a/n: merry late christmas everyone, and happy new year!
lyrics are from 'whisper' by a fine frenzy.
but if you keep real close
yeah, you stay real close
i will reach you
/
prompt 38. close your eyes
Your first Christmas memory is of Oswald, breathless and covered in snow. His arms are disappointingly empty and he is dashing to the attic, the heels of his fancy shoes clicking as he runs up the stairs. The sound is amplified by the high ceilings and spaciousness of the house. Besides you, your twin sister smiles knowingly. It is Christmas and your uncle is well on the road to another terrible present, and you're a little angry though you know he can't help it.
You nibble on a cookie while you wait, crumbs spilling over your new dress. When you finish, you wipe your mouth with your sleeve because you could not care less and if you cannot directly spite Oswald then you will do so indirectly. Alyss, your twin sister, frowns. She is the opposite of you—pure and soft and gentle, and you almost hate her and her perfection, her being better than you at everything. And maybe a part of it is jealousy; from the beginning, you've shared everything and you wonder why having something to call your own is such a cardinal sin.
"Uncle's back," Alyss tells you. And sure enough, he emerges from the staircase, breathless, two packages cradled in his arms. He looks exhausted. Yet at the same time he looks excited, scared, almost reverent. You realize he has always planned on giving those packages to you and your sister, but it is only now that he has finally resolved to do so. The packages he holds in his arms are obviously important to him, and you feel your anger dissipate into guilt. So you stand up and wrap your skinny five year old arms around him.
"I am late," he says.
You shake your head because you're at a loss for words and this is the next best thing. Your arms tighten around Oswald and you promise yourself you will be a better niece, a better sister.
"Merry Christmas." This is Alyss. She fairly glides across the room, her bare feet not making a sound. She's on her tiptoes, doing her best to see what Oswald is carrying, and you feel so utterly full of warmth and gingerbread cookies and milk that you could care less, really. You just want to be able to forgive Oswald and Alyss forever. Despite your best efforts, Oswald eventually extracts himself from the embraces of you and your sister.
You are sure he is smiling.
"Merry Christmas." Those words will always sound strange coming from him, especially when he bends down to your level and ruffles your hair, and then Alyss's. Then he gently places your gifts in your hands. Identical violet eyes meet midair, like it was rehearsed.
"You open your present first," you tell Alyss. She lifts an eyebrow in amusement, and the expression is too old to ever belong on her face.
"If you say so."
It takes her forever and a half to tear through the wrapping paper because she insists on carefully removing the tape, and then she has to remove the wrapping paper itself whole, without any tears. She stacks them in a neat pile by her feet. You do not see this. Alyss's long white hair shields it from your view, but you know what she is doing anyway. Finally, she lifts a white stuffed bunny out of the brightly colored box. You dig your fingernails into the tape on your gift and peel off a piece, rubbing it between your fingers. For as longer than you remember, you have never been able to stay still. Alyss turns to you with a smile. You notice how her eyes are laughing, and how she's holding the toy against her cheek. Perhaps Oswald notices, too, because his maybe-smile widens. Then both of you are talking at once, jabbering in the way only children can, and Oswald is doing his best to keep up and answer all your questions. Yes, this bunny is important to him. Yes, it is the bunny from the picture on the mantelpiece, and yes, he answers for the one hundredth time, the woman in the picture is his sister. Lacie. You and Alyss's mother.
The doorbell rings—a three note chord. For a moment, you cannot think of anyone who would call so late, but Oswald opens the door and his maybe-smile becomes impossibly bright, and you know it has to be Jack. Before you really see him, you're running towards him with Alyss, and then you're swept up into the air and he is laughing and telling you both how long it has been (too long) and how much you and your sister have grown and then you feel yourself being lowered. His green eyes are twinkling just like always, and though it is only the four of you it feels like all the people in the world. You tune out what he is saying and listen to the lull of his words. Jack is a storyteller. Oswald told you this, once. Jack can spin a tale so vibrant reality feels dull. Oswald thinks this is because Jack is good at making stories up, but you know better. It's because the man has a voice that makes you want to listen. Wherever Jack is, time passes more quickly, more cheerfully. And this night is no exception. It passes in a frenzy of silver tinsel and stolen sips of eggnog and more cookies and burnt chestnuts. The evening is crammed so full of everything good you forget how you made it to your bed.
Later, you remember you've yet to open Oswald's gift. The parcel is sits by your bed. You scramble upright, sending your sheets flying everywhere. And you reach for that precious gift, fingers hastening to undo the bow, and then you're tearing through the wrapping paper.
