Darling Belle

Eleven

       
        There's a picture taped on the silver refrigerator. Hand-drawn with crayons, the artist was unmistakably seven years old. It featured an older woman (Maryjane) with a little girl (Mallory) holding hands. Smiling. Crooked flowers and two other stick-figures on each side of the paper, eyes crossed out. Corpses. One was an older gentleman with a pair of square glasses and a sorry excuse for a beard (Elias) besides Maryjane. And a blonde girl with a red ribbon in her hair (Maisie) by Mallory. How grim.

Mallory climbed onto a seat across from Maisie, looking up at her with round, brown eyes. 'My mama said you left us.'

Maisie choked, disorientated. Mallory had ushered her out of bed and sat her down at the dinner table. She looked back to her younger sister. How could she explain to a seven-year-old girl that she'd never really left? That this house haunted her every moment away. That the loose thread Mallory was twirling around her finger—from the cream table cloth had been soaked in her blood half a decade ago.

Nereus. She hadn't known whether to like or hate him. She wasn't even sure if he was a hallucination or not. But how else would she have appeared here?

If he wasn't a figment of her imagination, then she hated him.

Maryjane walked out of the kitchen, almost on cue, a pan holding scrambled eggs, its handle gripped with one of her hands. Swaying on her thin ankles. A dark floral dress. Lips painted with a thin layer of blackberry lipstick. Lashes curled. Cheeks smeared with blusher.

Mallory's mother had always been beautiful.

Yet time was catching up with her. Scars. Wrinkles. No matter what cream she'd use, she would never return to her younger self that cooed charisma at every gesture. It took more effort for her to look this way than back in the day. She reminded Maisie of Mother Gothel sometimes. As if she were Rapunzel, the only thing keeping her mother young. Or rather the girl that pushed her mother to cling to her decaying youth. She'd always compared Maisie to herself. But she assumed that role had gone to Mallory now.

And if it wasn't that, then Maryjane liked to pretend Maisie was still hers, her baby. Even though she was too old for that. Her mother wanted to live in the past, forever?

If she hadn't been pretty, she would've gotten nowhere. Her face was a tool. Pretty privilege allowed her to be forgiven easily. That's what mother had told her. That one day, Maisie would take advantage of her looks, too. It wasn't shameful, it was simply what girls like them had to do. Whatever that fucking meant.

But it was different with Maisie, when she was little, she let bygones be bygones because Maryjane was supposed to be her mother. And never purposefully used her face as an excuse for bad behavior. In fact, she despised her appearance for even showing the slightest resemblance to Maryjane.

Maryjane evenly portioned out the breakfast to everyone, curls of smoke ascending from the hot eggs that settled before them.

Mallory quickly dug in.

Maryjane stared at Maisie, unspeaking.

This whole thing was bizarre.

She didn't make any move to eat. So, Maryjane kept staring, not touching her own plate. Maisie sighed then so did Maryjane. Mimicking.

Maisie parted her lips, Maryjane followed.

Mallory noticed the exchange between the two and laughed. 'I wanna play too!' She settled her attention on Maisie who furrowed her brows, Mallory and Maryjane imitated the slight change in her expression.

She scowled. 'Stop that.'

Stop that.

Stop that.