Part I https://theprose.com/ScarlettWoods

The sun was low in the sky as I sat fuming in the treehouse, my eyes burning from tears that streaked my face. A slight shake to the frame, and I knew already who was trying to get up the ladder.

It took her awhile, it was a monstrosity of a house- one my uncle had helped my father build for me when I was 8 years old. The biggest in the neighborhood. And now, it was my hideaway, at least I wanted it to be.

I could hear her wheezing, struggling to get up.

"Wuby?"

I ignored her, hating her. Hating her for the embarrassment she brought on me everyday. Hating the way my parents cradled her. Hating that she never got in trouble for anything. Hating the way she idolized me when I wanted nothing to do with her. And hating more than anything the way I couldn't take her anywhere without everyone staring, looking. Why did she have to be my sister? Why couldn't I have someone- anyone- else?

One last stifled grunt and she was pulling herself onto the top floor, her arms stretched out, dragging her body over the edge, her white gown covered in leaves, her wings flapping in the breeze.

She opened her mouth, her missing baby teeth causing her to look even sillier than normal. Her eyes were red and puffy. Somehow this gave me some slight sense of satisfaction.

"Why did you leave me, Wuby? I couldn't catch up."

I looked out the window, the laughter from the other girls still echoing in my head.

"Please go away."

"Why?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

"Because I don't want you here!" I snap.

She shuffles toward me, that bottom lip poking out, her half closed eye letting a lone tear fall. She had to be by me always, even when I asked her not to.

I open my eyes from this memory, staring around the shadowy room. It's quiet outside. No movement, no moans. I fixate on the twirling fairies, faded and yellowing, hanging above her bed. Numerous drawings still cover her walls. The little stick figures dancing, leaping- and then there we are in the middle. Me, tall with flowing brown hair. Her, tiny, smiling, holding my hand in her crude drawing. I had helped her color in our dresses. I had taught her how to stay in the lines. The edge of the drawing is curled now, hasn't been touched in many years.

So many years.

I lean my head back against her bed, trying to drown out the sounds from a home many years ago banging around in my memories. But I can't. I've tried for too long.

"Wuby!" she says, jumping, dancing around the treehouse, now acting as if nothing is wrong. My sister, nothing can keep her down. "Let's play something. Let's be pwincesses."

I'm staring out the window still and in this moment understanding my sister's need to fly. If only I could fly far away. Anywhere but here.

The shaking of the treehouse jostles me back to my senses. She's leaping around making swishing noises, spinning, glancing back at her wings. I cringe at this part

in my memory.

"Pearl," my voice cracks from the earlier anger-filled tears. "You know mom and dad got you those wings so you can fly, right?"

She stops mid-twirl and stares at me for a moment, her little brain processing this. Her face lights up and she giggles.

"I know that! I'm flying right now!"

She continues to dance and spin.

"No." I say. "They got them so you can really fly. You can fly right out of this treehouse if you wanted to."

"I can't fly now, Wuby. That's silly."

"No it's not. Don't you want to fly?"

She's looking at me, wanting to believe, trusting her older sister. She nods.

"Then do it."

"But how?" Her lips are trembling. She thinks I've let her in on the most magical secret that can ever exist in her little world.

"They're magic wings. When you leap into the sky, they'll begin to flap and lift you high into the clouds just like a little bird. And then you can fly back down and tell me what you saw."

She's breathing heavily now, a smile creeping across her face. "You sure, Wuby?"

"Of course I'm sure. Why else do you think they're glittering? It's magic. You can fly now, Pearl."

She laughs and walks to the edge of the treehouse, staring up into the sky. I watch as her fragile little hands pull the wings tight against her back.

"I'm scared, Wuby." she whispers.

"Don't be." I say. "You can do it. I believe in you. Just fly."

She's thinking about it, she can't possibly fathom this is real, but she's a child and she wants it so badly. She wants to believe in magic. She wants to believe in me.