When all the tape and paper has been removed, you find yourself looking at a plush rabbit, nearly identical to the one Alyss received. You are not surprised. In the picture of your mother (the one on the mantelpiece), she is holding two rabbits.
Your rabbit is warm brown. It has twinkling black eyes made of glass, and you can almost swear its whiskers will twitch. You hold it at face level, carefully committing every detail to memory. Then you smile, because you know he will be your own.
"Your name will be Oz."
And the rest of the night slips away in hushed conversation. Oz does not respond to any of your questions, but he listens. That in itself is enough.
/
That night, you dream that you're talking to Oz. He has a soft voice, and when he laughs it is the most beautiful thing. Then the dream shifts, and he is talking to Raven. You are not surprised that Raven's voice hints at something avian and edgy, but how very gentle he is even as he whispers furiously to Oz shocks you.
"She's going to be the death of you."
"But I'm so happy now," Oz whispers back. You hear a smile in his answer, and there is that curious feeling of warmth again. "So, so happy. You know, right, Gil?"
Raven is silent. Perhaps Oz was not speaking to him. None of your toys are named Gil, and for a moment, you think maybe Oz is speaking to thin air, so thick is the quiet which follows his words. Then, Raven sighs. At least, you think it is Raven. The sigh is filled with regret and all the unspoken things in the world, and it cannot be him, because when the sun shines on the plush bird, he looks haughty and his golden eyes have a hard glint. And yet, you realize, it is he.
"No." Raven—Gil—says. You hear his resentment, and you shiver. "And you don't, either. You haven't thought about what will happen to you after, have you?"
"I'm thinking about the now," Oz replies smoothly. "The now is what matters."
An even longer silence. You want so much to ask Oz and Gil what they are talking about, but you know better. Somehow, you are sure they would not have ventured to have this conversation if they were not sure you could not hear them. Having no other alternative, you console yourself by resolving to take both Oz and Raven out to the forest soon. Maybe that will make up for all the unspoken words you cannot make decipher, and how Raven seems to know some bitter truth. It is as if he has given up trying to explain that truth to Oz because it will come to pass regardless of the world.
"Oz." It is a plea. Suddenly, you are cold. Or rather, you feel your insides shrinking, though you are ensconced in a feather quilt. You do not want to hear the sadness in Oz's voice, nor Raven's quiet knowledge.
Neither does Oz, because he sighs, quietly, and his voice wavers and dips lower. "I'm sorry, Gil."
/
The Christmas the year after is not nearly so pleasant. You spend it leaning against the soft green walls of a hospital waiting room, clutching Oz to your chest. There are no presents this year, no lively conversations. Attempts at happiness cannot drown out the monotonous beeping of the heart monitor next door. So you focus on the walls. They are almost pliant in the way they absorb noises. When you press the shell of your ear against them, you can hear time running through.
A hand presses itself into yours, long cool fingers threading through your own. With your free hand, you push your hair out of your face. You can see Jack. His form is blurry, and you realize you're about to cry.
"Here," he tells you, and he pulls a tissue out of what appears to be nowhere. It is a trait which is uniquely Jack's—the ability to conjure tissues whenever you need one. He pulls you into his arms and wipes your tears away. "Alyss will get better, you'll see." He says this with so much conviction you have to believe him. However, your eyes betray you with. Big tears roll down you cheeks, and there is a tightness in your chest which refuses to allow you to breathe.
"Shh, shh." You're aware that you're being rocked back and forth, and you let this familiar rhythm to comfort you. Still small enough to fit on Jack's lap, you curl up to him and tug at his braid.
"Will she really? She has all those tubes and I heard Uncle talking with a doctor—"
"She will, really."
"Really?"
"Really." Jack pushes your bangs back from your eyes, and you snuggle closer to him. He is warm, unlike the hospital walls. When you press your ear against his chest, you do not hear trapped whispers but a steady heartbeat.
"When can she come home?" Unconsciously, you have included Jack in the word. You are not sure how you know, but you are positive it does not escape his notice.
"When the doctor says she can. And that will be when she takes all her medicine." His eyes dart to the door of Alyss's room, and when they turn back to meet your own, you see some new thing lurking in their depths. It remains there even as he smiles and offers to read you a story, though he's buried it beneath layers of carelessness, and as he tells you about a toy rabbit that dreamt of being real. (When you ask, he tells you it is called The Velveteen Rabbit.) He keeps watch over you as he speaks. You feign sleep, and when he is convinced you're sleeping, he slips away.
