She's Proud of You

Why are you still there?

I’ve told you to leave time and time again. But you’re there, in the forest. I can see the little wisps of fog that cloud up the air in front of you, so it’s got to be cold down there. Come on, you know this is pointless. But you’re still running. There’s nothing behind you, nothing to chase you but your own thoughts. Isn’t the cold tearing at your throat? Don’t your legs hurt? Don’t you realize how beautifully pointless it all is?

I suppose you don’t, because you’re still running like mad. It’s crazy, you know this is crazy. I’ve told you so many times that it’s crazy but you just won’t listen to me. Your ears seem to be stopped up with the very cotton that must be between your ears. Stop running and listen! You won’t find her!

You’ve stopped now. Good job. Still not listening, but you’ve stopped. I can deal with this brisk pace you’ve set. I am glad, for once, that you’re too tired. Now, look, over to you left. What do you see? Trees. Now look over to your right. What do you see there? More trees. They’re all very cold trees, blanketed by the icy night air. The moon isn’t out tonight. You’re able to pretend, for a moment, that they still have their leaves, just like when the two of you would come out here to play and make pretend in the grasses. Stories of kings and queens in the warm august air.

How twisted it is, then, that you keep coming back in this state.

I look you up and down quietly. You’ve forgotten to put on your shoes again, and your feet seem to be bleeding from where you’ve accidentally stepped on a rock or something. I shake my head as you start running again, leaning into your soft lope with all desperation that could house the human mind. You really should remember your shoes next time.

See, there, your hair has come undone. Typical. You don’t even stop to pick up the bow. That was the one she gave you, remember? Turn around and pick it up, that’s the last memory you have of her at this point. There, there you go. You’ve nearly run into a tree. Okay. Not the worst thing to happen, but you’ve gone to pluck the light purple ribbon from the mess of sticks that are trapped up on the forest floor. You’re running again. Stop running! You’re going to pass out. And… there, you’ve stopped. Finally. Good, now turn around and go home, get your shoes and a coat or something- now you’re screaming. Oh joy.

It’s a ragged voice, one that I do not want to hear. You’re screaming her name, over and over again, as if there’s someone other than that bloody echo to respond. She’s not going to shout back, you do know that, don’t you? It’s got to be drummed into your skull after all this time. Oh, uh, you seem to be crying. Let me go consult the manual on how to deal with this, I have no idea… Oh, okay, here’s the page. ‘There, there’. No, that didn’t work. Okay. I’ll scrap the manual, then. It’s a waste of paper.

You’re still screaming. It’s an interesting scream, I think, if it belonged to someone else. Kept in place about the edges with arsenic paint, it’s fraying into a million shreds that beg for nothing but an answer. I would love to answer you. I would love to scream back every swear word in the book just to get you to shut up. But I’m not going to, am I? Because you won’t listen, will you?

You stop screaming. Thank you. But why are you running again? You look strange. Something in your eyes hasn’t gone right, or your mouth is twisted just the wrong way. What’s wrong? Other than the obvious, of course. Something’s got to be messed up, if you’re going like that. There aren’t any wolves in these woods, last I was informed. Where do you think you’re running to?

Oh, you’ve spotted the grave. Okay. Keep running. Run until your lungs give out and you’re left in the same state as she was, a cold, grey corpse. You don’t remember the funeral, do you? You don’t remember throwing your little handful of dirt into the hole, then stepping back and watching your childhood playground through teary eyes? I see. You’ve forgotten, you think she’s still alive. You search, even after the others have left you for madness. After everyone but me has given up on you. Remember that I’m not leaving, even if your search has come to an end. I’ll be there to keep you company, alright?

You’ve knelt down in front of the grave now. You’re not breathing properly, my friend. Neither was she, but no one has to worry about that anymore, as breathing has never been a problem for the dead. Your fingers trace the name engraved on the cold, grey stone. I want to give you a hug, the same way she did, but I’m stuck up here. I’m sorry.

Camilla would have been proud of you, though, in or out of the grave.

You lie down in the bed of dust and cracking sticks, hands and feet bleeding, tired. You can rest now, love, you’ve found her. And I am glad of it. Good job. You’ve done your job. No more running, no more screaming, no more stumbling back home at three in the morning to an empty ruin of a castle.

You’ve found her, and she’s proud of you. But now you’ve got to cut the ties you have left to this dead sister of yours. Camilla won’t come back, no matter how much you scream and plead. You’re not going to be able to hear her laugh again, not going to be able to smile at the way the sunshine chases her.

You withdraw the ribbon from your pocket. There is a net of black roses growing behind the grave, and you prick your finger as you tie the lilac memory into their thorns. Your fingers, trembling and numb, are nearly as gentle as hers were. The ribbon waves in the wind, just like she did whenever the two of you went out to play.

You’re going to cut the ties, and it’s my turn to be proud of you.