Turning around she gives me that big smile of hers. "I'll be wight back, Wuby. Wait for me."

And then she jumps, arms stretching out far ahead of her.

My heart lurches in my chest as I see her actually do it. The distance to the ground is far, but I hear a loud smack as I know she's hit the earth. I sit frozen, waiting to hear her cry. Waiting to hear her feel some kind of pain like the pain I deal with by having her as a sister.

There's nothing.

"Pearl!" I call out. No reply.

I scramble to my feet and peer over the edge expecting to see her sitting there, her face red and startled, maybe a scratch or two. And I do see her then, far below. Her little arms and legs are twisted as she lays sprawled in the grass. Her tiny gown gathers up around a bloody knee and her eyes are open, staring. But what brings my heart to a dead still is her mouth, no longer a snaggled grin, but a deformed protruding jaw, a tiny stream of red spills from her lips over a lone rock in the yard.

I sit back, my mouth dry, my head pulsing. This isn't happening. This isn't real. Any minute she'll get up. Any minute my little sister will be okay. None of this will have ever happened. A breeze whistles through the air and I see one tiny wing of hers attempting to flap its bent and broken frame. Everything else is lifeless.

I'm crying now. I haven't fully thought about that moment in so long. It's always been there. She's always been there. But I've tried everything I could to drown it out. To get her to disappear. It was an accident. A freak accident. I had no idea.

Wiping my nose, I look around. Her smell is thick in the air. It's as if she's still alive in this room tucked into bed and waiting for a story.

"Pearl." I whisper.

There's a movement in the corner of my eye then and I know she's here. The charnel stench is thick in the air. I turn, the woman broken and bent stands in the moonlight behind me. Her long tangled hair is illuminated by the window. She's thin and ragged. Sickly.

I don't run. There's nowhere to hide. Not now anyway. Instead I climb to my feet, shaking, and face her for the first time.

Her hair hides her face, but I can hear the heavy breathing, I can see the jaw hanging loosely from her tangles. I can see a pool of dark liquid dripping at her feet

There's a clicking and chattering coming from somewhere deep beneath her mane. But she doesn't move. She's frozen.

I open my mouth, but I can't form the words. I don't know what to say. Instead I step calmly around little Pearl's bed, my finger's tracing the rough quilt.

The woman remains still, but I know she sees me. I can see her eyes glistening beneath. I'm as close as I've ever been, and I'm terrified. Without knowing what I'm doing, I'm reaching out to her, shaking.

She moves then like a wary animal. Her body hunches and a trembling painful moan tumbles from her lifeless jaw.

"Pearl."

I swallow, trying to find the right words.

"I know it's you."

The woman is still, her head cocked and staring. We're both staring, but I'm now looking at her like I never have before. I'm looking at this monster how I should have all a long.

"Pearl." my voice is just above a whisper. "Please, forgive me. It was my fault. It was all my fault.."

She stands tall now and takes a step forward. I reach my hand out, for the first time not afraid of what will happen. Let her take me. I'm ready. Let her fly me away from here.

I spread my quivering fingers and grasp for her hair. For a moment I think I feel it. Soft, yet cold. But just for a moment. There's one more pitiful moan, faint now, and she fades from me, growing lighter in the moonlight. I reach again, trying to touch my sister, straining for her, but she's gone.

I'm all alone.

"Pearl." I whisper, my throat clenching. "Wait for me."

Ever since I was a young girl I've had trouble sleeping. I can remember the age it started, 14, the dreaded summer that transitioned middle school to high school. Nerves, anxiety, that's what it had to have started from. And now, nearly twenty years later, if I were to talk about it, people might say the drinking doesn't help.

But you see, it does.

If I drink enough, sometimes I can get through a few hours- just a couple of restful ones before she appears. And she always comes. Maybe not every night. But that's when it's the worst, that's when the fear really kicks in, the waiting, the wondering when her ghastly presence will emerge. Will it be late in the middle of the night, or right before I close my eyes? That's why I can't tell anyone. No one needs to know what happens.

