only came to visit at night.
Please stop. I thought you were going to tell something nice tonight.
I will. It ends up okay; you'll see.
Everyone knows what the weather's like in July, those long summer nights when it's too hot to sleep. The sisters shared the small room in the attic, the kind with the steepled ceiling. They would press their foreheads against the warped glass in hopes of lingering chill and watch the fireflies dance in the darkness. A ballet in light, just for them.
I remember that. Only there weren't fireflies, not that night. That night it rained buckets.
Will you please shush yourself? I'm getting to that part!
The day had been oppressive, and a storm had been threatening. The way storms do in summer, when they sweep down like an absolution from above. One of the sisters was afraid of thunder; she always had been. The other sister liked to watch the rain. So it had become a habit for one to tell stories to the other during the deluge and take her mind off what troubled her. She would stand in the shadows with her blanket wrapped around her and tell a tale of delight. She would watch the glitter of the drops in the dark while she spun her story, and the two would take comfort in the tempest together.
Was I always afraid?
Yes.
And did you always tell me things?
Always.
Why was I afraid?
You know why.
Why weren't you?
I had you. But I was, too.
The thunder was loud that time. It was quite a storm, the worst they'd had in five years. They forgot about the ghost. But they shouldn't have. He was always there.
I don't like this part. Can't you tell the one about the time we climbed the great evergreen and you got stuck?
No. I'm nearly finished now. Be brave. It has to be told.
It doesn't, not at all. And it wasn't a ghost. It didn't happen exactly that way.
It does have to be told because I must tell it. And if I say there was a ghost then there was. We're almost done now.
The sister was in the middle of her tale, her eyes roaming the rain, when she saw him. He was out in the wet, in the dark. And he wasn't alone. She called her sister to her, because she couldn't bear witness alone, and together they watched from their hidden window. He was their fear and hurt, their crushed dreams and broken spirits. He was the howl of despair, walking. He was the thief of anything good that could ever shine upon them in this life again. They knew it then, in that moment, as they saw the blood on his hands as it tangled with her blonde hair. They were children no more in that instant. In the storm the ghost of their childhood shattered and they knew they would never forgive, not as long as they lived. And they were strong.
I hate this. I hate this. Why do you always have to bring this up? You promised a happy ending.
It is happy. We grew up and saw the truth. We're free now. What's better than that?
A lot of things. If Mama had never been hurt. If we had never been hurt.
I can't change the past. I'm not a magician. I just tell the story.
Why do you think she always forgave him?
Why do you always ask that?
Because it makes me wonder every time. I don't understand it.
Don't think about that. You're looking at it the wrong way. We have each other, and we always will. I tell you that story so you know you are strong and I love you.
Will you stop telling that story?
I can't.
Why?
I don't know. I just can't. I want so much to forget, but I have to keep saying it. You're the only other person who understands.
Then after that one, tell me a happy one.
Like what?
Anything. I want to hear a happily ever after.
That seems fair. Once upon a time-
Oh, and one more thing.
What?
I love you, too.
Author: keppiehed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: domestic abuse, violence
Word Count: 1466
Prompt: “Weather”
A/N: Written for week #3 at brigits_flame. I would like to dedicate this piece to my sister, obleighvious. Although this is fictional, I still appreciate the sentiment that no one is in it with you like your sister. I'm grateful to have her in my life, and I hope she knows I feel like the lucky one. Couldn't do what I do, be what I am and have gotten this far without you, man. (Also, err … sorry for the My Little Pony incident circa 1986. Hope the public apology squares us?) :D
There was a house on the top of the hill, set apart by age and circumstance. It had been there longer than the collective memory of the townsfolk, and there it waited in judgment and in sorrow.
None of that is true. And how can a house wait in judgment? What does that even mean?
Hush, you. It's my story. I'll tell it the way I want to.
It's our story. It's important to get these details right. Our house wasn't like that. We lived in a trail-
Do you want to tell the story?
No. No, I … can't.
All right, then.
A family lived in this house, the kind of family you'd want to be part of if you could choose your own. The mother was kind, so kind. And she had the most beautiful long, blonde hair. Her daughters would watch her brush it every night, and sometimes, if they were good, she'd let them take turns pulling the bristles through the golden strands. She would tell them fairy tales and they would pretend that she was the princess. Those were the happy times.
We never did that. Mama had brown hair.
But we could have. Mama would have let us.
Yes. She would have.
There were two sisters who lived in this house upon the hill. They were as alike as trees.
I don't know what you're saying. Who says that?
I heard it somewhere. I like the sound of it. I want to say it in my story.
Our story. But it doesn't make sense. “As alike as trees”? Shouldn't you say that we're like two peas in a pod or something?
It's the name of a band. I heard them on the radio once. I don't even know what kind of music they play, I just heard the announcer say their name and I've remembered it ever since. Doesn't it have a certain poetry to it? And it's true, we are just that way. We're the same, down to our bones. And yet those little twists and turns have shaped us just a bit more into ourselves. It fits. We're as alike as trees. I'm keeping it.
