Work Text:
you are icarus tonight,
There’s something unnerving about coming ‘home’ to a house you don’t recognize.
The silver car that belongs to her father glides up the driveway of the large house. Poking her head out from her car seat as far as the straps allow her, the girl in the back attempts to take in what will be her life. Stupid seatbelt. Farrah struggles against her confines as she always does, but not loudly enough that her father notices. He insists that she use the car seat, despite the fact that she’s almost seven years old. You’re just not tall enough to sit in the front, Farrah.
Her mother had let her.
But she wasn’t here anymore. She’d left, and Farrah’s father had decided to move on as fast as possible instead of waiting for her to come back. Farrah wanted to wait, but it didn’t matter what she wanted. She wasn’t a good influence on Farrah, anyway. The young girl can hear her father’s voice on the phone late at night, when he thinks she’s fallen asleep. The sooner we get this divorce taken care of, the better it will be for everyone.
The blonde lady standing in the driveway now is not Farrah’s mother. She might as well be a stranger for all the child knows about her. Seeing the other woman makes her shrink back into her seat. It’s not as if she has anything against her father’s new wife, but Farrah’s new step-mother comes with a new house and a new daughter. A new family.
(Will they leave her like her mother did, too? When the “new” wears off of their stepdaughter, will they not want her either?)
Farrah has to work hard not to cry; she’s not even sure what she wants to cry about.
Her father, a tall man with tired eyes, puts the car in park and opens the door. Farrah’s already unbuckling herself from the seat before he can come around to the other side of the car. Her backpack from school is sitting on the floor next to her, more decorative than anything else. There’s not that much homework in the first grade. Her father helps her put it on, the small keychain she’d gotten for Christmas making a pleasant jingling sound as it hits her leg. It’s not very exciting, just a small dog figure with a pompom for its body. Farrah likes to hold it when she’s nervous or when it gets to be too loud for her to focus. The soft feeling helps her calm down, stabilize herself. Her father thinks it’s a bad habit to get into, but he hasn’t noticed her do it lately. He hasn’t noticed much his daughter has been doing lately.
With his hand on the small of her back, her father slowly guides her up the driveway to where the blonde woman stands. She has a bright smile on her face, the kind that peppy store employees might give you when they ask if they can help you find something. Farrah sinks further behind her father’s leg, shrinking under the gaze of the woman who’s supposed to be her new mother.
“Hello, dear~! You must be Farrah! Your father’s told me all about you!”
The blonde woman holds out her hand like they’re in one of her father’s business meetings. The child means to grab it, means to do what she’s told, but it takes her too long to process. Before she can tell herself to extend her own out and return the gesture, the lady is already removing her own. Farrah notices her smile has dipped, just a little. It’s enough to notice.
“She can be bashful.” Her father says, absentmindedly. His eyes are on the blonde, not his daughter.
They start to move towards the house and Farrah is left behind, staring up at it. It’s very large… much bigger than her old home. This one has more than one story, and there’s a garden in the front and the back. There’s a little opening at the bottom of the door that’s far too small for any person to fit through. The woman must catch the child’s eyes on it because she answers the unspoken question. “That’s the door for the cats, so they can get some fresh air. Do you like cats, dear~?”
Farrah barely manages to nod her head yes in a reasonable amount of time. She still can’t find the words.
(Everyone always tells her it’s better for children to be quiet. They can’t expect her to find a response in time when she’s been trained to bite her tongue.)
The lady seems to approve, however, because she reaches over and ruffles the child’s hair. It takes all of Farrah’s effort not to shy away. That would have been rude. Her hand goes to the keychain, fingers rubbing over the soft fabric of the little dog. Farrah doesn’t really like cats very much. They make her itch and feel like sneezing. Her mother once told her that she had an allergy to them. The child isn’t sure her father knows about that. Maybe her mother never told him.
It would be rude to tell the lady that, too.
Farrah stays quiet.
dropping midst the roaring seas
Realistically, the child doesn’t have any complaints about her new house. It’s much nicer than anything she’s had before. She has her own room with a desk and all sorts of sheets and pillows on the bed. It’s been a few months now in this house, but Farrah still isn’t used to how different it looks from her old room. There’s nothing in this one to remind her of where she came from. Her old toys and clothes have been piled away in boxes that her father doesn’t seem in a rush to unpack. There’s new outfits and things to do, and Farrah reminds herself that this should be enough for her. She’s just been selfish, wanting the old things back.
(Sometimes, though, Farrah thinks she liked her old room better…)
Selfish. Why do you always have to think the wrong thing?
Farrah shakes her head, not entirely sure where the little voice has come from lately. It’s become a bad habit, talking to herself. Her father can barely get a word out of her now, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the small girl thinks he might approve of it. She’s certainly made a good first impression on her father’s new wife. She’s always ruffling Farrah’s hair and smiling and telling her how nice it is to have such a respectful child in the house.
