Straight On Til' Mourning

XII.

When she awoke, a red carpet was upraised beneath her feet.

It was an awards show – one of the handful she had been forced to attend by merit of relation of socioeconomic status. She glanced down to see – and feel, like fluid motion – an Ellie Saab dress resting snug against her bare-boned body. It was white and beaded with thousands of crystal that swerved and scattered into curling patterns. Years ago, she had seen it in a magazine – it was the dress she had always dreamed of wearing to a high school prom. Expensive, gorgeous, and decadent against her too-pale skin and dull hair.

The setting wasn't quite right. Details were missing: clustered knots of observers and screaming fans. The latched groups of makeup artists and hair stylists and the other bevy that stood in the shadows waiting to adjust, primp, and poise. Over her head a ceiling of glass revealed midnight-black skies. Mirrors lined the long hall ahead, reflecting camera flashes and hundreds of eager, waiting faces with horrifying clarity.

An arm rested, warm and slender, at her waist. Knightley. Gold ridged solid against her throat; the skirt of her dress flared straight out, a brilliant crimson red and covered with abstract white shapes. Even in hallucinatory form, she was striking.

"You aren't supposed to be here." Kirsten stared at her sister. She could feel injustice rising up, creating in her a callow, depthless anger. "This is my journey! My...bridge."

"Don't stand on bridges," her sister hummed, "because they always burn."

"I'm serious!"

"Smile, will you?" she was nudging her with a pointed elbow, a beatific expression on her face. "Smile for the cameras, dah-ling. It's your last chance."

"Before what?" Kirsten said. "Before what?"

"Stupid, silly, fool." It was Kolleen. Resplendent in a navy Christian Siriano gown, slimmer than ever before. Touches of pale blue light up her eyes and the curves of her face. "Didn't we teach you to be grateful?"

"I'm the middle child," Kirsten said, "not the stupid one."

"The middle child is always stupid, stupid. And –" Knightley dug in with another elbow. "Don't smile, stop smiling! You look bad against my light."

"I'm not stealing your light."

"You always were."

"No," she said. "You kept stealing mine."

"But now, hasn't death stopped us? Or," Kolleen leaned close, lipstick smudged on her front tooth. "Or will there be a permanent ghost? I've wanted to be a ghost for quite some time...it sounds like such fun..."

As Knightley began to laugh, so too did the paparazzi. The occupants of the hall were shrieking hysterically and the sound battered against Kirsten's ears.

"How could I have dealt with shadows," she said, raising her voice. Higher and higher and higher. "How could I have dealt with shadows if you've only just died?"

Her sisters stopped laughing. Their red lips were slashed open and their hands were balled by their sides. The ceiling above gave away with a terrific crash, splitting mirrors into fragments and sending the laughing into an uproar that spoke of fear. The carpet withered, like moss, from red to brown, and the stars fell from the sky. Great balls of gas burned white on the floor, licking up tapestries and gowns. Sparks ran schizophrenic up the crumbling walls.

Then Knightley was falling down and Kolleen followed suit. They sprawled across the destruction at awkward angles, limbs broken, faces flushed blue.

"Kirsten," they said, "dear Kirsten. You're much too young to die."

And, grief carving faces into her sanity, Kirsten screamed. The world as it stood around her – disappeared.