And there it was. A surprise he called her. The first time he ever alluded to her and his very eyes gleamed with the excitement of the idea. He looked more alive then he had in months, he was aware of his surroundings. Ready to jump around the room in intoxication.
He looked like me, when I thought about him. It made my insights curl painfully and my heart ache in my chest, like a popped balloon. I decided not to look at him, but my eyes were glued to his back all the same. All of the sudden I felt like crying, but I shook my head and pushed the treacherous tears back down my throat. I also, with some difficulty overcame the impulse to hug Pierrot. It would help, but it seemed strangely and extremely inappropriate somehow. So in the end I just stood off stage with my eyes closed and my hands balled up in fists, until he came.
“Quite a show, wasn’t it?” The huge, sunny smile on his face made me want to through up and cover it with puke. “You were great, Jez!”
“I forgot my last line” I objected.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
It’s because you weren’t watching. I didn’t say it. But I wanted to. I wanted to curse at him. I wanted to scream at his face for being a hypocrite. For giving me up so easily after everything we’ve been through. I wanted to start crying right there, in front of everybody and make him feel at least half as awful as he’d made me feel. But I just smiled back instead- what would he care for my tears? And plus, I couldn’t even cry at all anymore. The sight of him in front of me, looking like he did. The reality of everything had blocked up my throat. I could hardly even say a word.
He looked like he could sing.
“Time to go, sunflower.”
He picked me up and I felt numb in his hands. Still, to the point where I didn’t even try to stop him from putting me back in the terrifying box. Everything was grotesque in my eyes. Everything was blurry. Everything was strange and twisted and out of focus. And nothing else mattered. Nobody else existed. Nothing but my confusion and pain. Nothing but me and the pathetic remains of my irrational dreams. I felt like a madwoman having a mental breakdown, because nothing made sense anymore. And the carton walls around me were my prison, my cell with a sign “No visitors allowed. Dangerous patient” on the door.
The car came slowly to life with a soft purr. I stayed numb for a few more seconds and then I wanted to scream and bang on the walls. And then, I fell asleep, tired from all the feelings combating for domination inside of me. I curled up in a corner, closed my eyes, and tick- tack- tick-…
-
I had a nightmare. Figures, like I could dream of anything nice under these circumstances. But this was different from anything you could think of fitting the description of a nightmare.
The scene was tranquil, serene and silent. There were no birds, no voices, no music, no sound- as if I’d gone deaf, not even the wind was audible. And there were also no people. It was just a normal meadow- green grass, colorful flowers of all types, low bushes and tall trees. I felt comfortable and relaxed and for a while I forgot about everything and everyone else in the world. I was smiling in my sleep. I guess this was my happy place. Until there came the cloud. It started raining and it wasn’t a light summer rain, but a calamitous hale of massive proportions destined to destroy a perfect world. And still, even the storm was mute. The flowers wilted fast and their happy, bright petals turned all black. The trees fell and the bushed were broken. I felt broken.
I battled with the dream for a few minutes begging for it to let me go until it finally did.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that the reality I’d woken up to was worse.
It was still dark around me. The lid wasn’t fully closed and from the rectangular-shaped opening I could recognize the light of the fire, lit in the other corner of the room. We were back in the bungalow already. It was late and all the others were asleep I guessed. No reason for them to stay awake. No reason for them to have nightmares. Tom was still up though, I could tell. Of course he was. He had work to do, right? Magic to perform. Things to create… or otherwise… I shook my head. Self-pity was unlike me, it didn’t become my temper and I let go of it easily.
The warmth of the flames felt familiar and comforting. Had it been any other night I would just huddle up in my box and drift off undisturbed and relaxed by the heat and the sense of coziness. But this night wasn’t relaxed. The air was filled with tension and exited impatience. It was crammed with the feeling of twisted dreams and pretentious mysteries waiting to take proper shape. I wondered what that shape would be. She, because there was already no question about her gender on my part- I was sure he was thinking of the next bride, would doubtlessly be beautiful, I thought. Pretty, innocent- like a true heroine. Delicate like glass and gracious like a fairytale princess. She would have a quiet, soft, musical laughter and a generous smile with which to capture the heart of her onstage prince. I chuckled under my breath. It was the first time the thought occurred to me:
What would Pierrot think about her? Would he be enchanted by her charming, black eyes (somehow I liked to think they’d be black) and the sparkling even teeth in her smile?