Farrah’s new sister isn’t quiet, not like Farrah is. Her name is Annleigh. She’s about a year older, but she seems worlds apart somehow. Still, the brunette seems more interested in the stranger that came to live in her house than her parents are. She allows Farrah to follow her around for hours, more of a shadow than an actual presence. It doesn’t seem to bother the older girl that she didn’t talk. Farrah sort of believes that Annleigh holds conversations for her own benefit, rather than anyone else’s. This is fine with her. She didn’t really understand some of the things that the brunette said, but she liked the tone of her voice. It was always cheerful and bright, and it didn’t feel like she was about to start yelling like it sometimes had with her father and mother.
“You know…” Annleigh’s room was bigger than Farrah’s, and it had a lot more things in it. She had lived there for a lot longer, after all. Farrah’s new sister is sitting on her side with a coloring book that has cartoon horses in it. The markers around her are scattered all over the blankets of her unmade bed. Farrah is afraid of this situation. She can see so many things that can go wrong that it almost paralyzes her. She hasn’t really touched the coloring book that Annleigh offered her, one with cats playing in the snow. Her own pink marker is sitting uncapped in her hand, probably drying out the ink. She can’t bring herself to touch it to the paper.
(What if she messes up?)
Farrah hopes just staring at the pictures will be enough that her sister doesn’t get mad at her. The child doesn’t think that she’s much of an artist.
“You know,” Annleigh repeats, trying to get Farrah’s attention. “You sure don’t talk a lot. Why is that…?”
The question isn’t phrased like she’s mad at her, but Farrah’s heart starts racing, anyway. There’s a lot of weight in this question for an eight-year-old, and she has to give an answer that won’t get anyone in trouble. Sometimes, Daddy blames her mother for some of Farrah’s freezing. Her mother was the kind of person that didn’t like to wait for anyone. Her father tries to be better about her pattern of speech, but she can tell it frustrates him, too, sometimes.
It’s easier to blame her mother, but that doesn’t make it fair. Mother isn’t here right now. Farrah thinks it’s mean to shove the blame on someone who isn’t there to defend herself.
I don’t talk because I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I don’t talk because I don’t want you to get mad at me. I don’t talk because I don’t want to say something incorrect and hear the yelling again. It’s too loud when people yell, and I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—
Her breathing increases. There’s a hand that taps her shoulder, softly. “Farrah?” Annleigh looks confused in the soft sort of way she always does. When her sister doesn’t know the answer, the brunette’s nose gets all scrunched up.
“I… just… don’t have a lot to say.” It takes her a second to force the sentence out, but it comes out all the same. Farrah never stutters, but the words take a while to process. People like Annleigh throw their words around easily, carelessly. Farrah doesn’t like to say things often, because she’s afraid of what they mean.
(What if she says something wrong and can’t take it back?)
Compared to how loudly her sister speaks, Farrah’s voice always seems like little more than a whisper. It must be good enough for Annleigh, however, because she smiles and returns to coloring a bright orange horse. The younger girl takes a second to breathe, to steady herself. As she does so, she can feel the marker slip from her hand. Before she can catch it, it hits Annleigh’s comforter and leaves a tiny pink mark.
Farrah’s already shaking. “I’m s… sorry, I didn’t… mean. I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry—“
Her sister looks up with concern, having missed the whole event, as if expecting Farrah to have hurt herself. She takes in the scene for a moment and then squints at the pink mark on the pattern. It’s hardly visible, since Annleigh’s bed sheets are covered in pink horses parading up and down the fabric, anyway. But to Farrah, it might as well have been the Mona Lisa she ruined. The tiny girl keeps sputtering out apologies as Annleigh looks at her with something like pain for the first time, her head cocked like a bird that’s listening to a new melody.
“Hey…” She finally says, and she reaches out for Farrah’s hand. The child doesn’t take it, caught up in her thoughts.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why do you always have to do the wrong thing?
Annleigh looks strangely serious. Not mad… just… serious. Farrah doesn’t know why. “Hey...” She repeats, keeping her voice steady. “It’s alright, okay? I’m not mad. The markers are washable. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She offers her hand out, but more slowly this time. Farrah has to force herself to remember to move, breathe, hold her hand back.
Annleigh’s fingers are steady around her own. They have calluses on them from the reins when she rides her horse. Farrah hasn’t met the horse yet, but her sister has lots of pictures of him. The child doesn’t really like horses (they’re really big, and they move too fast…) but if Annleigh likes him, this horse must be alright. This one is black and white. Annleigh told her he was a new horse. They change them a lot, as she improves at dressage. That’s how the horse world works, her sister said. It makes the younger child feel sad in a way that seems strange to her.
(Farrah supposed she knows what it’s like, only being wanted until it’s decided someone else is better.)
She tries not to cling too tightly to her sister’s hand, tries not to tell her how badly she missed having someone to hold onto, but Annleigh squeezes her fingers lightly and Farrah thinks she might know, anyway.