I take another sip, the dull liquid burning my throat as it goes down, but I feel better. Calmer. I stare out past the crack in my driver's seat window, looking at the house that once was filled with happy memories, but is now completely dead inside. It's been too many years since I've seen it, and I'd rather not stay.

I glance at the half crumpled obituary, my mother's face smiling back as if she's happy to be dead. I knock some loose dirt off my black dress, and stare back at the house.

"Just for tonight." I whisper. Someone has to get things in order. Then I'll be gone again. For good.

I throw back another shot and climb out, closing the door a little too loudly. Dusk is already surrounding the neighborhood. The neighbors I no longer know are either out of town, or who knows, maybe dead as well. I heave my bag over my shoulder, and trudge up the paved walkway. Grass is growing long through the cracks, and I can tell my mother didn't get anyone to keep up with the yard after my father passed years ago.

I fumble for the key, and push the door open, flicking on the lights and now I'm staring directly into the dining room. The smell hits me and in that moment I'm back again.

I can see my mother and father leaning over little Pearl as they sing happy birthday. She looks up at me, her blue eyes twinkling from the candlelight, one lid heavy over her right eye, and she breaks out into that snaggled big grin of hers.

"Wuby!" she says in that mangled lisp, "Look! Wings!"

She climbs out of her seat, ignoring the cake now, and turning, wiggles the ridiculously bouncy things attached to her back, sending glitter everywhere.

"That's great, Pearl." I say, leaning up against the entryway.

"Blow out your candles, honey." my mother says gently nudging her.

She bounces back into her seat, sucking in air for a big breath. Her face suddenly loses its color and instead she begins coughing and spraying all over the cake. My dad is patting her on the back, my mom grabbing water, and Pearl is teary eyed, apologizing.

"Here." I say, and before anyone can stop me, I've blown out the candles.

In that moment, my eyes meet Pearl's, and she's shocked. Hurt.

"Ruby!"my mother hisses.

"It's okay." Pearl says in that small voice of hers. "I don't need to make a wish." She smiles. "I have wings. I can fly now. That's all I want."

"There. See?" I say to my parents, rolling my eyes.

I take a deep breath, and step away from the dining room and that memory. Throwing my bag on the couch, I look at the boxes already piled around the house. Looks like someone has done most of the work. Aunt Joan no doubt. Well, good. Not much for me to do then.

I walk into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door, ignoring the family pictures weathered with age stuck to the outside.

Empty.

But I'm not surprised. My mother spent most of her time in the hospital anyway. I close it, stifling a yawn and look out the window. Staring past the glare of the light behind me and into the darkening night, I can see its silouhette still looming high in the sky. The need to drink comes over me and I wonder again, like I have many times after, why they never got rid of that damn treehouse.

Something shifts behind me, and my eyes immediately focus on the hallway. I can see her, dark against the wall, frail and gaunt, her limbs twisted where they shouldn't be. She's not walking, barely moving, but she's there, and I can see it, even in the reflection, the gruesome deformity of her face opening, falling.

I gasp and whirl around, reaching for anything that might be near. But I'm alone. Nothing but the quiet humming of the refrigerator. The streetlight flickers and it takes me a moment to calm my racing heart. I can feel the tears beginning to well in my eyes but I bat them away. Not tonight. Everything is alright. It's not real. I know this.

It's strange being upstairs. I haven't been in this area since I moved out. The pictures look at me, hauntingly. Pearl has that big silly grin in every one, always posing for the camera feeling like a little beauty queen. Each time she saw the photos, I remember the light leaving her eyes just a little.

"I wish I was as pretty as you, Wuby."

I look down the hall at her closed bedroom door. Part of me wants to open it, just to see if it's still the same. Preserved in her eternal childhood. But I know better.