The scene of sweet, nice, ordinary Pierre and a perfect beauty was absolutely queer and I could hardly constrain myself from laughing even harder. And she would be beautiful, no doubt about that. It was only now that Tom’s undistinguishable words made sense to me- “perfect… has to be perfect” I remembered him saying with a drunken expression on his face. And I know, probably better than anyone, that if he felt and imagined her as “perfect” she would be nothing short of spectacular. I hoped I’d like her. Actually, I hoped I’d get the chance to like her. I was trying to stay optimistic and think that he wouldn’t just throw me away after she was finished. I tried to convince myself that he wasn’t the type of person to do such a thing. That we had a bond that went beyond a sudden struck of inspiration or the performance of an unsuccessful play. But I couldn’t know. He’d gone totally unpredictable and I couldn’t be sure in anything he would do and so, despite all my willingness to believe the best, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep that night.
Early next morning I heard him break something in the back yard, but before I could try to get out and see what had happened he was already out and in his car.
I spoke to Pierre about it later, but he said it was nothing- some glass apparently, nothing to worry about. He stayed with me all through the morning until Thomas came back. Sometimes, for all Tom’s talk about me being his favorite, I thought that he actually loved Pierre best of us all, because he was the one with all the perks. He could walk around wherever and whenever he wanted and no rule ever seemed to apply to him. Usually, he didn’t abuse his freedom when Tom was working. I suppose he didn’t want to be in his way or disturb him- Pierre liked to be invisible when possible. But for whatever the reason I was glad for this privilege, because he could always come and talk to me… as he often did.
I talked to him about my strange dream and he told me not to worry, cheering me up with jokes. Then he told me what Tom was like, what he did, while he was in. Pierre said the boxes were even more now, but he never opened them. He also said Tom read every day and that surprised me.
“Every day? What, the newspaper? There can’t be anything about us there, we haven’t performed for weeks.”
“Not a newspaper, he’s reading a book.”
“What? Seriously, a real book?”
“Yeah, he’s not a very avid reader I’ll tell you that, but he still reads, a dozen pages a day at least.”
“Wow, that’s a first.”
“I know, but it’s just another one of his whims I’m sure. He’ll throw it away in a few days. He probably just picked it up out of boredom.”
Pfff, I doubted that. He’d never been that bored in his life. But I didn’t argue. Who knew anymore?
“Oh, and Jez.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Um, there’s something else I think you should know…” he hesitated and I regretted not being able to see his expression.
“What?”
He was still quiet.
“Pierre?”
“Well, he um… he is making another rag doll.”
I shook my head impatiently at the concerned tone of his voice.
“I already know that, Pierre, I told you last night. And it’s not really a surprise is it? We all saw it coming. I’m fine, really” I added when he didn’t answer.
“He’s refitting your bridal dress for her.”
He said the words fast, as if worried that they would burn a hole in his tongue if he lingered on them for too long.
I smiled.
“I knew that as well. Remember? Last night? I did tell you, didn’t I?
“No, I know that it’s just… I hear him, Jez. I hear him at night. He, he talks to her. He whispers, he sings. It sounds ridiculous, but I’m sure I heard him humming once. He’s gone all poetic… he talks about love. He… he’s even changing the play for her.”
“What?’
I wanted to laugh, but I only managed to sound hysterical. Did he really talk about love??? Since when? Since when did he sing? Since when did he recite poetry? Since when did he change for a doll? Since when wasn’t I enough for him?
“Jez, are you OK?”
“Is he really changing the play?” I whispered.
“I think so, yes. He says it’s not good enough. And, Jez…?”
I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded forgetting that he couldn’t see me.
“What, Pierre?” I answered finally in a low voice.
“While he’s improving the play, he’s making another role for you. You’ll still be in, you’ll perform with us. But, you’ll be… Well, you’ll be the ugly sister, Jez.”
-
And there it was. That’s how you turn from a bride to a comic villain in a second. That’s how things change dragging you behind them even if you don’t want to follow. That’s how fast you get rejected, how fast you can be destroyed. It comes almost unnoticeably. Quietly and in the dark. No tragic drums in the shadows to mark your fall, no flames, no fire. Like being struck by lightening in the middle of a sunny day.
