Like Clockwork

I awaken

The tulle from her petticoat itches violently and the only thing stopping her from digging her manicured nails into her legs and dragging them over her skin is the knowledge that it is unladylike and Mother will punish her for it later.

It's a strange thought to have because she's never had it before: that is, she has never thought about the way fabric feels on her skin. Or about reacting to such a strong bodily urge. Or even having a bodily urge in the first place. There's a certain weight to her body that suddenly feels heavy, not in a sense of carrying, but in the sense of occupying. Sitting in a chair still left warm by its previous user. Is she the chair or the new user?

There's a fuzz in her head, a buzzing, probably affected by the rice wine she's drank–No, she hasn't drank anything. There is alcohol in her hands, but it has not touched her lips. When did she pick it up?

Mother says something to her, to her sister. Her sister responds. Her brain (brain?) processes it, and her mouth spills out a reply automatically. I've never seen her before either, Mother. The words are true, but she doesn't remember thinking about them. About commanding her lips and tongue to move and push air out of her body. She tries to reach into her memory anyways, to see if she can remember. Can place the mysterious princess' face. She tries and doesn't come out with anything but the past few days. Spilling rice into the ashes in the hearth. Eating more than her fill at dinner. Tearing apart Ashwallower's dress.

The memories bring smug delight to her being. A bandaid on the wound that is being ignored in favor of the mysterious princess in the Prince's arms.

She's had dreams like this, she thinks. Where she's standing at the edge of a crowd, forming a ring around a dancing couple. Where no matter how hard she tries to push her way towards the prince, the emperor, the king, she can never touch him. Maybe this is one of them, one of the dreams. The hazy memories that mostly erase themselves once dawn breaks. This is common. She can't even remember what the trip to the ball was like (was the carriage ride bumpy? Smooth? Anticipatory? Does it matter?), nor really much about the days leading up to the event. Must have been too excited them. Both she and her sister.

The Ugly Stepsister–one of them, she's a part of set. Always has been. Always will be, how does she know that? Her gaze removes itself from the Prince and faraway princess to look at her sister: taller and lankier than she. Born with a face so similar to hers, they were often described (by whomst?) as twins when they were younger. Are they twins? It doesn't matter. What do people call her when they're not calling the both of them together? No that's silly, they are always together. Never more than a room apart. If at all. What would be the point?

The urge to reach out and grab her sister's hand is strong.

Pay attention to their dance. Her thoughts reinforce. You need to. You need to look. Look at them.

She does. It calms the dizziness in her head, quells the knots in her stomach to something managable. Something she was meant to feel. Meant to be.

The girl's face is lovely. Envious. In a way that strikes her jealousy (yes, that's a familiar emotion) and lights up her rage like a match. She runs down all the things wrong with the girl like clockwork. As if she had listed them out before, written them down and committed them to memory. Neck too long. Skin too pale. Frame too delicate. These are feelings she is supposed to have. The feelings that feel right. It's good. All is well. All is fine. All is...

The expression on the Prince's face looks...wrong. Off. In a way she cannot place. He is handsome, she knows. The thought reverberates in her skull (skull?) loudly. But he is also something else. Something distorted and warped. She is trying to compare it to something, anything, but her brain cannot fill in the blanks. Nothing she knows, nothing she's seen, can compare to the deformation of his face. Not a trick of the light or odd scarring. It's on the tip of her tongue. The thing that's wrong. Grotesque.

He isn't smiling.

And then He looks at her. His horrible brilliant deep eyes are on her, and all the air in her lungs escapes. Somehow she knows he is never supposed to look at her. Acknowledge her. Think about her. That she is never supposed to be at the center of his attention. The sole bearer of his gaze. That this is as unnatural as the sun rising in the west and mothers milking their young. Dread sinks into her stomach like a weighted anvil and the floor under her opens up into nothingness.

Something is horribly wrong.

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unedited. thanks to my friends: rat, saz, noct, and via, for reading the first chapter and letting me know their thoughts and encouragement :) i appreciate your feedback and concrit, it helps my writing grow.