Work Text:
Her skin was the color of ash. Her hair reminiscent of smoke. Her face mottled with scarring far harsher than melting wax. The pale blue of her eyes gone. She was devoid of all color.
Clea was circling her slowly, jaw clenched, as if studying her. Perhaps she was much too close to the girl for the girl’s comfort, but she was a work of art that Clea needed to understand.
Not that Clea didn’t immediately understand her mother’s message with painted Alicia — she very much did. To an outsider, perhaps they might believe this to be a poor rendition of Alicia. After all, how could such an expert in Painting — the head of the Painter’s Council — who has recreated her very own family within a canvas, forget to paint her youngest daughter? Surely, she wouldn’t paint a subject meant to be so important to a mother so inferior .
The ash-sculpted simulacrum of Alicia stood rigidly — shoulders pulled up, jaw clenched like Clea’s. She didn’t move though she allowed her eyes to follow Clea. She only wished this taller girl would stop circling her like a shark.
Clea exhaled loudly. Her brows were knitted, arms crossed.
She didn’t want to get involved in the drama of her parents. It wasn’t her job nor her place. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to know what obscene figures Aline had painted that were meant to take the place of the real versions outside the canvas. It was a mistake to come in here. But alas, Renoir was taking far too long to retrieve his wife as he ought to of. So, as usual, Clea felt she had to come in and see what the hell was going on so she could fix it.
However, Clea didn’t think she’d find Aline’s painted work this obscene. Delusional, sure. Idealized stand-ins for the family? Absolutely.
But this?
This painted copy of her baby sister was devoid of love. Devoid of any and all positive aspects of Alicia. Rather than idealizing the baby of the family, Aline gave this painted Alicia the same harrowing scars as the real Alicia. Aline took her own flame and sculpted these scars deliberately. A reminder that it was because of Alicia that the fire that took Verso — it was that foolish girl’s fault. A reminder that she resents Alicia for the loss of her son.
It gave Clea pause. She wrestled her own heart when it came Verso and Alicia, intrusive thoughts relentlessly whispering to her if only Alicia wasn’t so childish, if only Alicia hadn’t been so trusting, if only Alicia had just stuck to painting, if only Alicia hadn’t been so naïve, why didn’t Alicia just do as she was told, if only Alicia hadn’t—
Their mother could be cruel. Clea knew this all too well. She even caught herself emulating Aline when speaking with Alicia.
Perhaps if I had been more attentive to Alicia …
Clea stopped walking around the loveless simulacrum, locking eyes with her. She seemed to be holding her breath.
Aline hadn’t bothered to give the girl an eyepatch, just like outside of the canvas.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Clea reached a hand out to cup the painted girl’s cheek. To her surprise, the girl had stayed frozen — allowing Clea to touch her — eyes following her every move.
The girl’s skin was ice cold. The corners of the older girl’s lips wavered between pursed and frowning.
Conceal. You must remain composed. Don’t feel. This is not Alicia. You know better.
Clea swallowed the knot that was forming in her throat, shoving it down, down. It had no business here. She cleared her throat.
“I — um — I could repaint you, if you’d like,” Clea offered.
A smile crept onto painted Alicia’s lips. She shook her head.
Clea closed her eyes. She shouldn’t be surprised. Aline’s emotions towards Alicia were woven into this horrid copy of her.
“What about styling your hair?” Clea tried again.
Painted Alicia cocked her head to one side, eyes unblinking.
“Years ago … when we were kids…” Clea faltered. “Oh là là, it’s really been that long … I used to do brush and style my little sister’s hair for her.”
Painted Alicia considered her words for a moment, the smiled again, nodding.
Jaw clenched, Clea nodded to her in return. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned an old chair, a stool, a brush, and a comb.
She sat down on the chair and cleared her throat again. She gestured to Painted Alicia to sit on the stool in front of her.
For a moment, Clea thought she could see a sparkle in Painted Alicia’s eye as she turned and took her seat. She gentled nudged and pulled Painted Alicia towards her so she was nestled between her knees.
~~~
Clea was about nineteen and tight-jawed. She sat stiffly in a high-backed chair in the room designated as the children’s atelier. A sketchpad lay facedown on a side table, a half-finished charcoal drawing hidden beneath it.
Alicia was about eight. She sat on a low velvet stool between Clea’s knees. Her hair was unruly and streaked with paint. Matching paint-stained fingers folded politely in her lap.
“Alicia, why do you keep getting paint in your hair? And all over your face, too.” Clea asked as she pulled the fine-toothed comb gently through the tangles. Her voice is calm and clipped but not unkind.
“Maybe I got bit carried away,” the little girl answers, mischief laced in her voice.
Clea huffs — a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh, if she let herself soften. But she doesn’t. Not anymore. Instead Clea was all about composure. Discipline, elegance, as Aline had drilled into her.
“I know what you’re doing, Alicia. You’re getting too old to behave like this. You know Aline will say it’s undisciplined.”
“Maman doesn’t even look at me.”
“She notices when you’re messy.”