“... You’re not mad…?” The child finally finds her voice after a few minutes of silence. Stupid, she already told you she wasn’t. Now she’s going to be mad you had to ask again.
She won’t. It’s not Farrah’s fault that she has to be told again and again. It’s not her fault she isn’t used to people that don’t blame her. It’s not her fault that she isn’t used to Annleigh.
(It always feels like her fault, anyway.)
Thankfully, Annleigh hurriedly shakes her head and smiles. “Of course not! I know it was an accident. At church, they tell you that accidents never slight the Lord…” She looks pensive for a moment. “Or something like that! I don’t really remember.” With a laugh, her sister goes back to her coloring book. “You’re fine, Farrah. No one’s going to be mad at you here. I promise.”
But even Annleigh’s confident tone doesn’t make the seven-year-old believe her words. She’s lying to you, you know?
Farrah stays quiet.
you and he bleed the same color.
It takes the girl several years before she realizes that she still doesn’t consider the O’Daniel residence her home.
Farrah’s about eleven when she notices the way she thinks about it. It’s still always Annleigh’s house or maybe (on good days) her sister’s house . It’s strange, because she also thinks about it as her father’s, despite the fact that he isn’t on any of the bills. He seems to fit in there, though, with his new wife and daughter. No one has ever told her that she doesn’t belong there, of course, but they don’t have to.
She just knows.
The elementary school that Farrah attends is close to her house. Iit’s usually her sister’s job to make sure they both get home safely. This year, Annleigh started middle school across the street. Farrah doesn’t have the courage to enter the scarier looking campus, where everyone seems to be much older, much more put together… so she waits for Annleigh to come get her on the front steps. Sometimes, she can feel the teacher’s watching her as if they think someone might have finally forgotten her.
Farrah thinks that, too, occasionally. Not that she’d ever tell anyone, of course. It’s not her sister’s fault that the middle school is dismissed about twenty minutes after the elementary school bell rings for the day. It’s not her parents fault that they can’t pick her up. It’s no one’s fault, because of course it’s not, and yet Farrah still can’t help but think it might be her fault, anyway.
(Sometimes, after the middle school bell rings, the girl holds her breath and waits to see Annleigh’s light-up pink sneakers bounce up to her. She wonders what will happen if Annleigh doesn’t come one day. Will she give up her silly game or…)
Thankfully, the shoes always come skipping up to her. Annleigh is always very punctual. Apparently, it’s something she prides herself on, now. It makes Farrah laugh, a bit, and her sister laughs with her when she does. The two of them are closer now, and the younger girl talks more in her sister’s company. Just her sister’s presence, though, and sometimes Annleigh doesn’t come alone. Occasionally, she’ll bring friends with her who happen to be coming over or perhaps just walking in the same direction.
Annleigh has an awful lot of friends , Farrah thinks. The few she’d had back at her old school, before she and her father had moved into the O’Daniel’s house, seem far away. Mainly, she just tries to keep to herself.
Friends ask too much of you, anyway. You wouldn’t be able to handle them. Better just to be alone and not bother anyone.
There’s a tall boy named Clark who comes with them often. Farrah thinks he’s the nicest boy she’s ever met. He’s always trying to hold doors open for Annleigh and make her laugh. Almost always, he’s rewarded with her sibling’s giggle. Part of Farrah thinks the two can be a little annoying together, but usually she doesn’t mind. Clark is always nice to her, too, even if she thinks it might just be to impress Annleigh. The child doesn’t really mind, though. She’s happy enough padding along behind them as they walk the sidewalk together. Farrah uses the walk to think and practice her breathing. She’s getting better at remaining calm under pressure. She’s hardly cried at school at all this year, and when she does, it’s always been somewhere no one can hear her. So, Farrah’s getting better.
(Getting better at pretending, at least.)
Farrah doesn’t know the other girl’s her sister occasionally walks with as well as she does Clark. They’re older, older even then Annleigh, but she still seems to be in the same league. There’s a really pretty girl with dark skin and brown eyes that always seems accompanied by a redhead with a high ponytail. She searches her memories, but she can’t recall a time when she’s seen the two of them without each other. When they walk with Annleigh, they don’t really include her much, but her sister doesn’t seem to care. Annleigh doesn’t care about much at all, really. She’s in her own world half the time, but it seems to be a much nicer place to be than the one in Farrah’s mind.
The redhead smiles at Farrah, when her friend is busy arguing about something in middle school with Annleigh. She seems sort of shy, too. Bashful, as her father always called her growing up.
“My name’s Riley…!” As Annleigh and the other girl (Cairo, Farrah thinks she remembers her being called) continue to fight playfully, the redhead slides back to walk with Farrah. “Do you go to our school, t-too…?”
