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There’s nothing funny about it anymore. Maybe there used to be, but she finds herself remembering less and less each day. She can’t remember who she was before the first time she picked up a sword, as if everything before that point had just been elevator music. As if her entire existence was contained to wanting to save Anthy.
…
…It was though, wasn’t it? She couldn’t think about anything else. Not anymore. At the start, at least she could tell conversations from fights by looking for swords. That didn’t work anymore. A prince always has a sword. You can try and pretend you don’t see it. You can look away and let him lean closer. It will press into your side like a threat, and you won’t be able to forget who you are.
When was the last time she had her sword? One she could feel, warm in her hand? She’d thought it was unrealistic and absurd until she was standing on the other side of the glass, watching someone else fight for her.
No, it wasn’t for her. How could it be? Princes save princesses because of their egos. He was the hero. She was the princess, and the tower, and the fairy godmother, and the-
She wasn’t the prince. She never was. It’s something you are born into. No matter how much you claw your fingers through the mud and blood and fabric and steel, you cannot become what you are not. She knew that now. She was a grown-up. She didn’t want to be a prince anyway.
Sometimes, she still sees flashes of a girl in a coffin. She writhes and screams in pain, but never truly moves. She was so young, wasn’t she? It’s not her fault, though, for her youth. One girl isn’t enough to bring someone back to life, and she shouldn’t have tried.
Her eyes sting. She really is a child, isn’t she? It’s all been laid out for her, but she will always refuse a world where they never met. She doesn’t even notice that she’s chewing the inside of her mouth. She’s used to the taste of blood, anyway.
Maybe Anthy would get it. She always seemed to. She bit her tongue so often it was a miracle she remembered how to speak. It was awful. She felt nothing like a blade. She was warm and soft and funny and kind and every single thing but steel. And yet, she was a blade all along. She stabbed and she hurt and she was awful.
“I forgive you.”
The wind howled in response. Anthy was a speck of dust in a pool of roses, distant and limp. If she squinted, maybe Utena could see her hair. It was always so beautiful. She should have said so. She tries to sound out the words, but her mouth falls into empty whispers. What does it matter? She was always dead anyway.
Waves ripple through the sky. Her hands grasp at phantom fabric. She repeats herself, voice raspy and intimate. “I forgive you.”
It’s a lie, like everything else. Her eyes fix on the clouds, which look a little bit like Anthy. Far, but beautiful. Floating above it all. No matter how much lower she falls, they stay unchanged, never any closer or farther.
She hopes she doesn’t wake up this time. She’s tired.
Her calendar doesn’t look how it used to. None of the numbers look right. Maybe she bought a faulty one.
It’s not just the date, though. Every clock she sees spins wildly. The sun peels forward like an egg yolk. All of her friends talk about things she can’t remember. They ask about her boyfriend. What did they do at the movies? She feels sick at the question, but no one notices. She could ask about Anthy. She should. She can’t. The rose has been cut. The two of them are different now, no longer a matching set.
Maybe she made that part up. She knows it isn’t all fake, but the details become muddled the more she thinks about them. She remembers a smile, one she couldn’t have imagined. She’d seen it in dreams, like a promise. She doesn’t see it anymore, but that’s just another thing broken.
She finds herself in the garden and throws herself into the roses.
The thorns weave in and out of her skin without any sting. It’s dry. She digs her nails into her arm, but only finds a light intent upon pulling them back. Her arm is pink as if blushing rosily. Nothing sticks to her, and nothing scars. How could it? A princess should be as smooth as porcelain and shiny as a trophy.
She pretends she can feel it, sobbing as though her skin hung off in pieces like it used to. Her mouth opens and she licks up a tear. It tastes like spring water, there’s not even a hint of salt.
Even rolling around in the dirt doesn’t stain her. It could be a sign of love or care, that she’s being defended like this. She knows what it actually is.
A laugh rattles through her.
“What do you think we would be to each other if you or I were someone else?”
She hums. “It’d be similar to how things are now.”
It’s not the answer she’s looking for, so she prods a little more. “Even if I was a man?”
“You aren’t a man, that wouldn’t be you.” She shakes her head like she knows so much more about everything. “Maybe that version of me would be all right with it, but I wouldn’t. I know who you are.” Because I only care about you.
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know who you are.”
“You don’t. Does that make you upset?”
It does. It makes her so angry. She used to want to figure her out as if there were some one final answer on who Anthy was. She’s more desperate now that she knows there isn’t one. It’s hard, trying to love someone who’s shattered into a million pieces angled in countless directions. She wants to yell at her, to beg her to be honest. So, she tries to sound honest. “It doesn’t. I’m all right with it because it’s you.”
Anthy seems to find that funny because her smile strains. “You hate me,” she states, disinterested.
“I do,” Utena affirms, since it’s easier than telling someone you don’t know how to let them leave. It’s easier than acting like a prince with a grand declaration of love and affection. She doesn’t think she has it in her anymore.
Her eyes are trained on hers, stuck as if forcefully. Her ears ring, and she absently thinks there’s a response. Anthy looks just like she remembers, she has always been gorgeous. There’s no one else to compare her to since only her face stays in her mind. It’s just the two of them because they make a great pair. Because she knows how she really feels. They both do, honestly. So, she ignores it when Anthy begins to murmur out a reply.
“I-“
“I love you.”
The world strains against her. Nothing else exists anymore. They stand eye to eye, one girl taking the plunge into endless misery. A million swords pierce her skin, but she doesn’t cry out. She just stands, waiting for the power to revolutionize the world. She accepts the horrified eyes she sees, she follows the path of trembling hands.
“I wish you wouldn’t”
“No, you don’t.”
It’s never been about winning, or being strong, or having luck. None of those things ever helped her. They never would. You cannot revolutionize the world with things you can touch, for you cannot touch the world. It simply watches, placing tools before you and watching them disappear.
She watches a sob shake through Anthy’s body. “I don’t. I love you too.”
And that’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. She never cared if she was a prince, or if she was cool or respected. She never wanted to sit back and wait, or live a life where she’s defended like something you can touch. She’s not real, not in that way. She’s always been her love, from the first time she heard the love of her life cry.
Anthy is finally cool, like a blade, like the thousands of swords that restrain her. She can’t bring herself to ignore the pain, knowing it’s the closest she’s gotten to a loving embrace. There’s tears, and there’s blood, and there’s skin and she can feel every ounce of misery and hatred.
But she can touch that. It’s there, on her skin. And therefore, it must come to an end. It’s all time, and maybe they’ve had too much of that. She sees her and can’t help but smile.
She is loved, fully and naturally as if it were a given, and she is free.
No matter how long it takes the world to catch up, no matter how long she waits as a sealed monster, her love will be there. She’s not a prince, she’s not a princess. She is her love, and she can’t wait until she breaks out.