Curtains of Torn Dresses and Hearts of Broken Homes

I softly shut my eyes, breathing deeply. The scent of lemonade, freshly mown grass, and old timber relaxes my muscles. The sunlight feels hot against my blushed cheeks, reminding me of the warmth of my mother’s kisses, and my eyelashes flutter slightly as I open my now glazed eyes to be met with the roof of the bright, homely treehouse which has been a resident of my backyard for almost 7 years now. Ruby Rossdale sits before me. Her legs are crossed daintily and her smooth skin glows beneath the delicate touch of the sun. The edges of her lips curl faintly as her eyes, deep brown like vintage maps and strong coffee, travel across my face.

Could a person possibly be more perfect? It’s sickening. Ruby Rossdale, with her freckled nose and orange hair, turned golden with each ray of light that touched it, her perfectly aligned teeth, her style, all summer dresses detailed with soft flower petals, and loose white cropped shirts highlighting her cute stomach and hourglass figure. Beautiful, generous, smart, responsible Ruby Rossdale. She’s everything I’m not. Everything I’ll never be.

I’ve known Ruby for a long time, even as a child she was perfect. Her figure was no different than that of an ivory statuette, carefully chiselled by the delicate hands of a sculptor. It wasn’t just her body that was beautiful either, it was her mind, and her soul. She immediately saw the good in every person she came across. She would speak of travelling the world. She would speak of the sun, and the stars, and the moon. Her grades were meticulous; all straight A’s and “Ruby Rossdale is an absolute pleasure to teach.” Her parents were delighted with her the very second she entered the world and they couldn’t possibly be prouder of their beautiful little girl.

In this treehouse, Ruby and I are beside one another. The ultimate juxtaposition.

My eyes, once sea green, pickled cucumbers, or spring leaves, now grey like storm clouds, or dust.

My hair, once soft blonder curls perfectly framing my face, now neglected, bleached and ugly.        

My skin, once the colour of raw almonds, now patchy, pale, and stained by stretch marks.             

My mind, once rejuvenated and youthful, now unmaintained and infected by idleness.

This treehouse is my escape. A moment of bliss amongst my broken life. My parents divorced last year; my mother ran off with a lawyer from the city. She left us. She left us alone and abandoned. My father and I built the treehouse that summer; we chopped up my mother’s wardrobe for planks, tore up her old dresses to make curtains, and even refashioned pieces of her jewellery to make sparkling dream catchers. It is my place. It may have been built from anger, repulsion, and pain, but, it is still my place. Sometimes the sunlight catches the hanging jewels, creating rainbow glitter across the walls.

On nice days, most often during the summer months, I come up and just lie here. On some days I will have a book, on some days not. My father brings me cold drinks and snacks, sometimes a tedious letter from my mother expressing, in too much detail to be plausible, how much she is thinking of me and how much she loves me. However, today, on the loveliest of days, he has brought an unpleasant surprise, Ruby Rossdale.

‘Why are you here?’

Despite my hatred for her, I am not entirely disregarding of her existence, especially when it interrupts my weekly appointment with Elizabeth Bennet and her lovely Mr. Darcy.

Ruby blinks, looking unsure about herself.

‘I- I’m sorry?’ she demands.

Frustrated, I throw my book onto the plush cushion beside me and pull myself up from the comfort of the soft, wood floor to sit facing her.

‘I said, why are you here?’

Ruby adjusts the waistband of her floral skirt, shifting uncomfortably in her position on the side of the treehouse lacking cushions and rugs. 

‘Why do you hate me so much?’

‘Why do you care? Just go away and leave me alone.’

She sighs and stands up, brushing the dust off her lap as she walks around the small space. A pile of neglected storybooks from my childhood stand in one corner of the room, beside my small glass of lemonade and a plate of watermelon slices. Ruby runs her fingers carefully down the tattered curtains. Her fingernails, painted with small sunflowers, become stained by smuts of dust which are quickly eliminated as she releases the curtains from her clutch and softly blows on her fingers. She turns back to face me and her face forms into a pout.

I roll my eyes, ‘Fine, sit down. You’re pathetic.’

‘Thanks,’ she grins.

We sit in silence. Ruby drums her fingers nervously on her knee, gazing around the stuffy room as I allow my eyes to resume studying her. It is only now that I notice the red tinge in her eyes, and the dark circles around them too. The creases in her skin seem deeper, her body seems tense and apprehensive.

‘You’ve been crying.’

She quickly turns to look at me, our eyes meet.

‘So have you.’

She isn’t wrong, though I’m surprised she would notice a thing like that. I look away from her, maybe it’s out of the shame of being alike her or maybe I’m just ashamed of my own emotions. Ruby’s eyes follow mine to rest on a shoebox, tucked away in a corner of the room uncommonly caressed by the harshness of the summer sun. She looks at me, curiosity and attentiveness. I nod, answering the question unable to pass her lips.

Ruby reaches over and gently picks up the box, placing it carefully into her lap. She lifts the lid to reveal neat stacks of unopened envelopes, written in neat cursive, all addressed to me from the same place, or rather, person. Hundreds of letters, abandoned and alone, rejected in the same way my mother rejected us.

‘You never open them.’

‘I know what they say.’

‘How can you possibly?’

I sigh heavily and push myself back, allowing my body to collide harshly with the floor of the treehouse. I hear Ruby stand up, place the shoe box back in the corner, and head towards the gap in the walls currently acting as a door. Her footsteps stop before she reaches it.

‘I love you.’

When you spend your entire life deeming yourself inferior to someone, the thought of them loving you seems so unbelievable you often find it impossible to detect truth in their words. You don’t consider them capable of sharing your pain or think them likely of understanding your suffering. But there was sincerity in Ruby’s voice, softness, tenderness.

‘Mother and father love us too. Very much.’

We come from the same broken family.

The same broken home.

Quite possibly, we share the same broken heart.

After all, Ruby Rossdale is my sister.