The stutter isn’t too pronounced, but it puts Farrah a little more at ease to know that someone else has trouble with their words. She isn’t quite sure if she likes Riley, who seems to be all sharp edges and endless energy, somehow, but the younger girl decides it was at least nice of her to make the effort to talk to her. Riley didn’t have to come over and talk to her, after all. Farrah wouldn’t have.
Stupid. If you didn’t always look so sad, no one would have to check up on you like this. She probably just thinks you’re going to cry or something.
Farrah shakes her head. “No… not until next year. I’m in the fifth grade, still. I just... go home with my sister.”
The redhead appears surprised for a moment, as if she hadn’t considered the relationship between them. “Oh! You’re Annleigh’s sister! Well, it’s n-nice to meet you… next year, you can come sit with us, if you like. Cai can be a lot sometimes,” Her friend overhears and sticks her tongue out at Riley, but it seems good-spirited. “But she’s really nice when you get to know her! People always want to be her friend…”
Farrah wonders if Riley might just have wanted to make her friend blush. It works. The redhead seems pleased with herself. With a bright wave, the two of them turn the other direction and start towards their houses.
“How do you know them…?” Farrah scoots up closer to her sister now that they’re gone, adjusting her backpack on her shoulders as she does so. The keychain jingles a bit as if the dog wants to enter the conversation.
“Hmm?” Annleigh seems absentminded, as if her mind is somewhere else. Perhaps she’s still focused on her conversation with Cairo. It makes Farrah feel… odd… in a way that she can’t quite explain. Annie almost always pays attention to her when she talks. She’s the only one who really does. The child tries to tell herself that it’s not a big deal, that she’s just overreacting, but it doesn’t quite push the thought out of her mind. “Oh, we have gym together. My professor told me I was really good at our tumbling portion! I’m thinking about asking Mom and Dad if I can switch from horseback riding to cheerleading. I’m getting a little old for horses, don’t you think?”
Her sister nods, but she’s not thinking about the conversation. Riley’s words are replaying in her head. Did she mean that? Would they actually help Farrah out when it was her turn to go to middle school…? Or was it just something that she said to be polite?
I bet she doesn’t even like you.
Farrah stays quiet.
and your sun has left you just as his had.
Back to school shopping has always made the thirteen-year-old nervous.
There’s too much going on, really. It overloads Farrah’s brain. In the store, she trails behind her step-mother, Annleigh, and Clark through the office supply store as silently as a ghost might. It’s as if she’s not there at all, really. She has to keep reminding herself that she’s not specifically being excluded from anything. It’s simply that she’s choosing not to speak up, choosing not to be part of the conversation. They’d include her if she was asked them to…
You’d just be annoying them, though.
Farrah’s father was supposed to come with them, but he got called into the office at the last minute. It makes her nervous, being here without him. Despite how Mrs. O’Daniel has been her step-mother for over five years now, the girl still feels nervous allowing her to purchase things for her. It reminds her too much of shopping with her mother, her real mother. Farrah doesn’t like to have money spent on her, because it used to be hard to come by. Even when the O’Daniels have no such monetary issues, it’s hard for the child to convince herself that she’s worth the price of anything.
In some ways, Farrah is relieved that the focus isn’t on her on this trip. Annleigh and Clark are starting high school, and they’re both looking for matching things to show everyone that they’re a couple on the first day. Of course, “couple” is probably a strong word for what Clark and Annleigh are right now, but Farrah is happy for the two of them either way.
(Except sometimes she isn’t, and it makes her feel sick. Sometimes it feels like Clark is somehow a bigger part of the family than she is. Sometimes Farrah wonders if Annie will get to a point like those boy-obsessed girls on television do, where they throw everyone else in their life away and their life revolves around their boyfriends.)
Today, Farrah is happy for it, though. For them. They flit around looking at all sorts of lunch boxes and binders, leaving the child on her own near the backpack aisle.
Her step-mother approaches her, warm smile on her face as usual. “Would you like a new backpack, Farrah? You’ve had yours as long as I can remember. I promised Annleigh that she could get a new one this year, and I’m sure yours is older. I’d be happy to get one for you if you’d like to pick one out~!”
She’s right. The small bag on her back has seen her through elementary and middle school, at this point. It’s frayed all over and one of the straps is starting to rip at the bottom. Farrah does need a new one… but it’s hard to let go of the one she has. Everything in her life has been new, new, new. For half a decade, she’s had to adjust to the newness of it all.
My mother bought me this backpack, Farrah wants to tell her step-mother, but it wouldn’t be fair. Mrs. O’Daniel is trying her best and the child knows that. It’s not her fault that Farrah’s mother isn’t here. It’s not her fault that Farrah’s mother was often drunk and too angry at the world to notice her child. It’s not her fault that Farrah’s mother left her.
Sometimes, Farrah feels pity for Annleigh’s mother. How would it feel to fall in love with someone knowing he came with so many strings attached?
