✓ | Girls of a Feather | #OpenNovellaContest2019

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Annemie

Annemie never told her twin or her mother what she had seen that night, keeping the secret close to her heart. For the rest of that year, nightmares plagued her sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was Anstje Pluk's shadowy figure towering over the trees, flocks of birds fleeing her presence. Sometimes, she was one of the birds, caught in the heks' breath-choking grip.

But nothing happened. Days and then weeks and then months passed, and the heks never came for her. The girl's nightmares faded, but a shred of fear lingered, reminding her that she was not safe. Even though Antsje Pluk had yet to stride out of the darkness, she would come eventually. She always did.

Annemie grew up, as all little girls do, and she learned that sometimes parents lie. That many children couldn't go missing from their village without there being a different explanation. She learned that Antsje Pluk was just the excuse used when children ran away because their parents were ashamed of the reality: their sons and daughters had hopes and dreams, and they ran away because they wanted to.

Really, there was nothing to fear from the forest. And so she would sneak off when her family and the village had gone to sleep, greeting the trees like they were old friends.

This night was the same as so many others before.

"Please, don't go tonight," Aleta begged, latching onto Annemie's arm like it was a lifeline.

"What, are you afraid I'll be eaten by Antsje Pluk?" Annemie teased, shaking off her sister's arm and her worries. Despite being the wise, thoughtful one, Aleta still believed that Antsje Pluk haunted the forest, waiting for the child that would become her next meal.

"Shhh! Don't say her name!" Aleta cried, her eyes flashing. She lowered her voice to a fearful whisper. "Why do you have to go?"

Annemie softened, and she took her sister's hand in her own.

"You know why," she said, ignoring the hurt look that flitted across her sister's face. "It's the only place where I can dance. Where I feel free...where I feel like me."

Aleta pulled her hand away, her cloudy blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I get it," she muttered, bitterness darkening her features. "We're not enough."

"That's not fair! You know that's not why!" Annemie shouted, loud enough that Mam stormed in with her hands on her hips.

"Girls, what is going on in here?" she scolded, glaring at the two of them in turn.

Annemie darted a look at her sister, but Aleta averted her eyes. Even though she disapproved of her nightly escapades, she never said anything to Mam. "Pa and I have had a long day, and we don't need to deal with your bickering on top of it. It's time for bed."

Hazy strands of light still shone through the window, but there was no arguing with Mam. Her word was law.

Under Mam's watchful gaze, Annemie and Aleta made their way to their room. This time, they were careful to keep their voices low. Mam wouldn't ask again.

"I need this," Annemie said, urging her sister to understand. They had different passions - she aspired to be a dancer whereas Aleta wanted to be an author - but she had to know what it felt like to want something so badly it hurt to breathe.

"I know," Aleta sighed. "But it's a waste of time. You're never going to get out of the village. People never leave." It stung that her sister didn't think her capable enough, but Annemie refused to be deterred.

"Elke did," she pointed out, and Aleta's expression only grew more sympathetic. Annemie stiffened, waiting for her sister to correct her for the thousandth time, but she never did.

Aleta sighed, the exhale long and weary.

"Just be careful, ok?"

"Ja," she promised.

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The girls changed into their nightclothes and climbed into their beds. Aleta pulled the covers into a tight cocoon around her body, but Annemie barely bothered to draw hers up to her waist. She wasn't planning on staying long.

A soft knock sounded on the door, followed by Pa's comforting rasp.

"Can we come in?" he asked, pushing the door open a crack. His pale blue eyes peeked through, shadowed by a curly strand of silver-blond hair.

"Ja!" they responded in unison, waving him inside.

Annemie made eye contact with Mam as she entered, and she shook her head, signaling that she wouldn't bring up their earlier argument. They always tried to be on their best behavior with Pa. He didn't get to see them a lot because he worked in the fields all day, and they didn't want to spoil what little time they had together.

Pa kissed them goodnight, and Mam stroked their foreheads, humming a lilting lullaby under her breath. Even though they were no longer little girls, and they hadn't been for years, their parents still treated them as if they were. Secretly, Annemie liked the childishness of the routine. It made her think of the old days, when Mam had fed them a steady diet of fairytales and sugar, before she realized that her girls would fly away if she kept filling their heads with fantasies.

After a few minutes, Annemie shrugged away Mam's touch and pretended to roll her eyes. If she didn't, Mam and Pa would stay there until she and Aleta fell asleep, and then she wouldn't be able to sneak off.

"We're leaving, we're leaving," Mam laughed. She backed away with her hands raised, humor glinting in her eyes. She saw through Annemie's ruse, but she liked pretending too.

"Goodnight, my schatten," Pa whispered, gently closing the door behind him.

Their footsteps walked away, and Aleta opened her eyes when she heard her parents' door swing shut. The moon peered at her through the window, and the forest extended its arms toward her, but she couldn't go yet.

She rolled onto her side, staring straight into Aleta's eyes. Her sister never went to sleep until she left, but even then she didn't relax until Annemie climbed back in through the window. The worry would leave her shoulders and the corners of her lips would upturn into a relieved smile, as if she could breathe easy now that she knew Annemie had returned unharmed.

Though Aleta didn't say anything, Annemie could sense her silent plea.

"Please, don't go," her eyes begged.

"Please don't make me stay," Annemie's responded. And her sister caved, as she always did.

So Annemie waited.

She waited until the moon sat high above the treetops. She waited until stars sprinkled the sky like sugary freckles. She waited until the wind whispered strained stories through the trees and the shadows gathered in the dark.

When she knew her parents' breaths had slowed and deepened, she stirred. She threw off her covers and swung her feet around, grabbing her coat and shoes from the dresser as she went. She pried at the window, and it slid open, smooth and silent from years of repetition.

"Goodnight, Aleta," she whispered, but her sister closed her eyes and turned toward the wall. With one last look at Aleta's serene face, she jumped down from the window and slipped into the shadows.