Never Beautiful

Dahlia is a bad girl and must be punished; at least, that's what Mommy always says. That's why Mommy locks Dahlia in the house all day; Mommy says sunlight makes Dahlia crazy. I like the sun; it's warm when I sit in the garden, trying to draw the beautiful flowers I see—I always run out of drawing paper, as Mommy never gives me none, but sometimes when Mystic Misty's daughter sees me, she gives me more. Then I can draw my flowers again.

Mystic Misty's daughter taught me that Dahlias and Irises are flowers, and that they grow in the garden. I like to draw them together, the way Mommy will never let us be.

I only see Dahlia after dark—Mommy says it's not safe for me to be outside after sundown—that's when the spirits wander free, and because I'll never be able to control them, I'll never be safe out there at night time.

After dinner, Dahlia sits on the floor, an exercise book on her lap. Mommy's trying to teach us how to write, so we won't be completely useless when we grow up, despite the fact we won't ever be able to channel spirits the way a real Fey would. But Mommy says I mustn't use my exercise books for my drawings, as the closest shop is so far away, but I wouldn't do it anyway. The lines are ugly, and when I draw me and my sister together, we are always beautiful.

I settle beside Dahlia like I do every time, but tonight, something is different. Dahlia has a pair of scissors—where did they come from, Mommy said they were dangerous—and she shows them to me, smiling as she does so.

It's scary, sort of—Dahlia hardly ever smiles; I know my sister better than I do myself. I want to ask her where she for the scissors from, but I don't.

Mommy tells me it's better when I don't talk.

Then the scissors are open, poised on the edge of the paper. I want to stop her—Mommy will be so, so, angry if she finds out what Dahlia's doing. I even open my mouth, but it's been so long, nothing comes out. I grab her by the shoulders, anything to try and stop her, but she pushes me away.

"Iris," she says, the smile still on her face, "You know why I'm doing this, don't you?"

Silently, I shake my head.

"They're telling me to, Iris." Snip.

Sometimes Dahlia talks about people who aren't there; they're the people she plays with when she's all alone in the house all day. I don't like them—I never draw them. They're not part of us, and they don't even grow in the garden.

Dahlia continues cutting up her exercise book and I feel scared of my own sister—if I go get Mommy, she'll put a stop to this. She has to. I get to my feet, but Dahlia says my name again. "Iris. Where are you going?"

I don't answer her. I never do. After a while, it's easy to forget how to speak. But I need to help her, and Mommy is the only one who can stop her.

"Hmm," Dahlia thinks to herself, spreading the little bits of paper across the floor. When the scraps are too big, she rips them into tinier pieces. It looks like snow. "You've been drawing again, haven't you, Iris?"

"Us," I answer, my voice quiet. It's the first word I've said in a very long time, but if it will help Dahlia, I'll do anything. I unfurl the picture I drew this morning after taking it out of my pocket. Dahlia and Iris, side by side, like sisters should be. I want to show her what we should be like.

Dahlia looks at it curiously, head leaning to one side. "It's missing something." My heart sinks, and I shake my head again, furiously this time. There is nothing missing. Everything there needs to be is right there on that piece of paper—why won't she understand?

Then, before I know what's happening, Dahlia's grabbed my drawing and doing her best to wrench it out of my arms, scissors ready to strike. I cry out, not forming any words, but instead, a strangled scream. Is Mommy close enough to hear us? Please, Mommy, please, I beg to myself, Dahlia needs help.

I remember then that Mommy's supervising the meditation tonight, over at Fey Manor, and my breath hitches in my throat. It's so far away! But Dahlia needs help, and she needs it now. I'll have to run outside—I'm wearing my Magatama, which Mystic Misty infused with spiritual energy, and it should be enough. Enough to keep me safe, even if what I'm going to do is really, really risky.

I try to tell Dahlia that I'll be back, but I can't. Instead, I drop my drawing and Dahlia lets go of it too. It flutters to the floor, on top of the sea of tiny pieces of paper. I make a small prayer in my head, pleading Mystic Ami for good luck, and for my safe return.

They look at me, fear in their eyes. She won't tell your mother about us, will she? they ask.

I tell them that she won't, because Iris never tells anyone anything. That one word…was the only word she had spoken in over a year.

If Mommy makes us go away, you won't have anyone to play with.

I know that, do they think I'm stupid or something? They're the only ones who sit by me during the long, boring summer days, the ones that give me things to do, like just now with the paper. They tell me that I don't need to write; Mommy knows that we won't amount to anything anyway.

Sometimes I wonder why Iris cares, or why she tries to help me. She doesn't care about them; she thinks that they're not real. Sometimes I wish they could go away, but they won't. Ever. They've been there for so long now. It's dangerous for her to care too—more dangerous than the evil spirits Mommy warns us about. The evil spirits that Mommy believes in are only dangerous at night time.

However, they are inside the house. They are inside me. Sometimes they tell me to hurt Iris—the scissors had been so close—but I will not let that happen!

I look at the drawing on the ground. Iris had said she'd drawn us, but I only see two flowers. I only know what flowers look like because sometimes Mommy puts them inside the house.

Slowly, I pick up the piece of paper, and rip it in half. We'll never be beautiful like that, and I don't want Iris to trick herself into believing so.

I like to think that I ripped the paper alone…just me. Just Dahlia. But maybe that's just what they would like me to think.