“Thank you very much…” Farrah manages to get the words out, even if they make something in her break. She doesn’t really understand why. It’s probably not a big deal, really. Selfish, selfish, selfish . The girl shrinks into the coat that it’s too warm to wear and picks out the first bag she can find. It wouldn’t be polite to make Annleigh’s mother wait for her to look at them, especially if Clark and her sister are ready to check out. The backpack she ends up with has a plaid pattern on it. It’s pink, like the one she’s currently wearing. At least that’s consistent. She wonders if she’ll have to throw her old one away. Farrah is sure no one would force her to, of course, but she can’t find the words to express her desire to need to keep something so worn and broken.
And it’s silly to keep something useless, isn’t it?
At the checkout, the smiling cashier hands all them their purchases and the child feels guilty with how much she needed. She should have kept her supplies in better condition, she shouldn’t have lost that pencil a few months ago, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t— Nevermind how much larger Annie and Clark’s shopping bags are, of course. It doesn’t matter, because holding anything that was bought for her still makes her feel like she’s greedy. It’s so stupid, too, and she knows that, she does…
No one’s ever told her she was a waste of space.
They’re thinking it.
They don’t say it, though. Not out loud.
They’re thinking it.
The car ride on the way home is loud and full of off-key singing by her step-mother. Annie and Clark ride in the back seat together and giggle at every opportunity they get. This leaves Farrah in the passenger seat, staring out at the houses they pass. The neighborhoods blend together here, all green grass and white picket fences. Even years after she’s moved in, Farrah cannot help but feel separate from it. Her old house has faded mainly from memory, leaving her with a blurred sort of nothing at all. The O’Daniels’ house does not fit like it should, but her past seems lacking now, too. She is simply the girl who cannot seem to convince herself she belongs anywhere.
In the backseat, Clark points out his house as they pass by. The child in the front can hear Annleigh laugh, as if she hasn’t ever seen the house before, as if she doesn’t go there at least once a week, as if Clark is revealing something truly personal to her. She could probably join in their conversation, but she keeps quiet.
(What would it be like, to have a house you could point at and say for certain that it was home?)
Farrah stays quiet.
but you are unlike icarus, my dear,
She’s probably fifteen the first time she tastes alcohol. Farrah can’t remember it well.
(Or perhaps she just doesn’t want to.)
All she remembers is that red cup in her hands.
(Noise, lights, sound. People are talking, laughing, screaming. No one notices Farrah, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Not here, where she is lost. Not here, where she is found. It is bright and warm and she likes it, even if it feels like it might burn what’s left of her away. In the crowd, Farrah is uncertain of the direction she has to travel, of how to get back. The alcohol might change her, might make her different than what she was. Her mother was different with the substance. Annleigh told her once that it could change you. Farrah takes another sip, anyway.)
All she remembers is the burning sensation in her throat.
(Someone asks her to dance, so she does. People are watching her, but it doesn’t feel critical right now. Her body moves seamlessly to the rhythm. The noise of the party almost obscures the song on the stereo, but no one’s listening to it anyway. People don’t dance at parties for the music. They dance because they want to be warm.)
All she remembers is everything fading until she feels numb.
(It is warm at parties. But it’s the kind of warmth you might get from setting yourself on fire. Farrah doesn’t care.)
From that day on, there’s always some excuse she makes up to feel warm, to feel numb. If alcohol gives her this, then so be it. It is scary, sometimes, feeling this sort of way. There’s a lot of rules that she knows she’s breaking. Her family (they’re not her’s, though, are they) would not be happy if they knew. That thought is scary, but Farrah has lived her whole life afraid. Alcohol makes her angry, instead.
Parties are loud, but she likes them. It drowns the yelling inside her own head. She doesn’t have to speak or do anything except drink. Drink and go numb.
Farrah stays quiet.
for you knew you were not born to fly.
Annleigh doesn’t mean to be mad at her, the first time, but she was.
“Is this vodka?!” The taller brunette is holding Farrah’s water bottle (the one she keeps hidden in her bookshelf) when its owner walks in the room. Instead of fear, her first emotion is anger. Who let Annleigh in here? Who told her that she could come into Farrah’s room and search her stuff? This is Annleigh’s house, but the younger girl is supposed to have at least this room. At least this much was supposed to be her’s.
Farrah should have known better.
The shorter girl rolls her eyes, because it’s easier to pretend to be venomous than admit she has no real fangs. She’s drunk again, but she still wants more. Annie has to give her back that water bottle. She isn’t drunk enough not to notice the fear in her sister’s eyes. Farrah needs more. “Why don’t you taste it and find out, huh?”
Annleigh’s brow furrows, as if she hadn’t expected this kind of a reaction. “Farrah, are you drunk?”
God, why is it such a big deal to her? Why does she always have to pretend to care?
“Why? Gonna call the police or something and tell on me?” Farrah giggles, even if it’s not funny. Her backpack falls to the floor, harder than she intended to set it down. Who cares. She never liked this new one, anyway. “I think they’re probably busy with shit, Annleigh.”