The ugly sister! I, who was his favorite. I, who he had sang to first. Who he’d whispered to. Who he’d talked to day and night. I, who was the reason he’d even make a play at all- his only inspiration in the world. The only one he could ever love. I… was now his ugly sister. The supporting act in a “not-good-enough’ play. A burden in his world which now revolved around another sun.
Pierre stayed with me all night long. He didn’t talk. He didn’t ask questions or try to find the logic in the situation, hoping it would make me feel better. He was just… there. Sitting on the other side of the box-– his shoulder touching mine through the carton wall.
It was comforting in a way. But it didn’t make much difference to me. It didn’t change anything. He could stay there ‘till the end of the world for all I care and it would still mean nothing at all. He just didn’t understand. He didn’t know.
“At least you’ll still be with us” he’d said.
I didn’t answer. And what could I say anyway. How could I explain it to him? How could I make him see that it wasn’t that simple? That I was made to be a bride and anything less than that just wouldn’t cut it.
It wasn’t a matter of pride. There are simply no middle grounds here. I… we either are or aren’t, period. There is no “playing pretend” with rag dolls; we are made to play the parts we perform. I was hoping, although I knew he would replace me as a lead, that he’ll still keep me anyway. But I couldn’t believe he’d try and force me to be something other than me. I guess I was wrong again.
An ugly sister, huh?
How did he dare call me ugly? How did he dare replace me? Did he not think… ? Did he not think I would feel it? Why would he not know, if he’d made me, why would he not understand that it would stab me as painfully as it did?
I tried to push back a fresh wave of tears pacing through my throat and to my tired eyes.
Did he really mean to hurt me? Or did he simply not care if I was in pain or not.
I was sobbing. And at the same time was repulsed by the tears falling on my cheeks. I felt weak. For the first time I was crying because I doubted my own worth. I didn’t like the feeling. I didn’t like to cry, I’d only done it onstage so far and on demand. And it sucked! It reminded me of the dream I had the other night. Like the tears were the merciless rain, destroying everything good and sunny in its path. Until there was nothing left. Nothing but wilted flowers.
Well, someone had to take the blame for making it hale over my whole world.
And it was all on her! All of it!
Oh, I hated her already. I hated her as night closed it’s sleepless walls around me. I despised her unborn face. Her disgusting smile, her empty eyes. Her piercing laughter. I hated her from head to toe and wished she would burn in the ashes of her own jaded beauty. I hated her for making me hate as much as loved. I clenched my weak fists and muttered angry curses while Tom worked by the fireplace, our whispers twisting into one. A mess of sounds only Pierre could hear- his were loving, mine- mute screams of blind jealousy, enragement and pain. My silent, hissing words were the black poison I wanted to drown her in. They kept pouring out of me until the box filled up to the very edge leaving no place for air. Hate was all I could breath in. And I inhaled it greedily, letting it sink in my heart like ink in cotton. For a moment it was all there was… until something mingled almost unnoticeably with it. It took me a while to realize that the sound didn’t come from my own quiet sobs. It was sharp. Vicious. Steel. It was the sound of scissors, cutting through some kind of cloth.
I listened again. I imagined his fingers, careful and yet slightly trembling. The excitement in his eyes. The warmth of his fingertips. Another tear glided to my lips. I remembered it so well I could see him as if the carton around me was transparent:
His heartbeat increases and he starts breathing faster. There’s a cigarette in the corner of his mouth that he’s forgotten about. When his eyes finally start to smart he gives in and puts it out on the floor, afraid of ash falling on top of the material. I heard the heel of his boot as it hit the floor over the burnt smoke. Then he took the scissors back in his hands. He used to just tear cloth apart at the beginning, he was negligent to details, focused on the image in his head. But now he wanted to be precise. A part of it fell heavily on the ground. I could hear it gliding of the desk. Silk. He was using silk.
I laughed. Of course he was using silk. He’d probably even give her diamonds for eyes. She’d be royalty. Incomparable to any other. A rag doll without the rags. A shiny dream tied up in a candy red ribbon. A short- fused firework exploding with insatiable, miserly desire, that suffocates its victims.
She was the epitome of avarice and the moment she lived, the world was hers.