A little later, you hear him talking to Oswald. At first their conversation is pleasant, but suddenly they are arguing, their voices hushed and terrible. You start to shake, and you are unsure if it is from anger or fear. And you look at Oz and how your knuckles have turned white from how tightly you are holding him. If you remain seated, you will hear every word. It is not necessarily a good thing. Your violet eyes ask Oz if it is alright to listen in. Of course, you receive no perceptible response, but you imagine that he's grinning at you conspiratorially.
You lean forward, away from the vacuum-like presence of the green walls.
"…You promised you would put it behind you." Oswald's voice is soft, furious, and maybe a little desperate. "You did not lie to me, did you?"
"Os, I—" This is Jack. You know that. Yet he sounds so young, so broken, so confused, so unlike the Jack you have grown accustomed to.
"She is dead. She has been dead for six years, and you promised you would not—"
Then, very quietly, so quietly you almost think you imagined it, Jack says, "You don't understand."
Both of them fall silent. Your breath catches in your throat. Something is in the silence, charging it with static, making it palpable. Slowly, you stand up. Before you realize what you are doing, you're walking towards them. You bury your nose into Oz's fur. It is silly to seek warmth from a stuffed animal, but you are sure the warmth you feel is not your imagination.
It's a good thing the hospital is nothing like your house, because it is an old house, and old houses have a way of creaking when you least expect them to, especially when you are trying to walk lightly. Take a deep breath, you tell yourself. Your thoughts are scattered. For some reason, you are think Jack and Oswald will kill each other. Maybe it is due to the fact that you have not been thinking straight this entire week, or maybe you want to pretend to have control over any aspect of life. Then you'll know for sure the story has a happy ending.
Another deep breath. You look.
Oswald and Jack are kissing, like a prince and princess at the end of a fairy tale. Ivory fingers are woven through Jack's hair and Oswald's eyes are closed and he looks like he has found some part of himself, but you know better. He is scared. He's standing straight, the sinews in his graceful hands are straining, and you can see the shadows under his eyes. Oswald is looking for reassurance, and maybe he doesn't find any, because he breaks away. Your eyes meet. It takes him all of five seconds to completely wipe away that raw thing you saw, and he is Oswald again, quiet but determined. He takes your hand.
"We are going home."
He does not look back.
This is quite the worst Christmas ever. You celebrate it with only Oz, because Jack and Oswald are talking about grown up things you don't understand and Alyss is asleep in a way that's not entirely natural. So you crawl beneath your covers and press your lips to Oz's ears, and you try to ignore the tears begging to be shed.
"You understand, right, Oz?" Such a silly question. Such a silly girl. Talking to a stuffed rabbit. He will not answer you. He is not real. You pause. What is real, anyway? And then you're sitting upright, more awake than ever. Is real the crackling that comes from all fireplaces? Is real the people you are close to? You remember the story Jack told you, the one about a rabbit that dreamt of being real. Perhaps Oz is real. No, you realize, Oz is already real to you.
You must try those words; you must taste them on your tongue. "You're real, so you understand." Such a wonderful thing, to know you are not alone. Oz is with you, and Oz is yours, only. He will keep your secrets, and though he cannot speak, he comes so very close. "I know because of the story Jack told me. If you love a toy a lot, then it becomes real. You're real to me, Oz." A smile stretches your lips from ear to ear, and you cannot keep your excitement in check.
"Want to know why?" You pepper Oz's fur with kisses. "It's 'cause I love you a lot."
/
That night, you dream of Oz. From the moment your red-rimmed eyes finally shut, you hear voices whispering to each other, just like in the story. You do not have to open your eyes to know the quiet, boyish voice is Oz's, but the smooth, low voice stumps you until you realize it is coming from the corner of your room. Ah, it is Raven again. And as you realize this, a cool weight settles onto your chest and for a moment, you can barely breathe. Until now, the conversation you heard one year prior was stored at the back of your mind, and the sudden impact of how well you remember causes you to gasp. Oz stops speaking. Is he listening to you? Some instinct tells you he is.
"She's asleep," he says at last.
"She made you real."
Is it a curse? It does not sound like one, but the inflections he places on the word real makes it twenty levels of confusing.
"You're real, too." For the first time, you hear a challenge in Oz's words. Then he is defensive, placating. "You told me, before, you can't become not real once you're real. So don't torture yourself over the past. It happened, and all the what-ifs in the world won't change that fact."
"But…won't you regret it?"
It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"I won't."
"Are you sure?" Raven probes.
"I'm sure." Then, as an afterthought, "Thank you, Gil."