Her sister has this sort of dazed confusion on her face, the kind that indicates that she isn’t in control of the situation. Annleigh likes to be in control at all times, Farrah knows. She wants to make sure nothing surprises her.
Well, surprise~!
“Farrah, I—” Annleigh can’t seem to decide whether to approach her younger sister or back away. “You’re not supposed to be drinking. What did you do?”
It’s always her fault, huh? It’s always Farrah did this, and Farrah did that. It’s not her fault that everyone in this family is so goddamn good and she’s not , alright ? Stop blaming that on her.
“I’m not supposed to be a lot of things, Annie~!” It’s funny. She’s so angry, so angry, and yet she keeps giggling. The alcohol has high and low points, Farrah supposes. She flops on the bed, suddenly exhausted. “I have been told I live to disappoint.”
There’s a pause. Annleigh is shaking. Why does she stay? Why does she bother?
“Why are you even here?” The vodka makes Farrah a little too brave, sometimes, but it’s better than staying quiet. Annleigh should know what Farrah’s like, after all. If this is who she is (selfish, selfish, selfish), than her sister should be aware of it. “Was Clark busy or something?” Stop it, that’s too far. Stop it, Farrah. “Did you finally remember I’m alive now he’s not here to entertain you?”
The words are true, but they leave a bitter sort of aftertaste in her mouth. It surprises her. Farrah hadn’t realized that was how she felt.
The mention of her boyfriend’s name sets her sister on the defensive. “Leave him out of this. And… and, I was worried about you! You aren’t yourself, lately. I got scared and I—”
“You don’t even know who the fuck I am, Annie! ” Farrah’s yelling, grabbing the water bottle and shoving Annleigh out of her room. She wants her gone. She wants to cry (even though she doesn’t know why she’s sad) and she refuses to do so with her sister there. She refuses to let her see. “You just see what you want to see and pretend it’s all okay! You don’t bother to check if that’s real or not. You never have!”
Farrah slams her door shut and turns the lock before Annleigh can force the door back open. She doesn’t attempt to do so, anyway. (It hurts, somehow. It hurts that she didn’t keep trying.)
At least she has the bottle back.
Farrah tilts the spout up and finishes its contents as fast as possible. She wants her head to spin. She wants to forget.
The girl knows that she should find her sister and apologize. She knows that it wasn’t fair. She knows that Annleigh had been trying her best to help. It’s not the brunette’s fault that her life had been so sheltered, so kind, so warm without the need for drinks and parties to make it so. It’s not Annie’s fault.
(But admitting it isn’t Annleigh’s fault means taking on the blame herself.)
Farrah stays quiet.
those like you are made for breaking.
Chess is the first member of the team that really seems to smile at her when Farrah introduces herself at practice.
Apart from Riley, but she doesn’t really count. The redhead had helped arrange her audition, after all. She gives the younger girl a bright little wave as they file their way into the gym. The captain for this year is talking about their chances and odds for the season, but Farrah isn’t really listening. She’s trying to make eye contact with Annleigh, who is stubbornly avoiding looking at her.
(She’s sorry for what she did, again. Please. She’s sorry.)
Annleigh is watching the captain speak as if she’s the most interesting person in the world. She’s not.
(Farrah is sorry. She wants to say sorry to her sister. She wants Annleigh to look in her direction.)
How can you be sorry when you don’t even remember what you did?
… she just is, alright?
You need a drink.
Farrah stays quiet.
all you know is how to shatter like glass.
One moment, she’s being tossed into the air…
… then Icarus is falling.
(No one catches her. Why didn’t anyone catch her?)
There’s the same girl, familiar, with her hair tied back in a braid. Chess. She didn’t catch her, but she’s hovering over Farrah as the world fades to black. Chess. Frantic, trying to help in some way. Her friend, the one that always follows her around, is pulling her back. There’s the sound of sirens and an announcer calling everyone to exit the gym. The world is fading. The base is still there crying, and Farrah’s dimly aware of the fact that she hasn’t ever seen the older girl cry before. Something doesn’t feel right with her, though, something isn’t the same. Her eyes are too blank when Farrah blinks her own and makes eye contact. The world is fading.
Chess had dropped her, she thinks.
Maybe you deserved to fall.
Farrah stays quiet.
you can pretend to be something. someone.
There’s a noise that brings Farrah out of the dark, but not one she particularly enjoys. It’s a mechanical sound, constantly beeping, and it takes Farrah a second to realize that it’s her heartbeat. Hearing it outside of her own head feels strange somehow. It doesn’t belong there. They shouldn’t get to hear something so private.
Her father and stepmother are across the room, talking quietly to the doctor. They must not realize she’s awake.