-
“Hey, look at this! “Alexis Vérèn continues to nourish our dreams and imagination with his latest novel “Magic and secrecy”.””
I didn’t listen.
“Jez?”
“Yeah, what?”
“This guy… Alexis whoever, that’s the book that Tom’s reading now.”
I glanced at the paper in Pierre’s hands uninterested.
‘Oh.”
“He’s quite famous apparently, he lives in Paris and that’s his 9th book so far- all best sellers. Listen to this… “
I let him read on and continued to ignore what he actually said.
It was raining. Barely, but I could feel it nevertheless- the wind washing my face in the cold, early morning. The air was clean and undisturbed but by butterflies in the nearby bush. The grass seemed to have never been trimmed before, but I could feel it like a cozy, soft blanket beneath me. I was relaxed and sleepy, of course, since I hadn’t actually slept in about a week now.
Tom was already finishing. And surprisingly quickly I might add, but it was undoubtedly so. As the end drew to closer he wouldn’t let himself be distracted by any trifles, but was also in a better mood than before. Him being cheerful an good-humored didn’t do much do better my mood, but at least he let us out every now and then, and the back garden had become the only place where I could repose. I used these hours to sleep usually with Pierre next to me to keep me company though sometimes I wished he would just go away. He deserved so much more in return for what he did, so much than I was, at the moment, in no condition to give. I found myself thinking that in times I almost wanted him to be rude to me. I said so once. I was tired and had just woken up from another nightmare. I was mad and craved for an argument with somebody, not niceties. He just smiled and said “that’s what friends are for”, as if that explained everything. He didn’t understand, sweet, naïve Pierre.
This morning was similar. I was in the mood for cursing. But I kept quiet and let him read.
“Apart from his books, the author manages to hold our attention with his personal life as well. According to Vérèn’s own words, life in Paris suits him just fine and he has recently bought a luxurious yacht to prove to his numerous fans that his extravagant temperament really is perfectly matched to our glamorous capital. The author, who is originally from Penrith, Cumbria, England, explains that his new book is in fact greatly inspired from his childhood, but wouldn’t have been possible if it wasn’t for the inspiration of Paris and the city’s famous atmosphere…”
“Oh, who gives a damn about that stupid book, anyway?” I interrupted him finally.
His voice died suddenly in the middle of the sentence. I saw him with the corner of my eye as he lifted his head sharply to face me. He wasn’t used to hear me speak like that. To be honest neither was I, but the sentence just burst out and I felt good saying it. I almost expected, wanted him to say something rude in return. He didn’t. Nice Pierre… maddeningly nice Pierre. I used to like that about him, but now everything, it seems, had changed.
Maybe, I thought, we shouldn’t be friends anymore. Shouldn’t…
Maybe we wouldn’t be able to stay friends anymore.
“Is there something wrong, Jez?”
I threw him an impatient, incredulous look and he rolled his eyeballs:
“Apart from the obvious I mean” he corrected himself.
The laughter tasted bitter and dry in my mouth; sort of ancient, fragile.
“Apart from the obvious… no, not much really. Why? Isn’t it enough for you?”
“I was just asking you know? No need to get all wound up at me for just trying to help.”
“Help? Yeah, such great help you’ve been. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The sarcasm was intended to hurt and it did, but he was no wimp. I was counting on that.
He frowned seriously and looked at me as if he saw me for the first time.
“You know, you’re really being way too dramatic, Jezarel. It’s not like it’s the end of the world.”
“You don’t understand…” I tried to be dismissive, but he interrupted.
“Oh, really? I don’t? I don’t know? You’re really not that mysterious, Jez. Or what, do you think we’re all blind? That none of us… that I can’t see how you look at him. The way you smile when he throws you a “by-the-way” compliment.”
“What does that mean?
“It’s like one of those- “oh, and by the way you look sort of nice”. You know, the way you say something when you have more important things to do and you just hope they’ll leave you alone after an insincere compliment. It means he never really liked you, he just had no alternative ‘till now and you’re missing something that never was.”
My hands started to shake.
“You can’t know that” I said.
“I can’t. Really? And you do, because you’re more unprejudiced in the matter, is that it?”
It was a bad moment to find out that his sarcasm was no worse than mine. I clenched my fists so he wouldn’t see them shake.