Alicia shrinks a little. “Only when she’s angry.”
“Exactement. So, let’s not invite her ire, my dear sister.”
Silence followed. The comb continued its slow rhythm. A loose curl catches and the younger girl winces. The older sister pauses.
“Sorry.”
Eventually, Alicia leans her head back as Clea gently guides her head, her eyes half-lidded as the comb carefully crosses her scalp.
“Do you think if I paint better, she’ll like me more?” she asks.
The comb halts mid-stroke.
“No,” Clea finally answered flatly. “She’ll just want more.” What’s the use of lying to her?
“Good ‘cause I think I hate painting. I think I’d rather read.”
“Alicia! You know how Aline feels about reading —“
Alicia rolled her eyes.
“You also know you have no choice with painting. None of us do. So you better find a reason to love it.”
Alicia groaned. “What about big brother?”
“What about Verso? He’s a boy,” Clea replied.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Alicia asked.
“Boys get special treatment. That’s just how it is. Besides, Verso is an adult.”
“But Maman started Verso’s piano lessons when he—“
“Silence, Alicia! Control your outbursts! You know how Aline feels about reading as well as writing! Why would you bring up such nonsense? And then compare it to Verso’s piano lessons?”
Clea’s voice was loud enough that Alicia didn’t respond.
The older girl picked a ribbon from her pocket. Faded blue, fraying at the edge. She found it in a drawer and claimed as her own. She tied it in her sister’s hair, carefully, like she’s wrapping a gift. It matched her eyes.
“Now, try to be more careful and stop your childish behavior,” Clea said as she finished the tie in her sister’s hair. “Understood?”
“Stop calling me childish!” Alicia said angrily, lifting her head up.
Clea reached around and tipped Alicia’s head back by her chin — meeting both eyes pale blue eyes that still retained the sparkle of sunlight catching on icicles.
“I will stop calling you childish when you stop acting childish.” Clea said coolly. “I’m only looking out for you, sister dear. I cannot always protect you from Aline. I will not always be able to intervene. Surely you know this, yes?”
Why didn’t Alicia understand? She regularly sees Aline at work with her and Verso, even receiving her own discipline. How could she still be so childish even now?
Alicia didn’t say anything. Her eyes remained locked on Clea’s, an unofficial staring match. Eventually Alicia nodded.
“Good.”
“Clea!” called a woman’s voice.
====
Clea snapped back to reality to find Painted Alicia’s face looking up right at her. Only she had both her eyes closed, the corners of her mouth ever so slightly turned upward. She felt a bit warmer to the touch.
Carefully, Clea styled part of Painted Alicia’s fringe to curl over where her eye was absent.
Perhaps if I had been more attentive to Alicia … just like this …
She took in a deep breath. This was enough. It had to be. The sorrow mixed with resentment grew in heaviness.
Clea flicked her wrist again. In her hand, a mask appeared. By this point, Painted Alicia’s eye was open. She held the mask out to her.
“Since you won’t let me repaint you, I’m offering you this instead,” Clea began. “It — it isn’t right … it isn’t fair that Maman painted you like this. Creating your image to have such scarring when the rest of us are her idealized pets. I’d rather repaint you, but that’s your decision to make. Not mine.”
Gingerly, Painted Alicia took the mask and sat upright, studying it.
“You don’t have to wear the mask, mind you. But I wanted you to at least have something …” Clea trailed off.
The girl looked up at Clea and smiled.
========
She was sure now the canvas needed to go.
It didn’t matter that she and Verso would play in here all the time as children. It didn’t matter that she had any of her own creations dwelling in this canvas. As co-owner of this canvas, Clea had the right to make the call to get rid of it.
Aline was fucking it all up anyway. That simulacrum of Alicia was proof of that. This canvas world used to be a place of joy, of fun. Not for Aline to ignore her real family and play pretend by making a mockery of her family.
Though at the same time, Clea was content with her mother staying in the canvas for an extended period of time. She’s a grown woman that can make her own choices. Having Aline out of her hair was great bonus she didn’t expect but readily welcomed.
But knowing of that Alicia …
And knowing this wretched abomination of her own likeness that Aline dreamed up …
How dare she!
It was out of Clea’s hands. Aline gave her no choice. She had to do something. She couldn’t paint over Painted Alicia, but she could paint over this caricature of herself. There is no agency for her.
She decided to reshape Aline’s version of herself with fire. With glowing-red-hot-molten. Though this were a painting, she was a kiln.
When she finished melting down and repainting her, a mirror image stared back at her.
Except, this Repainted Clea was devoid of color. Her skin looked like she was covered in a fine ash. Her hair long wisps of smoke. Her eyes reminiscent of the void, filled in with the likeness of the pale grey moon. She was now the perfect image of an older sister to Painted Alicia.
She had half a mind to have Repainted Clea look after Painted Alicia … But, the canvas needed to be destroyed. She would better serve her sister through robbing Aline’s creations of chroma.
“Why have one dead daughter when you can have two dead daughters, Aline?” Clea said, smiling at her work. “Now all of your children are dead.”