I walk into my old bedroom- this one not preserved. In fact, aside from a few packed away boxes, it still has that country inn feel my parents were going for with the bedroom. No more popstars adorning the walls.

I lay down on the bed and stare at the clock on the dresser. 7:50. Still early. Maybe if I just rest for a moment, just shut my eyes for a little bit, I can pretend I'm not in this house, I'm not being followed by somethi...

It's late afternoon and I'm trying to help Pearl ride her bike. She's too old to be in training wheels. Eight years old is just too big, but that's how Pearl is. She's not like the rest of us. Or so my mother had calmly instilled in me after she was born.

"I think I got it this time, Wuby."

I'm holding onto the back of her seat, trying to avoid those wings that keep thrashing in my face.

"You can let go and I'll do it this time. I pwomise."

I run along behind her, faster, faster, listening to her squeal that she's flying. I let go and the bike glides down the street, her small frame bouncing, the wings lopsided. I stand back, thinking maybe this time she'll stay up. But my heart sinks in frustration as she veers off to the right and crashes into an azalea bush.

I'm waiting for her to cry, almost hoping she will, but she leaps up, her wings dangling stupidly and she grabs onto her bike coming back toward me, that sheepish look on her face.

"Sorry, Wuby! I tried."

Past her now I can see three girls I know that are already in highschool. They're watching my sister as she hobbles a long, her stubby little legs giving her that old man's walk. I can hear the laughing, their imitation of how Pearl says my name, and my face burns. I hate her. I tell myself this over and over. I hate my sister.

"Poor Pearl, the broken girl. Wuby help your sister!" The girls are laughing.

Turning, I run down the street, my feet hitting the pavement as hard as they can as I try to drown out Pearl's pitiful cries far behind me.

My eyes shoot open as I realize the cries were too close to be part of some distant dream. I look at the clock glowing in the darkness. 2:11. How did I sleep for so long?

That's when I hear it again. A distorted cry, like an animal bruised and broken. Then something else, a long steady movement. Dragging.

I sit up in bed, paralyzed. Somewhere out in the hall, something is coming, making its way from the stairs- no- not the stairs, the other side of the house. My parents' or maybe Pearl's room. Something is coming from there.

I can't move. I don't even know where to go. I can't run out in the hall. It's getting closer.

I close my eyes. It's not real. She's not real. You're hallucinating. None of this is real.

The dragging stops and I know she's right outside my door. I inhale. There's no sound.

Maybe it's over. Maybe she's gone for the night.

I glance at the clock. 2:19. The door remains firmly shut. Did I lock it? Of course not. I let out a slow steady breath. It's alright. It's over now.

And then the door begins to creak open. A loud steady groan, and my whole body is thrown into shock. I can't move. I can't breath. Even in the darkness I can see her battered shape trying to crawl along the floor. The loud shuffling and wheezing. The dry breathing. She's coming across the room trying to reach me. Her bony fingers opening wide. She crosses the one strip of moonlight and I see her trying to smile at me through her long hair. Her mouth is twisted upward, but her broken jaw hangs lopsided and crushed, causing more of a sneer.

I can't take it. I leap from the bed, slamming into the dresser. I throw myself as far around her as I can, eyes squinted, frantic to get out but still trying not to fully see her.

I run into the hallway, and make my way toward the stairs. I'm two steps down when I see something at the bottom. No, not something. Someone. Tall, dark, not moving. Standing far too still.

I hurl myself back up and stumble across the hall, past my room, and grab onto the nearest door handle.

I lunge into Pearl's room, slamming the door shut. Locking it.

Tears are coming down my cheeks as I try to stop shaking. Swallowing deeply, I look around me. It's still the same. Everything is just like it was. I collapse in a heap by her bed, staring at the doorway knowing what's on the outside, but also too afraid to face what's now inside.

And then for the first time, I relive that day.

The glowing light filtered through your kitchen window like it always did, but this time there was something just a bit off. It wasn't the usual gold, but a deeper, shadowy orange. I could hear the muted laughter and bustling around in the dining room as the annual Thanksgiving was being spread across the table like it was every year.

