Giving Fantasia: The Taking Fantasia Sequel

Chapter 47: Little Sister

Chapter 47: Little Sister

"Wendy? Wendy, it's Michael."

"And John."

"Can we come in?"

Wendy gazed at the ceiling. She'd taken refuge on her bed, and although she disapproved of the dramatics, it somehow seemed safest to cry into her pillow. When her pillow was damp, she'd lain on her back –wet dress and all – and stared blankly at the ceiling. It didn't help, she still felt horrible, but the silence was comforting.

"Wendy?" John repeated. Wendy could envision him checking his watch. "Wendy it's Michael and John. Could you open the door?"

"We're not going to yell." Michael added quickly. "Just...want to make sure you're okay."

Guiltily, Wendy pressed her forehead. Of course. They'd heard the argument. She and Jim had been shouting by the end. Dreadful. Inconsiderate.

Wendy did not want to talk. But she owed them an apology.

"Shadow." Wendy said mutely. "Could you...?"

Grumpily the shadow unlocked the door. As John and Michael entered, it swooped back under the bed. Great. MORE people, taking MORE of Wendy's time – puh. 

"Hi." Michael said, lying beside her. The mattress bumped as John did the same. Michael snuggled. John crossed his legs and read the business report. "You okay?"

Immediately, Wendy donned a motherly tone.

"You two should be in bed."

"We were." John said, turning the paper and licking his thumb. "Sound asleep."

"John goes to bed at 7:51..." Michael made air quotes. "On the dot."

"Early to bed, early to rise..." John muttered, straightening the paper with a flick. "All that good stuff."

Wendy sighed. "I'm sorry we woke you. I...I didn't mean to shout."

John half smiled. "Mmhm."

Wendy glanced over. "What does that mean?"

John looked over his glasses.  "Wendy, out of all us, you have the temper."

"Me?"

Gravely, Michael nodded. "It's true. Just like..."

They all thought. They all remembered. They all moved a little closer together.

"....father." Wendy finished. It was true. Agonizing. But true. Their father had intoxicated himself to drown a broken heart. He'd been irritable. He'd been short tempered. He'd been...violent.

Wendy closed her eyes. Painfully she acknowledged the comparison. "I have a temper...like father."

Apologetically Michael cuddled. But John, buried behind his newspaper, humphed impatiently.

"Well if we're going to get all cerebral about your flaws, why stop there? Let's keep going, it's the intelligent thing to do. Let's see – ah. You are annoyingly nurturing. Made us eat our vegetables and drink our milk."

"Like mommy." Michael said.

"You've an  infuriating imagination." John continued. "Which is maddening because you have the ability to switch between fantasy and logic faster than a light switch."