Beatrice was always perfect. She was perfectly beautiful, perfectly smart, and perfectly perfect until the day that she died. She was still perfect, I think, lying in the casket, a perfect reflection of my own imperfect face.
We were the jealous siblings, the less-than-perfect offspring that were rarely mentioned by our own parents. That was the role we played, and we played it so well that I know I'll never see myself as anybody else.
My only living sister had confided in me after the schism began, and the firest were burnt out. She said, "It's our fault, isn't it? She wouldn't have died if it weren't for us."
She knew it wasn't true, even ask she said it. There was nothing we could have done that night, but the guilt still bubbled and overflowed, like a neglected pot, out of our bitter jealousy.
Then he came, and he told us he'd make it better, told us it was all a past that we could just run away from if we wanted. At the time, there was nothing we wanted more than to wash the taste from our mouths.
The mirrors were the problem at first, when I looked into them all I saw was Beatrice, she was in my eyes, she was in my heart asking why we never wanted her to be happy.
Mirrors were easily avoided. It was harder to avoid each other; all I saw in my twin's face was Beatrice telling me this isn't what she would have wanted us to be.
When we started the white powder we just wanted to hide, get away from a past we'd never truly escape. We would have rather been The Women With White Powder On Their Faces than The Women Who Were Too Bitter To Let Go.
If we did, if we let go, we'd do it together. Not as the White Faced Women, but as Flo and Tocuna, forfeiting the race we'd started trying to get away.
Hopefully we aren't too late, and the past won't crush us when it catches up.