Still, something just didn't feel right.

I walked into the dining room, watched as my eldest aunt and uncle placed the silver turkey tray in the center of the festive table, right next to the same tattered squirrels all the children loved to play with. I couldn't see their faces as they looked at each other, my aunt and uncle, but I knew underneath the dingy gas masks that they were smiling their doting smiles.

They poured around me, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, parents, each one rooted in muffled conversation and laughter, the tube-like trunks of their masks spilled down their faces, dragging in the food. Pushing my way through, completely overlooked, I had to squint as the grimy sunlight pierced through the curtains.

That's when I saw you, in the middle of the crowd, ignored and maskless as I was though you were the matriarch. Your pale blue eyes caught mine and you came forward. Your frail hands, dry and paper-thin, clasped my cheeks. You were small and trembling, just like you had been right before your demise. Tears glistened in your eyes and I knew now why the sun didn't shine as brightly.

I tried to choke out your name, but you put a finger to my lips, and rejecting the crowd around us you whispered deeply into my ear,

"open the rusted green lockbox."

We see you looking at us, your leering smirks humiliate, enticing objects are all we are.

Are we at fault, never leaving the house “like that”, remaining here silenced and still?

Still every night it happens, afraid to walk alone for fear your torment is loaded and alive.

Alive in our hearts, fists clinched hand in hand no longer silent but fighting back are we.

There’s a stinging on my lips, a bitterness on my tongue, a pulsating, tearing of the flesh as I dig my nails into my palms each time I see you smile my way. That casual, endearing smile. That smile that tells me and the whole world around you that you love me. That smile that first took ahold of me, and made me feel what everyone I knew spoke of, but I didn’t believe it truly existed.

You’re still the same one, still dress the same in your smart classy suits, your shoes so perfectly matched. Your hair still tousled in an “I don’t care” kind of way, but you really do.

We both know you do.

You touch me on the small of my back, pull me in and tell me how much you love me. And I smile like I always have- just not as deeply. Yes, everything is still the same, and yet now it’s not. I watch you as you laugh with those around you, the same thin lines crinkling around your soft eyes. The soft, pale eyes I fell so in love with across that crackled pavement in the city that care forgot.

You’re still the same, yes, but I’m not.

Ah the power of knowing, we all want it and seek it out, but sometimes when we get ahold of it, we want so desperately for it to go away. We wonder would our lives be back to how they were if we never knew the truth? Could we go back to carelessly rolling in between the sheets, kissing each other’s flesh, feeling that lip quivering grin when your name is spoken? Could we go back to believing those three little words actually mean something true?

But now they fall flat on ears that refuse to listen. Refuse to believe. Every word that has ever fallen from your silky lips has landed on mine with a burning acidity now.

A fool. A blind fool.

I force a smile at those trying to make small talk, I tell them how happy we are together, how in love. I smile back at you, although I can feel a hand crushing my throat. I try not to gasp.

Lies.

That’s what ruins our happiness in some way or another. That’s what crushes our ability to believe such pure emotions exist. I know about your lies.

I sip my drink, smile, give them the facade that everything is fine, although I’m on the verge of screaming what I know. But I can’t. It comes to the surface time and time again, but stops, pushed back deep inside to crumble and rot. I don’t understand. It eats me now from the inside, only glimpsing the world through my glassy, bleak stare. It comes forth, barely discrete, in my snide remarks, hinting to you what I know, only to retreat, defeated, but growing even more when it’s met with a dismissal. If I speak, if I say what I truly know, will my last perfect little lie of hope for the tarnished past no longer exist?

I bite my lips and feel them swelter into a sting, the bitterness on my tongue growing, a pulsating, tearing of the flesh as I dig my nails into my palms each time I see you smile my way.

Liar. That’s what I tell myself. That’s all we are. Liars.