/
You learn bad things happen in threes. It could be that you are exaggerating. All the fairy tales you love so much happen in threes, so maybe you subconsciously connect it to your life.
Oz tells you otherwise. By the third Christmas you can remember, he is utterly woebegone. His once gleaming coat is mottled with dried tears and grass stains, and despite your best efforts, his ears droop and his magnificent whiskers are all but gone. The only things to remain the same are his polished glass eyes. They look upon the world with the same accepting expression as before, and they tell you to wait and hope. You are with him now, as the doorbell chimes the familiar three note chord. Or would it be more accurate to say he is with you, as you watch Oswald dash to the door?
"Is it Jack?" Alyss asks, and you see all the cords in Oswald's neck tighten. You know he is thinking about what you saw one year ago in the hospital. Which is why there is no hint of his maybe-smile this year. Your stomach sinks. You are absolutely sure Jack will not be coming. I should tell Alyss. Your sister has always been attached to the blonde man. She spends the longest time with him, taking full advantage of her status as an invalid to do so. They barricade themselves in her room, and when you pass by, you hear him telling her story after story, or simply silence, the two of them as motionless as statues. I should tell Alyss, but how?
"They are my co-workers," Oswald says. You notice how he avoids the question. He moves aside to allow said co-workers in, and you catch a glimpse of pink hair and claw-like tattoos. Such an odd bunch. They look odder still standing next to your uncle; the flash of pink hair you saw belongs to a woman who looks distinctively uncomfortable in her Christmas finery and the claw-like tattoos are even more sinister when you see how they grip the cheek of the girl who looks like she is at most ten. Or perhaps they are worse on the two men. One of is stout, and though all the lights are on, the upper half of his face is cast in shadow. The other is tall, uncomfortably so. Suddenly, you feel irrationally shy.
Alyss has no such reservations. "Where's Jack?"
"He is busy," Oswald tells her.
"Busy with what?"
"Busy," Oswald says in a voice which books no argument.
Alyss argues anyway. You think it strange how you and Alyss are nearly physically identical yet it is in moments of rebelliousness that you truly resemble each other. She gnaws at her lip, a fierce scowl on her face, and you realize with a jolt she has a white-knuckled grip on the white rabbit from what seems like forever ago. It still looks new, unlike Oz, and you feel more than a little guilty. Then you think maybe it is worse, for a toy to look so new after all these years. It means they were never truly loved.
"But I have to give him something." You think Alyss instinctively knows Jack is gone. She is the sort of person who would know, so maybe she hopes her saying she wants him to be here will have some impact on the world, and that's why she refuses to budge when you tug at her hand.
"Alyss." It is a warning.
You pull at Alyss's hand as hard as you can. The unexpected movement shakes your sister's balance, and two of you topple over. All your breath is knocked out of you when your back comes into contact with the floor, and if Alyss is not sprawled over you, you'd curl into a ball and lay there. But she is, which means Oswald is there, a silent apology in his eyes. He pulls both of you upright and leads you to the couch.
"You should be more careful," he scolds. It's obvious his heart is not in it. The Oswald today bears no resemblance to the Oswald from the Christmas two years ago. He is nearly laconic, and his movements have this heart-wrenching rigidity to them. Like he is keeping himself preoccupied so he will not have to think. It looks like he remembers the presence of his co-workers, because he coughs, embarrassed. "I must attend to our guests. Alice, you will keep Alyss company, will you not?" He leaves before you can answer.
"I didn't think you'd fall," you say to your twin. "Sorry."
All the fight has drained out of Alyss. You wonder just how tired she is, and you shudder. Her chin rests on a cushion thoughtfully. There are bruises under her eyes and there are the beginnings shadows under her cheekbones and you can see blue veins through the translucent skin at her temples. You want so much to protect this frail sister. However, you don't know how. In the end, you settle for hugging her as tightly as you dare, and you try not to read too much into how she remains completely still.
"He said he'd come."
You nearly jump out of your skin. "What? Who said?"
"Jack said," Alyss answers, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. And you suppose it is. "He promised." Her voice is shaky and you think she's going to cry and this hard little knot of panic builds in you. Alyss can't cry, because you will not be able to deal with her tears. "Why isn't he here?"
"Uncle said he's busy," you recite dutifully. "'Sides, there's always next year."
You realize exactly how stupid and hurtful those words are before Alyss calls you out on it. However, it is too late to take them back, and you grit your teeth when you feel yourself being pushed away by hands that look too weak to hold anything. Because you heard Alyss's heartbeat when you were pressed against her and it scared you. At times it reminded you of a drum, like yours, but more often than not, it beat too fast and too weakly, and then it dived and resurfaced moments later. Which is why you want to tell her to stop and sit down and take a nap and stop thinking, but when has she ever listened to you?