“I don’t know? No. No I don’t, because you chose not to tell me, but you know what, Jez, it’s not that hard to guess. All this drama and you stumping your foot to the floor, mad at the world… This is not about the part. You hate that stupid dress, you don’t mean it when you say “yes”. You don’t even feel like a bride, you never did. So, you know what, my guess is you’re just bloody jealous. You’re bloody scared that he won’t call you his “sweet sunflower”, his “favorite” anymore. And I get that alright. I understand. Because…” his eyes darkened for a moment and he looked away uncomfortably- like he’d said more than he should have “…because I just do. But all the same, Jez, I think it’s about damn time you stop blaming me for your romantic failures. Why don’t you go be mad at Tom for a change, huh? I’d like to see that.
I exhaled a whisper, afraid that something louder would break apart in the air between us:
“Because… because I like those “by-the-way” compliments. I miss his… insincerities.” ”
The words hurt, like they were too big to get out of my throat and left bloody traces in my mouth. I looked down and wished I wouldn’t cry. He tried to be nicer.
“Jez…”
“Just forget it, alright.”
He didn’t contradict me but I could tell that by now he wished he would take his words back. Strangely enough I didn’t- what good would that do us anyway. At least now everything was out in the open and I knew I was right- everything had changed, like I thought. We wouldn’t be able to stay friends for long, after all.
I fidgeted in my seat tentatively and suddenly felt something sharp beneath my left leg. My hand shot to it instinctively and I felt it in my grasp then- a small shiny piece of broken glass. I remembered the crashing sound I’d heard from the back yard that morning and thought that’s what Tom must have broken. I held the transparent glass in my hand and lifted it slowly to my face. The sun hadn’t yet risen in the sky and there were shadows in the garden. Darkness covered my shaky fingers and the glass in them. My pale features were reflected in the broken piece and I studied them carefully.
I didn’t like what I saw. The lines of my face seemed strangely deformed and my hair was in total disorder. The wavy sunflower petals were tangled in an awfully tangled web. I let out a heavy sigh and decided that a beauty inspection wouldn’t be one of my best ideas for the day. Maybe I was being too hard on myself. It was after all weeks since we’d gone out, since we’d performed. Since I had any motivation whatsoever to put myself in order, so to speak. No, this was nothing that a few hours of sleep and some combing wouldn’t be able to fix. I was fine. As good as I ever was.
I frowned. Well, wasn’t that just the problem, I thought bitterly. Apparently “same as I ever was” was nothing to be especially proud of.
I lifted the glass to my face again as if to check if it wasn’t just plain old paranoia sinking in again.
Nope, no paranoia. Regrettably, I looked just as bad as I’d feared. I brought the improvised mirror closer to my face and stared at it with severe scrutiny. My lips were a bit shapeless I noted and my nose was too small for my face. And I hated that my cheeks were always too red- like I was permanently blushed or something. My eyes were nice, but their wishy-washy blue color wasn’t expressive enough, you had to look at them to see they were pretty and people rarely take the time to do that, don’t they?
My displeasure formed itself into an expressive pout. For a second I looked stupidly childish- like Jules in the car that day, when she didn’t get the answer she was counting on. The association made me laugh out loud and suddenly the expression in my mirror changed. My lips took form and parted to show my white teeth, my eyes gleamed, even my nose wrinkled nicely. The blush didn’t disappear, but hey you can’t have everything, right.
Hm, that was better, I thought and closed my eyes satisfied. Maybe it was paranoia after all.
“Pierre, Jezarel? Are you there?” The voice was painfully soft and sweet and melted in the air like butter over a soft piece of bread.
It was Tom. The fact that he used my full name didn’t bother me as it should have. Instead I jumped enthusiastically from the ground.
“I’ve got something to show you guys.” The words sprang victorious from his mouth. There was also a shrilling, infantile sound vaguely reminding of laughter following his voice, but I didn’t recognize it and, quite frankly, at the time I didn’t care.
“It’s a surprise” he chuckled.
He chuckled!? Since when?
“We’re here by the bushes, Tom” answered Pierre in my place.
And then, too late as usual, but I realized what he’d said.
It’s a surprise.
My heart sank to my feet as a stone in a deep well.
He was finally finished, wasn’t he?
