The Scorching of Paris and Princesses

Chapter Two

I see Angel in my dreams. Her face blanched and pale, her little lungs quieting as the smoke poisoned her lithe body. So small. She wears my face, a battered version - so foreign but my heart aches at the familiarity. She has my Father's eyes; I have my Mother's. But now they are closed, and like this, she is the portrait of me. One moment I see simply her face and her body laid down in a blanket of clouds and smoke - the next I see her in the garden.

The sweet song of sunlight defeats the darkness.

Her face was mucky with mud and her yellow dress was tattered at the hem. She giggles and pads over to the lake, she scares the ducks on her way and they fly and soar into the air with great speed - I watch them fly for a moment - such a ruckus she makes as she screams with joy.

She has my attention again.

The sunlight highlights her mousy brown hair, it looks almost auburn in this light. Though she tried to maintain it in a light blue ribbon, it had fallen out as soon as she began her sprint down to the water, in doing so her hair tumbled down to her waist in curls. She smiles wide and looks back toward the house - towards me - and I recount every detail of her face. Her cheeks glowed so rosy and pink, such a cheerful, happy girl. This is bliss, I think. I know it is. Seeing her so alive once more, so full of breath and so full of laughter and smiles to share.

I should cut my hair, I deduce. Sever the likeness. Sever the guilt I shall forever be harboured and chained to when I look or think upon her face.

I'm being selfish perhaps. Or not selfless enough.

I'll keep my hair the way it is, Mother always gushed over our hair.

The memory changes. I want to leave the pit of darkness as I stare at her in the hospital bed. The image shifted and this image is the one I simply cannot bear to look upon, I feel my heart beat in trepidation and begin to rise towards my throat - clogging me up and preventing me from calling to her, whispering to her that the world will be alright again. That she has nought to fear.

She's dying, they've told me as much.

You must prepare for the worst, my sweet child, they said to me. God is with your sister tonight. And there is a hand on my shoulder, a comforting gesture. Though I find it cold. I don't converse with them, my tongue is limp in my mouth like a dead mouse, my throat tightening and tightening like one of those snakes I've read about.

Words are dying.
She is too.

We will keep you in our prayers, sweetling.

"What in hell are you screaming about, Fawn?" I blink into darkness, I blink again - harder - and Uncle Robert is looming over me with his hand on my shoulder, his touch is firm. Warm. He looks concerned. His dark eyebrows are framing his glasses and for a second I forget him and see my father. He's tall like him too.

He sighs, he sits on the patchwork duvet, I feel the bed dip, "Fawn?" He's still looking at me. I know he wants to ask questions, he has that 'cat got your tongue' look about him. He's had that look before. Sometimes I wish he would ask the questions that burn in his head, but tonight I don't know what I would tell him. Regardless, his better judgement gets the best of him and he holds his tongue.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." I say, I clear my throat, "Uh - what time is it?"

"Three in the morning. You've got school in the morning kid, Do you want a sleeping pill? Half of one? It will knock you out for a couple of hours." He looks at me pitifully, then he steals himself and looks up as though seeking divine intervention, "Shit." He murmurs, as he runs his hands over his face. "I just offered you sleeping pills."