“The good news is that it doesn’t appear to be a serious injury. The MRI showed a contusion, but it could have been much worse. We probably didn’t have to put her all the way under for it, but, ah… given the circumstances of how she was brought in…”
(Farrah remembers yelling. Lots of people were yelling. She thinks she was, too.)
“... well, we felt that it was best she not have to come back to reality until she was out of the machine.”
(“I hate you—” That’s her voice. Chess’s Face is in her mind. Crying. There’s cameras that Riley and Cairo are trying to shove aside. That angry girl she doesn’t know well is holding onto Chess, half protectively and half to keep her from coming closer to Farrah. She thinks her name might be Kate. Kate, yelling back at Farrah, defending her friend. There’s tears in the taller girl’s eyes, but her face is still too blank. Someone in a soft suit that feels almost like fur is picking her up. Her head hurts, but it’s not the same kind of rush she gets from alcohol. Something is trickling down her neck. Farrah doesn’t really know what happened, but she keeps yelling. Yelling at Chess because it’s easier. Because she takes it. Because the older girl allows her to. I think we’re the same, you and I. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”.)
Her father is nodding. “I understand. I’m not sure what happened during the game, but Farrah is not usually like this…” He seems concerned. “Could the injury have caused a personality change?” He’s ignoring all the times she’s come home drunk. They get mad at Annleigh, half the time, instead of her. She doesn’t know why, except that Annie is older and she’s supposed to be in charge. It’s stupid. They’re just too afraid of breaking Farrah beyond repair to take it out on her.
They don’t like you when you’re angry, instead of quiet. You know you’re not allowed to be angry.
Sometimes, Farrah wonders how drunk she has to get for her father to leave her like her mother did. She wonders if there’s a set limit, or if it will just happen gradually as she disappoints more and more people. Her father has his perfect new wife, his perfect new family.
No one who has someone as perfect as Annleigh wants Farrah, too.
The doctor shakes his head. “It’s unlikely. I think perhaps that is more of an emotional injury than a physical one, sir. Unfortunately, I have no guidance for you there.”
Her father nods and shakes the doctor’s hand as he exits the room. Her stepmother is looking directly at her, so Farrah pretends to be asleep. She isn’t ready for whatever conversation might come out of this. She is too angry to be quiet right now, even without alcohol in her blood. Dimly, she wonders if this is the side effect that Annie had told her about those years ago. This burning anger. Farrah doesn’t know, but she doesn’t think so.
(She thinks she’s been angry her whole life. She thinks she’s been angry, but no one’s ever noticed. No one’s ever listened.)
Farrah stays quiet.
but you are nothing to the sun, nothing to the waves.
She didn’t mean to say those things to Reese. She didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean it—
Why do you always say the wrong thing?
(...please…)
Why are you always so fucking selfish?
She didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean it, please, please, please—
… waste my time …
… babysitting …
… a stupid child…
The voice in her head doesn’t sound like her own, anymore. It hasn’t been Farrah’s voice for a while.
(It hasn’t had to be.)
The bathroom floor is cold, and her knees hurt. Farrah is dizzy with the pain, dizzy with the weight of it all. The alcohol in her system doesn’t feel the same as it usually does. At the party, she’d gotten carried away. It happens sometimes, when Farrah is offered another and if feels rude to refuse. Maybe she should have said no this time.
Someone’s rattling the door to the bathroom. “J-just a minute…” Quickly, Farrah pours the rest of her bottle down the drain. She doesn’t want it. It made her someone else, someone she thought might be better, but it turns out she was wrong. All she had been doing was being selfish. Selfish, selfish, selfish. Annleigh was right, in the end. Farrah was nothing more than a stupid child.
She can change, though. It’s not too late to—
Someone else is in here. Farrah turns to ask them to leave, to apologize, to tell them she’ll do better, but as she does so… something cold pierces her chest.
they told you icarus has fallen.
no, not yet.
rewind, please. please. please—
not like this.
there is more to me than this. there is more to me than what i said. there is so much more i didn’t say because i was supposed to be quiet, because i was supposed to be good, because i was–
… please …
i was getting better. i wanted to get better.
… don’t let me die like this.
but you are falling too.
There’s blood on the shower. Her blood. It’s sticky, it’s covering everything, it’s red, it’s red, it’s red. Had it always been so red? When Chess had dropped her, the injury had been on the back of her head, where no amount of mirrors could show her what the gash looked like. Had her blood been this red, too? It’s a much darker color than Farrah had realized.
It might stain the shower.
The conscious part of Farrah has half a mind to apologize for this. For her own blood, if it stains the bathroom. Isn’t that sad? She’s probably going to die here and her last thoughts might be guilt at the mess she’s leaving behind.
… oh …
She might die here, then…
It’s a strange sort of thought, to come fairly late after the knife had already left her body. It’s probably not what Farrah is supposed to be thinking about, right now. She’s dazed, she’s dizzy, she’s numb. The alcohol is still doing this job.
This isn’t what she wanted.
they don’t talk about how long it takes to die.
