Lions
By Allie
The music blared about me, and all I could think about was a lion.
"It wasn't real, all those childish games," I remember telling my sister. "You need to grow up."
I crumpled the piece of paper into my pocket, for once not caring how I looked, and stumbled into the loo.
I splashed cold water on my face and gazed at haunted eyes in my white face in the mirror. My long black hair stood out harshly against it, my modish dress, and the necklace that plunged my neckline. I put my hand to it, fingered it. A gift from my parents last birthday. Now they were gone, too.
All at once; all together, a train accident. How could that happen? Life was so unfair! For once, I didn't look beautiful, and didn't even care. For a moment, I hated my reflection. If I hadn't had a party to go to, I'd have been on the same train. Instead, I'd waited to take a later train. And now I was the only one left. I sank to my knees, head in my hands, sobbing.
The others found me like that.
#
Rested, staring up at the ceiling, I could still hear the faint thump-thump of the music below, the record player, dancing and laughter, the kind of party I usually loved so much. They had turned down the song, probably because of me, but I could still make out the tune, could have sung the words, probably would have, if Julia had given me two of her tranquilizers instead of one.
My eyes hurt from tears, tiredness. I wondered if life could ever be worth living again. All I could remember were my sister's and brothers' faces, when I'd said something I now regretted.
I felt 91 instead of 21. My big, strong brother. My younger brother, nearly as tall. And my little sister. She was always a little dumpy. I'd tried to help her grow up, but she was more interested in her stories and games than dressing nice or making an effort with music. The one time I tried to bring her along to a party she was a dreadful bore. Afterwards she told Mother and Father about some things I didn't want them to know, and I hardly spoke to her for months.
That was when I told her he wasn't a real lion, it had all been pretend. The look on her face when I said it—I don't think slapping her could have hurt her worse. Worst of all, I think I knew that at the time, and felt glad.
I missed my whole family, but my little sister the worst. All I could think of was how I could never be able to share secrets with her, discuss first kisses, help her dress for her prom.
How awful they had to die. Unfair!
If her Lion had been real, he could have stopped it. Now only I am left of the family to carry on, the prettiest, but by no means the best. Mum and Dad, my brothers, and Lu—all gone.
We were close once, all four of us children, back when we used to live in those stories. My dumpy little sister always managed to come out the heroine, it seemed. Everyone loved her best. I always felt Peter did anyway, and Mum and Dad. Loved her insides best, I mean. No one would have called her prettier than me. She never could seem to live in the real world.
Littlest Lucy, my lost sister.
I rolled over, tears sliding from my eyes. A picture of a lion on the wall startled me. But it wasn't like the Lion, of long ago. Our Lion. I remembered how Lu and I pretended to watch him on the stone table. Some of those stories were so horrible I felt nearly as bad then as I did now, as though the Lion's death ended everything.
He was really dead now, with no Lucy to keep him alive in her stories and games, and no Peter and Edmund to play along. Sometimes I see something that reminds me of the stories, the intense, childhood realness we all shared so long ago.
I wish I hadn't said those things to my sister. Maybe she needed that world more than I did. Needed to cling to childhood things longer—the talking animals, the pretty make-believe stories, the kings and queens we all were. The Lion.
We rode on his back once, in a beautiful 'reverie' like party. It was the best party of our childhood, though it was pretend.
A knock at the door. Henry struck his head round.
"Are you all right, Susan? I can walk you home." He looked embarrassed, red-cheeked with the knowledge of my loss, but I appreciate that he wasn't pretending I wasn't here, staying down below and laughing and drinking only a little more quietly.
I nodded, sitting up. He came in and took my hand, helped me the rest of the way up, then found my jacket and put it over my shoulders. I was still a bit unsteady from the tranquilizers and the one or two drinks I'd had earlier.
Little Lucy.
Strong Peter.
Honourable Edmund.
Dear Mum and Dad.
My eyes filled with tears again as their faces flashed before my eyes. Why did they have to go, and leave me behind?
And past their eyes, the lion picture, snarling, crouching down, stalking zebras from scrub brush. I turned away. They couldn't even draw the lion right.
We walked the silent, cold street, our breath making fog in the air, my arm through his to steady me. "Thank you for doing this, Henry." I had collected myself somewhat.
"Oh, that's all right. I'm sorry about—everything." His face suffused with pink, whether from the cold or embarrassment I couldn't be sure. He looked away, towards the street, and I studied that face for a moment. He wasn't as handsome as the fellows I usually went with. Didn't even really belong with this crowd.
You could see he was an odd duck by the way he stood uncomfortably in the corner, a glass in his hand but rarely sipping. I might have laughed at him another time. But he was here, and others weren't, even the boys who acted like they liked me a lot.
He had an honest slab of a face. I thought again of Lucy. He was the kind of boy she might have liked. Had she lived.
We stopped to catch our breath on the corner, breathing out and watching our breaths fog the air.
"It's a cold night," said Henry. "You can almost see the stars."
I stared up, squinting past the street lights. Faint white dots in the blue-gray sky, and my eyes filled again with tears. I leaned on his arms.
And we walked on. A circus poster blew across the path. The lion on it had a cartoony orange mane, like a drawing of the sun. Teeth like white spikes. It wasn't right, either. I averted my eyes.
Then I spotted a water fountain up ahead, barely trickling in the cold.
"Let's stop," I said.
"Sure, sit down a minute." Embarrassedly, he took off and folded his jacket, laid it down on the cold store for me to sit upon.
"No, you don't have to," I protested.
"I don't mind the cold," he was saying, when I looked up.
I saw it over his head: the lion above me, one-fourth of the display.
It was a regal thing, a concrete lion pointing outward like an arrow on a compass, chin raised, mane full, staring towards the sky. Water trickled from the spout between its giant, clawed paws, so lifelike.
But this lion was right.
"Aslan," I said aloud, speaking that name in the cold air of reality and England, as my eyes filled with tears.
Lucy should've seen. Because it was Him. It was the Lion.