He was a man before he could be a boy. A man that, as I saw him now, almost eleven years later, seemed like a ghost of everything he had the potential to be. I knew he didn't know me; didn't know who I was, or that he'd known me once. I knew they'd...
*you can play the song I linked once you start reading, it's the one she named herself after*
HEADLINE OF THE DAILY PROPHET, NOVEMBER 3, 1985
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November 7th, 1985
Ramona, come closer
Shut softly your watery eyes
"Ramona," she whispered. "Ramona Xanthos."
The curly-haired girl was standing on her tiptoes, bracing herself against the wall. She could partially see her face in the large, wall-mounted mirror encircled by a frame of threadlike strands of silver.
The pangs of your sadness
Will pass as your senses will rise
"Ramona," she repeated, swaying along to the song playing in the background. She tested the name on her lips, repeating it until it became her own. Repeating it until she could feel it as part of herself. Repeating it until she became it.
For the flowers of the city
Though breathlike, get deathlike sometimes
"So Ramona, is it?" commented Ray, looking down at her with the gentlest smile stretching his lips. "Is that the final choice?"
The girl refused to look at him and continued to stare at her own reflection, leaning so close her breath fogged the mirror.
"And there's no use in tryin',To deal with the dyin',Though I cannot explain that in lines," he sang along, studying the small girl. She kept repeating the name, her name, quicker and quicker until she turned it into a catchy tune.
Then, she turned to him, as if confirming her decision by saying, "Ramona."
"Brilliant choice," he encouraged. "You look like a Ramona."
A satisfied smile crossed her face and for a moment she looked out of place, twisting her hands together. Ray's apartment was difficult to get used to, being much smaller than the house she lived in, though she liked the bright colors of the walls. Her house was a house; this was a home.
"Ray," she called, "Is today my funeral?"
The man cleared his throat awkwardly, not expecting such a blunt question from her, but soon realizing that she was very aware of the situation at hand.
"It is," he confirmed, not having much choice.
"And my father's funeral too?"
"Yes," he said, not knowing exactly what she meant to accomplish with those questions. Ramona moved towards the record player, sitting beside it as Bob Dylan's melodic voice filled her ears and warmed her chest. The child-like innocence allowed her such ease, but Ray's heart shrunk as he watched the little creature get used to a new life. She was not at ease, not at all, though he couldn't have known it just from looking.
I can see that your head
Has been twisted and fed
With worthless foam from the mouth
"He is really dead, and I'm not," Ramona said, turning to look at Ray as she did. "I saw him, you know. I saw him laying on the floor. Dead."
As stoic as he was in life, he was the same in death. Ramona remembered his eyes the best, like those fish she saw in the market, glossy and dark, sunken just a little. There very few things that engraved themselves so well into her young mind, but the dead body of her father would remain there for a long time. She would never allow herself to forget the image.
"And how does that make you feel?" asked Ray, not entirely certain what to say or how to say it. All he knew was that she was terrifyingly composed as she gave her response.
"Safe," she said. "He cannot hurt us anymore. He cannot hurt anyone."
Ray merely nodded, trying not to cry in front of the child. He knew in that moment that he'd love the little girl like she were his own.
"Can we go to my grave?" she asked him. "Not today. Another day."
"Why?" he asked.
"I want to see it. I want to say goodbye," she said, not entirely laying out all of the reasons why, but curiosity being the main one. She saw the moment in her mind, imagined her name on a headstone; imagining finally saying goodbye to it. She wanted to make sure that the new name would fit her, but she couldn't do that until she buried the old one.
"Of course," Ray promised, though he knew Regina wouldn't be too fond of it. His heart was full as he reminded himself that the love of his life was finally free of her constraints, finally living with him in safety. It came at a price, a high price. But he was intent on making the rest of her life worth it.
With that said, young Ramona left for her mother's room. Regina was fast asleep on her bed, the right side of her upper body wrapped tightly in cloths coated with remedies to treat the burn marks from the fire. She was a powerful witch and she had cast an incredibly vicious spell, intent on destroying it all, but the fire had gotten out of hand before they were able to escape it. Luckily, her sister had saved her daughter from the flames in time, and Regina's burns weren't life threatening.
Even though her mother hadn't said it or talked to her about it, Ramona knew she was the one who killed her father. She heard it. Heard her mother's spell and the thud his body made as it fell to the floor. The night was still freshly replaying in her mind as she looked upon her mother's sleeping body.
"Zen?" called her mother weakly, eyes still closed.
"No," she said, "It's Ramona now."
"Ramona," the woman smiled. "I quite like it."
The Daily Prophet resting on the nightstand was folded in half, and through the darkness she could barely make out the picture they'd put in. Ramona made sure her mother's eyes were closed as she leaned closer to glance at it, her father's serious face staring back at her. Her heartbeat quickened. She kept reminding herself that he was dead, gone. She kept imagining his dead body falling to the ground.
The little girl rested on her mother's bedside, playing with her fingers and kissing each one of them tenderly. Safe. They were safe. Finally.