"There won't be next year." She says it remorselessly.
"Yes there will!" And then you're standing, too, and your hands are at your hips in what you know to be a childish pose. A strange pressure is building behind your eyes, and there is a stopper in your throat. You swallow. "Who says there won't be? I'll beat them up!"
"I don't care if there's a next year. I wanted to give the rabbit to him this year and he said he'd be happy and he promised he'd be here. So why isn't he here?" Before you can stop her, she's tossed the white rabbit in her arms into the fireplace. By now, she is nearly screaming, and you know Oswald will be here soon to chastise you both. Not wanting to cause him further worry, you do your best to calm Alyss down. You think back to Jack and how he wiped away your tears, and you remember the story he told you. Oswald does not wish to see Jack right now, and you don't know why. Is it because of the kiss? You do not think so. Perhaps it has something to do with the cruel reminder Oswald gave Jack. And the words 'she is dead' play through your head over and over.
"Shh, shh," you tell her, pulling her into your arms.
Immediately, you notice how stiff she is, and how she's turned ashen. A trickle of blood runs down her chin and then her neck and under the fabric of her white dress.
/
I'm not really here, you tell yourself. The shell of your ear is pressed against the hospital walls again, and if you squeeze your eyes shut, maybe you will disappear. From far off comes the clinking of carts rolling up and down the linoleum aisles.
"I'm scared."
Are you the one who says it, or is it Alyss? Deciding it does not matter, you move closer to the bed. Alyss looks smaller than ever, and there are tubes plastered to every inch of her arms. Her eyes are wide, and she clutches at you when you reach for her. You almost forget to breathe when you feel how weak her grip is. "I heard the nurse say I'll die. Will I really die, Alice?"
Funny how you suddenly know what to do, right when it is almost too late. You scowl as fiercely as you can in order to look more confident than you feel. "You won't die. You'll get better and we'll find Jack, and you can give him all the white rabbits in the world."
"But that one was special," Alyss whispers. "It was Lacie's. She was someone important to him and Uncle. That's why I didn't want to play with it and get it dirty. I kept it on my pillow during the day and I put it on my chair when I slept." Some dam has released in her, and you hear this horrible dry-sob. When you look at her, though, there is not a trace of liquid in her too-big eyes. "Jack told me it would look over me, and I threw it in the fireplace and now it's gone. I'm scared, Alice. I can't keep my eyes open."
Your heart is thudding painfully. Is this what Alyss felt like for the past two years? "You won't die," you say again. You've a white-knuckled grip on Oz. From the moment of Alyss's collapse, you refused to let go of him. He is tattered; the stuffing is falling out from his left ear and in the scuffle of getting onto the ambulance, he lost an eye. Still, he is Oz, and you do not want to let him go. Allowing yourself one last look, you place him by Alyss. Her eyes are fixed on you, and slowly, she pulls him towards her. "Oz will protect you."
"How?"
"He's special." You are starting to believe in what you are saying, and your next words slip out effortlessly. Jack would be proud. "You can close your eyes if you want. I promise."
"Pinkie swear." If you looked in a mirror, you would notice the look of grim determination on your face is strained, and there are tears forming at the corners of your eyes.
For a moment, Alyss struggles to lift her hand. You step closer to her and place your pinkie as close to her as possible, impatiently pushing stray tubes out of the way. By the time your sister locks her pinkie around yours, she is fast asleep.
/
If bad things happen in threes, then so do dreams.
That night, you dream of your sister, all in white. She has white roses at her throat and a white dress which floats around her as she runs as she has not in years. Her sleeves are puffy with lace, and she lifts them to her mouth every so often to hide a laugh. Beside her is a dark haired woman, and when her ruby gaze lands on you, you know she can only be Lacie. Your ears strain to catch what they are saying, yet no sound reaches you. But you feel warm anyway, warmer than on the first Christmas you remember, when Oswald and Jack and Alyss felt like all the people in the world.
You feel like laughing and crying at once when a brown rabbit hops by your feet. It must be Oz, and the rest of the dream is a blur of golden lights and images. This is because it is the end you will remember forever and ever. You are sure you feel a kiss planted at the top of your forehead and two pairs of arms encircle you, and just as you are about to wake up, you hear Oz. His voice is softer than ever, and a moment of understanding passes between you and he.
"Thank you," he tells you.
And you know it is time to wake up.