Someone is screaming.
It’s a horrible sound, loud and piercing. There’s an echo where they are, so the noise reverberates around what must be a small space. The noise is unfamiliar in the dying girl’s ears. (Is she dying, then? Is this what it’s like to die?) Things are not often loud around her in the same way these cries are. Farrah is used to the thumping of the too-strong bass on cheap speakers, the laughter from Annleigh and Clark when they’re using the kitchen, the pounding of her own heart in her ears. She is used to noise, but not this kind of loud. The child raised with too many thoughts will always look for something to distract herself from them, something to drown out what can’t be silence.
(Farrah thinks it might be her screaming.)
the time it took to move from sun to sea.
“I…. don’t want to die… here…” The girl manages to choke out, dimly aware that these could be her last words. She doesn’t want them to be. Farrah still has so much left she’s left unsaid. She let them demand her silence for so long. Now, her time is up, but there’s too many words left. She needs to get them out, she needs to force them to come out before it’s too late. The child is only just conscious, and she is so tired… but there is too much left unsaid to die here.
The figure is still standing over her, red hair dulled by the dark red liquid that Farrah is surrounded by. She keeps fading in and out of focus, as the injured girl’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Was it really her who did it, she wonders. It must have been. There’s no one else here, after all.
No one else except Riley.
Riley, trailing back to talk to her and make Cairo blush . Riley, entering the bathroom before Farrah said to come in. Riley, inviting her to tryouts even after all those years . Riley, lunging at her. Riley, with a bright smile and a clipboard, telling her that she’d been the freshman to make the team . Riley, with those blank eyes and a knife in her hand. Riley, Riley, Riley.
Where had it all gone wrong?
when had they pronounced icarus dead?
When had Riley decided that Farrah was no longer worth saving?
When had the world?
above the water? beneath the waves?
Annleigh.
She’s going to die here, and she hasn’t even apologized to Annleigh. She hasn’t fixed her sister’s phone. She hasn’t made it right.
Reese.
She’s going to die here, and Farrah’s last words to the girl would have been rude. She hadn’t meant to say what she did… and now she’ll ever get a chance. She won’t get to tell Reese that she’s sorry. She won’t get a chance to be forgiven.
And… Chess.
Farrah is going to die here, and she’d never gotten to tell Chess that she had believed in her. That the reason she was so mad was because she thought that Chess could be better than Farrah was. She had thought… she had though… Chess could have been… more, deserved more, could have… People like Chess, who had talent and a world that wanted them, were not supposed to need to be numb. They were not supposed to have to drown out everything that hurt because they were not supposed to hurt.
That was only supposed to be for people like Farrah.
You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to help me. I thought you… I wanted you… to help me…
It’s too late to realize that she was wrong now. It’s too late to apologize.
It is just too late.
surely, he was gone before his feet touched the sea
“Somebody…. h-help me…” Her voice is shaking. It’s even harder now to force the words out, with blood and bile and unspoken sorrows in her throat. “I don’t w-want… t-to die… here…”
Riley, standing over her. Riley, putting the knife away. Riley, turning to leave her here, turning her back on her, letting her fall into the waves below.
The redhead looks at her, the kind of look only those who have seen their own expiration date can share. Farrah, dying on the white (not white, red, now. red red red) tile floor. Riley, who is not the same girl she once was. The part of her that was Riley has gone away, and now there is nothing but the figure with the bloody knife, the girl with the blank eyes. They are both drowning, conscious of their own kind of demise. This will be the end of both their stories, and they know. As much as Riley can hope, the wings that Icarus borrowed did not come from a phoenix. You cannot learn to fly if you cannot accept that someday you will fall.
“... I didn’t want to die here, either...” Riley’s voice is soft, reflective. It is quieter than the splash that the trickle of Farrah’s blood makes as it rolls off the knife and onto the floor.
It doesn’t sound like Riley; it almost sounds like nothing at all.
Farrah’s eyes droop closed, again. When she opens them, there’s no one there, anymore.
for surely, you are dead the moment you realize...
Her assailant isn’t even still in the bathroom. For as strict a captain as she is, Riley is a rather sloppy murderer. She didn’t even stay until Farrah was dead.
(The tiniest part of the child is hurt she didn’t. Isn't that sad? Isn’t it sad that wanted her killer to stay with her, if only so she doesn’t have to die alone?)
The screaming has stopped, the girl realizes. Perhaps it had been her crying the entire time.
The room is fading. Fading to dark, to black, to nothing at all. She wants to hold on, but her head is spinning. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten drunk. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Maybe she shouldn’t have— but all the what if’s in the world do not matter when your time is up. She’s bleeding out alone, and no one heard her cries. No one heard her voice. No one heard Farrah at all.
There was so much left to say. But no one was ever listening. No one ever listened.
……
…
.
…
And Farrah is quiet.
… no one is coming to save you.