(no subject)
The Monteses house had been old; colonial period, large enough to have its own ballroom, old enough that in 1983 it burned nearly to the ground. She had loved the ballroom, gilt and paintings on the ceiling and she had spent hours on the floor, staring up at it. The mirrors, though, sometimes they were for play and sometimes they scared her. Normally when she dreams of the ballroom, it is different. It is Medrano and her father’s blood on the floor and Mama and Melda sobbing and begging and their reflections filling the room. Normally, when she dreams of the ballroom, there isn’t piano music. Hesitating, her heart beating hard enough to strain her ribs, Camille puts her hand on the slightly open door and steps in. The light from the windows is oddly smoky, making it hard to say what time of day it is. The room is clean, empty.
Mostly empty.
There is a young girl by one of the mirrors, dressed in a white leotard and white tights with ballet shoes on her feet. She is pulling her dark auburn hair into a bun and doesn’t look up as Camille enters. Indeed, she seems to be actually ignoring her.
“Imelda.”
The girl starts to turn to her head, and then stops, visibly forcing herself not to look as she takes hold of the bar running across that wall. Camille steps forward.
“Melda, please.”
“I’m not talking to you.”
Stung, “Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I’m busy, Milly.”
Speechless, Camille watches as her (older) sister stretches out and starts to dance. She was (is) twelve; she was (is) allowed to go en pointe now; the doctor said she was old enough, and Imelda had run around the house shrieking with glee and hugging her brand new shoes to her chest. Even their father had smiled. But Imelda had never been taught how to move like this.
She’d been murdered first.
Camille sits down, heavily, drawing her knees up and hugging them to her. She’s crying (silently, she thinks), her position an unconscious echo of that little girl in 1983, who had huddled under the table too terrified to make a sound. Imelda glances at her, and stumbles, and then her expression twists.
“I’m busy!”
“I’m sorry. Melda, please.”
Imelda shakes her head, backing away. Her thin body is shaking, right down to the fingers she clenches.
“No. No, it’s not fair.”
“I know,” Camille whispers. Imelda doesn’t seem to hear her.
“I did everything he said! Why, why did he kill me? He said he wouldn’t. And I wanted…I wanted to live. I did. I had ballet in the morning. I was going to be a ballerina like Mama and dance in Swan Lake and why did you get to live? You’re having fun.”
“I’m-” not, but Camille falters on the protest.
It’s a lie.
Imelda stares at her in contempt.
“You are. Getting to play with guns….and codes and being a spy, and your boyfriend takes you out. Isn’t he nice? Do you like being a decoration? Or is it the bruises he leaves, is that what you like? You are pathetic.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh, really? Then why haven’t you found him yet? Why isn’t he dead?”
“I’m trying!” Camille shouts.
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“BECAUSE I WANT YOU AND MAMA AND PAPA TO LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Imelda flinches, but then she marches over and falls to her knees in front of Camille. The sisters glare at each other for a long, long moment before the tension snaps. Imelda slaps her. “It’s. Not. FAIR!” she screams and Camille whimpers, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, Melda, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
Imelda grabs her hands, suddenly looking very young. “You promise? You will kill him?” She rests her forehead against Camille’s, like they did before. “You promise.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” Then Imelda’s face starts to crumple, bruises appearing on her slender neck. “I didn’t want to die, Milly. I didn’t. I couldn’t do any-anything and it hu-hurt...” Bruises on her face, bruises on her arms and wrists, blood staining her mouth and those white tights. Without thinking about it, Camille reaches out and pulls her into a hug. Imelda is thin, fragile, the girl she was rather than the sister Camille remembers. But she doesn’t care. Imelda is her sister, her beautiful, beloved older sister, and even if this is a dream, she is here.
The pair stay like that - clinging to each other and crying - for a long, long time.
(when Camille wakes up, she will be drained, eyes stinging from tears. That is normal.
But when she looks in the mirror, she will see a red mark on her cheek,
as if she had been slapped.)
Mostly empty.
There is a young girl by one of the mirrors, dressed in a white leotard and white tights with ballet shoes on her feet. She is pulling her dark auburn hair into a bun and doesn’t look up as Camille enters. Indeed, she seems to be actually ignoring her.
“Imelda.”
The girl starts to turn to her head, and then stops, visibly forcing herself not to look as she takes hold of the bar running across that wall. Camille steps forward.
“Melda, please.”
“I’m not talking to you.”
Stung, “Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I’m busy, Milly.”
Speechless, Camille watches as her (older) sister stretches out and starts to dance. She was (is) twelve; she was (is) allowed to go en pointe now; the doctor said she was old enough, and Imelda had run around the house shrieking with glee and hugging her brand new shoes to her chest. Even their father had smiled. But Imelda had never been taught how to move like this.
She’d been murdered first.
Camille sits down, heavily, drawing her knees up and hugging them to her. She’s crying (silently, she thinks), her position an unconscious echo of that little girl in 1983, who had huddled under the table too terrified to make a sound. Imelda glances at her, and stumbles, and then her expression twists.
“I’m busy!”
“I’m sorry. Melda, please.”
Imelda shakes her head, backing away. Her thin body is shaking, right down to the fingers she clenches.
“No. No, it’s not fair.”
“I know,” Camille whispers. Imelda doesn’t seem to hear her.
“I did everything he said! Why, why did he kill me? He said he wouldn’t. And I wanted…I wanted to live. I did. I had ballet in the morning. I was going to be a ballerina like Mama and dance in Swan Lake and why did you get to live? You’re having fun.”
“I’m-” not, but Camille falters on the protest.
It’s a lie.
Imelda stares at her in contempt.
“You are. Getting to play with guns….and codes and being a spy, and your boyfriend takes you out. Isn’t he nice? Do you like being a decoration? Or is it the bruises he leaves, is that what you like? You are pathetic.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh, really? Then why haven’t you found him yet? Why isn’t he dead?”
“I’m trying!” Camille shouts.
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“BECAUSE I WANT YOU AND MAMA AND PAPA TO LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Imelda flinches, but then she marches over and falls to her knees in front of Camille. The sisters glare at each other for a long, long moment before the tension snaps. Imelda slaps her. “It’s. Not. FAIR!” she screams and Camille whimpers, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, Melda, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
Imelda grabs her hands, suddenly looking very young. “You promise? You will kill him?” She rests her forehead against Camille’s, like they did before. “You promise.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” Then Imelda’s face starts to crumple, bruises appearing on her slender neck. “I didn’t want to die, Milly. I didn’t. I couldn’t do any-anything and it hu-hurt...” Bruises on her face, bruises on her arms and wrists, blood staining her mouth and those white tights. Without thinking about it, Camille reaches out and pulls her into a hug. Imelda is thin, fragile, the girl she was rather than the sister Camille remembers. But she doesn’t care. Imelda is her sister, her beautiful, beloved older sister, and even if this is a dream, she is here.
The pair stay like that - clinging to each other and crying - for a long, long time.
(when Camille wakes up, she will be drained, eyes stinging from tears. That is normal.
But when she looks in the mirror, she will see a red mark on her cheek,
as if she had been slapped.)