Someone had to keep things in order and who else would do it, if not her? She quietly, almost eagerly, took up the task, never straying; it was so much more sensible to stay in the familiar atmosphere—even now, Mycenae was still home—and maintain her old position, keep things organized, never mind the vanished brother, the murderous mother, the sister the servants whispered was insane. Safer to do their bidding in the dysfunctional household, living by the present circumstances and the present only, never remembering Electra, long ago, crying tears of gold and topaz before she took to shutting herself in her room for weeks at a time, gold and topaz gone forever. Then Chrysothemis, running into the room, all light and ochre, bronze-tinged chestnut hair flying behind her golden face like petals streaming out around the center of a flower. That had always been one of their mother's pet names for her… little flower.
The little flower took the easy way out—Electra thought bitterly, twisting a filthy strand of hair, staring at the doorway, the broken and spilled bowl of wash water Chrysothemis had dropped in her flight from the room after Electra had shouted her away. Still dutiful and demure, seeing to it that Electra was fed, that the house was clean, that Clytemnestra's every order was obeyed, that the blood was wiped from everybody's hands. Orestes will come back someday, someday soon, Electra hissed, he'll avenge father, since we can't, he'll give mother what she deserves, you'll see little flower, he'll do what we should have done long ago and you'll love it.
Chrysothemis never asked why Electra had never avenged Agamemnon herself; she knew the answer all too well. In spite of the rift that had grown between them since that fateful day so many years ago (when Electra had screamed for vengeance and Chrysothemis had cried for peace), they still shared an inexplicable bond. For Electra to carry out an action her sister had not condoned was nothing short of unthinkable. Since the disagreement had been established, she had done everything but act, out of the mutually inherent respect they shared, and instead devoted her days to awaiting Orestes' return, leaving herself in Chrysothemis' care, though none too graciously: Orestes will come someday, someday, someday very soon, little flower, and your world, this sick, bent world you've managed to accustom yourself to, will come crashing down, and you'll wish so much you hadn't let yourself live in it—you'll be lost, confused, and if you'd only agreed to help me before we could have effaced all possibilities of that.
Chrysothemis carried out her duties as well as she could, doing her best to ignore the bitter words that burned her ears. Here is your breakfast, sister (never call her by name, another mutual sentiment), I'll be back for the dishes once you've finished with it. Sometimes Electra accepted the gestures without comment, sometimes she shrieked her sister from the room. Electra screamed, occasionally, her voice scratchy and cracked from disuse, but the worst days of all were when she spoke of Orestes, arriving in the blaze of glory, valor, and destruction that would be the undoing of all Chrysothemis' hopes (did she have hopes anymore?) and the fulfilling of her own.
He's our little brother, Chrysothemis had dared to whisper once, unable to ignore her anymore. Electra had grinned, gnashing teeth discolored from abandon. And Clytemnestra is our mother, Agamemnon was our father, Iphigenia was our sister—maybe she still is, do you ever wonder about that no of course you don't, you don't concern yourself with those things—and you are my sister, the only one left, does it matter how we're related? Look at us; we're hardly familial; why should Orestes be any different? He'll come here, as much of a monster as the rest of us, and he will make mother pay, whether he's her son or not. Gods above, I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait! She laughed, spun in a wild circle-dance, knocking the plate from Chrysothemis' hands. She stopped spinning suddenly, saw her sister kneeling, picking up the pieces, nothing new there, and she smiled, sharp as an axe, tight as a net. I can tell you're frightened, even though you pretend not to be, you're afraid of the future because you know every word I've said is true. You're scared to the marrow, and do you know what? You should be.