Aftermath

Scene 22

Scene 22: Anna, then

The day she caught them together.

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It was hard to believe that she was already looking at wedding invitations, since it seemed like only yesterday when she was sending out the letters announcing the engagement, Elsa staring disapprovingly from her window as she handed them to the mailman—but it was even harder to realise that she was doing it alone.

Hans had told her just the day before that he suddenly had to pick up someone else's shift, again, even though they'd made these plans a while back, and couldn't he just get someone else to fill in?

Seeing his consternated, guilty expression, however, she'd known better than to whine for too long. After all, he was one of the Westergard sons—and, still being a management trainee, it wouldn't look good if he just delegated his work to others.

Still, she was so lonely, perusing the options with a clerk in the store, only half-listening to the woman as she went on about how impeccably embossed one set was, or oh, just look at the shine of this paper!

(She'd never been one to notice the finer details of these kinds of things—she just knew when she liked something, instinctively, and that was that.)

He did say that she could text him with photos of the samples she liked, or just in general, if she got bored (and he'd said it with such a sly smile that she'd nudged him in the side with a grin, because it was impossible to stay mad at him when he wore that look); but she had already sent him a couple, and he hadn't replied yet, which was pretty unusual for him.

It didn't necessarily worry her, per se—she guessed that he was just busy with work, cleaning up some patron's mess, dealing with a bar fight—but it did make her antsy and more distracted than the clerk, who was staring at her pointedly, probably would have liked.

She wondered, absently, if Elsa was busy; after all, her sister had always been much more particular about design, and fashion, and orderliness, and so she might have a better perspective on which invitation would look best.

It was decided, then—she excused herself with an appropriately apologetic expression, and walked back to the parking lot—and though she hesitated for a moment, pondering on whether or not she should text or call Elsa in advance, she eventually just shrugged, remembering that her sister rarely left the house on the weekends, confining herself to her room to catch up on work.

Then again, Elsa had been a bit more outgoing in recent weeks—she'd actually accepted invitations to go for walks outside, and chat about school and work, and hadn't always seemed so anxious whenever she did—so if her sister was home like she suspected, she thought that Elsa might actually enjoy accompanying her back to the store, or perhaps to the movies instead.

And that thought made her smile for the whole drive back home.

When she arrived, parked, and entered, the house was eerily quiet—usually, Kai or Gerda would have been there to greet her, take her hat or coat or shoes or purse, and close the door behind her—but then, it was possible that Elsa had given them the day off, as she did from time to time on the weekends (though Elsa usually told her when she did).

She brushed off the apprehension, dropping her keys on the table by the door. She didn't bother to take off her flats, though, since she didn't plan on spending long back in the house—just long enough to knock on Elsa's door, convince her to come to the store, and then go back out again.

She went upstairs with that mission in mind, and walked down the hall, reaching Elsa's room at the end … and instinctively she paused there, standing in front of it, just like always.

She was just about to shake off the familiar feeling and just knock already, announce her presence with a bright smile, ask the question—but then, she heard something from inside the room, something muffled and heavy, and she noticed that the door wasn't locked like it should have been.

In fact, it was open, just the slightest crack, enough to hear but not to see.

Those noises concerned her, though, because they sounded strange, gasping—and so she swallowed down her hesitation, and she opened the door.

And her heart stopped.

There he was, Hans, his pants pulled down to his knees, his torso bare, blinking at her in dull surprise.

There she was, Elsa, her bottom half bare, her blouse halfway-unbuttoned, staring at her in terror.

And he was under her on the bed, her arms pinned on either side of him, her chest breathlessly heaving above his, her knee nudging against his crotch, her eyes—no, their dead mother's eyes—glued to her in stunned, horrified, shame.

Anna—

She thought she heard Elsa say her name as she ran out, but she wasn't sure, and she didn't care.

(Because she couldn't hear, much less see, anything at all.)

She ran from the house, from the neighbourhood, down the road, as far as her feet would take her—and she hoped that that was far, since she couldn't imagine going back, couldn't imagine seeing their faces ever again.

Eventually, though, she stopped running, because her breath ran out, and her feet felt ragged, blistering under the heat of the sun; she sat down on a curb somewhere, near a store she'd probably driven past a million times but had never paid attention to, and she was glad, for once, that there was nobody else around to see her—or to hear her as she buried her face between bent knees.

She didn't know what hurt worse, in that moment: that he had been there, Hans, her fiancé, with her sister—nestled comfortably underneath her, gazing at Elsa with an expression she thought was reserved only for her—

—or that she, the Ice Queen, Elsa, her own sister, had opened the door, had let him just walk in, had gazed back at him with something in her eyes that was too real, too pure, to call an act.

But she couldn't bring herself to name it, because her throat was already raw from screaming.