“Oh, here’s where you two lovebirds are hiding.”
He was radiant. Glowing, happy and talkative he looked around.
“It’s not exactly the spot I’d choose, but if it works for you…”
Pierre, though, hadn’t gotten over our fight and wasn’t in the mood for such remarks:
“What is it, Tom?” he interrupted.
“Well, hum,” he coughed to note that the important part was coming “as you know, recently I’ve been working on something new.”
He said it as if we didn’t know. It was irritating.
“Something very special.”
There was that sound again. That irksome, shrilling thing. Was that a bird? I looked around annoyed.
Tom ignored me… of course and continued:
“I want you two to be the first to know, because you’re the leads in the play and I hope you’ll get along with the new addition to our little company…”
Not little enough.
“… well here she is. Come here, love, where are you?” he laughed cheerfully.
And she came, stepping slowly forward from behind the bush. The branches shivered around her delicate body, butterflies nested in her carbon black, silky hair and her feet, which seemed to be barely touching the ground, followed behind her ringing, childish laughter.
I stared. There’s not that much to it really, it was simply the single earthly thing I could do. That first moment I saw her I froze and the ice burned within me stronger than any fire I’d ever felt before. That first second every fiber in my body yearned to never lose her from sight again.
She felt it and tilted her head modestly to the side, locks of hair falling off her shoulder. The movement made my mouth dry. I tried to swallow. And failed.
Oh’ she was… everything and all at once. That’s really the only way to explain. She was everything. To look at her radiant skin, her fragile fingers as they touch her wide, smiling lips, brush her cheeks- it was like to watch the whole universe and all that was in it before you. Her simple existence made you feel tiny and insignificant. Made you feel like you could never exist without her. The look in her eyes could, in the stretch of a second, cage you for all eternity. After the first few minutes my pupils hurt, as if I’d stared at the sun, but it was hard to disenchant myself now that I’d seen her. Now that she’d looked at me with those devilish, piercing eyes of hers I couldn’t really look anywhere else.
Tom was talking again, over-flooding the yard with pride and self-content. I didn’t hear a word. Let him talk. He never made much sense through his words anyway. His hands spoke better. And this time they’d, intentionally or not, created something which thankfully was as good, or better, than the whole world, because if she wasn’t, she’d want to have it. And she’d succeed.
Finally I managed to detach my gaze from her. Everything around seemed to have gone paler. I looked at Tom. He was like a proud dad. I’d never seen him smile so widely. He picked her up, hugged her tightly and then held her in his arms as though afraid to lose contact with her skin.
I shook my head and tried to think rational. Evasion was impossible, but I tried to control the daze stretched over me. I didn’t look this time, I examined.
Black hair, high cheekbones, black eyes (I got that right), wide lips in a mat shade of bright-red mahogany, pointy chin. She was wearing a glossy dark shirt with curls at the end, sharp cleavage and a big, blue flower on her loose collar. Her skirt was wide, short and laced. Her skin was silk as was her hair and there were a few golden wires winding up like veins from her wrists to her neck and around her whole body. Her eyes pierced, because they were embers. Glowing charcoal, burning everyone who laid eyes upon them.
Tom was right- she was perfect after all.
“What do you think?” he asked not able to contain himself.
Pierre barely spoke, hoarse for the first time in his life.
“She… she’s amazing” he babbled without thinking.
The perfect one shrilled a laugh again.
“I mean, you know,” he tried to recollect himself “She’s nice, she looks, hm, well ,nice, you know.”
The image in the piece of broken glass in my hand became distorted from reawaken anger and jealousy. Tom was one thing, but I couldn’t bare to see Pierre that helpless as well. The fact that just minutes ago I’d decided that we wouldn’t be friends anymore was meaningless to me now. Landscape was this- she could, and probably would, have the whole world, but not the things in it that were already mine. Unfortunately those seemed to be the exact things she wanted.
Making one final attempt to redeem himself Pierre asked:
“I’m sorry, Tom, but I didn’t hear her name?”
“Oh, yes of course, introductions, I’m sorry. Love, that’s Pierre and this is Jezarel.
“Guys, meet Ava. This is Ava Rice.”
My reflection disappeared beneath a thick cover of blood as I clenched the glass violently in my shaking palm.