That's weird. Why do you have to be so weird all the time?
Quit interrupting.
The sisters were not quite as lovely as their mother but they tried. They wore dresses every day with white knee socks. They played hopscotch and drank lemonade under the shade tree in the summer. In the winter they went sledding down their hill and made forts and started snowball fights. They were best friends, and their only quarrel was over whose eyes were bluer.
That part is true.
I know.
The father-
Don't. I don't want to hear this part.
But I was going to-
No. Not even for a story.
One day, the sisters found out their house was haunted. They would lie in bed at night under their matching eiderdown quilts and listen to the voices in the walls. The ghost would shout. But they never saw it the next morning. Everything was still then, as if he hadn't been there at all.
Why are you doing this? I said don't want to talk about this.
We aren't talking. I'm telling a story.
Sometimes children tell each other scary stories by firelight to frighten themselves, tales about spooky sounds and things that go bump in the night. The sisters never did that. They didn't need to. They knew their ghost was real, even if they couldn't see him. They heard the screams in the night that even the pounding of their hearts couldn't drown out. They felt the bumps sometimes when the wall would shake with the force of the crash. Then everything would fall silent and they learned that there were things worse than screaming.
We didn't dream that, did we?
No.
I'm glad you were there.
Me too.
It's hard to believe now that townsfolk didn't know about the ghost, but no one ever mentioned it. It was one of those things. Everyone knew their house was haunted; no one had to speak of it. In fact, the sisters felt cursed when they walked down their hill and ventured into town. The bell would jangle in one shop or another, and voices would falter when people saw who was there. Glances would slide away and no one wanted to see them. As if what they had was contagious. As if a ghost could be given. The girls stayed home, because they knew they were safe there. The ghost only came to visit at night.
Please stop. I thought you were going to tell something nice tonight.
I will. It ends up okay; you'll see.
Everyone knows what the weather's like in July, those long summer nights when it's too hot to sleep. The sisters shared the small room in the attic, the kind with the steepled ceiling. They would press their foreheads against the warped glass in hopes of lingering chill and watch the fireflies dance in the darkness. A ballet in light, just for them.
I remember that. Only there weren't fireflies, not that night. That night it rained buckets.
Will you please shush yourself? I'm getting to that part!
The day had been oppressive, and a storm had been threatening. The way storms do in summer, when they sweep down like an absolution from above. One of the sisters was afraid of thunder; she always had been. The other sister liked to watch the rain. So it had become a habit for one to tell stories to the other during the deluge and take her mind off what troubled her. She would stand in the shadows with her blanket wrapped around her and tell a tale of delight. She would watch the glitter of the drops in the dark while she spun her story, and the two would take comfort in the tempest together.
Was I always afraid?
Yes.
And did you always tell me things?
Always.
Why was I afraid?
You know why.
Why weren't you?
I had you. But I was, too.
The thunder was loud that time. It was quite a storm, the worst they'd had in five years. They forgot about the ghost. But they shouldn't have. He was always there.
I don't like this part. Can't you tell the one about the time we climbed the great evergreen and you got stuck?
No. I'm nearly finished now. Be brave. It has to be told.
It doesn't, not at all. And it wasn't a ghost. It didn't happen exactly that way.
It does have to be told because I must tell it. And if I say there was a ghost then there was. We're almost done now.
The sister was in the middle of her tale, her eyes roaming the rain, when she saw him. He was out in the wet, in the dark. And he wasn't alone. She called her sister to her, because she couldn't bear witness alone, and together they watched from their hidden window. He was their fear and hurt, their crushed dreams and broken spirits. He was the howl of despair, walking. He was the thief of anything good that could ever shine upon them in this life again. They knew it then, in that moment, as they saw the blood on his hands as it tangled with her blonde hair. They were children no more in that instant. In the storm the ghost of their childhood shattered and they knew they would never forgive, not as long as they lived. And they were strong.
I hate this. I hate this. Why do you always have to bring this up? You promised a happy ending.
It is happy. We grew up and saw the truth. We're free now. What's better than that?
A lot of things. If Mama had never been hurt. If we had never been hurt.
I can't change the past. I'm not a magician. I just tell the story.
Why do you think she always forgave him?
Why do you always ask that?
Because it makes me wonder every time. I don't understand it.
Don't think about that. You're looking at it the wrong way. We have each other, and we always will. I tell you that story so you know you are strong and I love you.
Will you stop telling that story?
I can't.
Why?
I don't know. I just can't. I want so much to forget, but I have to keep saying it. You're the only other person who understands.
Then after that one, tell me a happy one.
Like what?
Anything. I want to hear a happily ever after.
That seems fair. Once upon a time-
Oh, and one more thing.
What?
I love you, too.