The day you died I went into the dirt.
It burns beneath my skin.
It's a pulse, an itch, a poison. Sometimes it's so strong that I can barely bear to wake up and face the day, move my limbs, go through the motions. Because from morning til night, from the moment my eyes open until at last they close, it is there. It even seeps into my dreams. One night, when I was much younger - still a child - I saw it all so vividly that I woke and walked the palace corridors in the pitch dark before creeping into my mother's room to check that she was still breathing, that her sheets and her fair hair weren't drenched in blood. And then I went back to my room and wept until sunrise, and I still don't know whether it was out of relief or out of sadness that my dream was false. Sometimes, I think I'm mad.
Because all I want is to murder my own mother.
The day your slack sail drew my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
I was only a child when my father took my sister to die, but it feels as if it was yesterday, or perhaps even more recently, like this morning or in the last hour. It's certainly hard to forget about it, anyway, because ever since my whole life has revolved around the events it caused. And in any case, I was never particularly sure why being a child was supposed to mean I didn't understand, because I did then, and I do now. What human can hear that scream from their mother and not know what it means? It doesn't matter what age you are, because the chills on the back of your neck and the tingles in your arms and legs and the fear gripping your heart are universal. I don't really remember much the instant moment after I heard my mother crying, but I think I stumbled, I think I sobbed. And then everything is bright and crystal clear in my memory – I took seven steps up into the palace from the courtyard, my brother Orestes and my sister Chrysothemis trailing behind. I ran my index, middle and fourth finger along the wall as they clutched at me, ever the elder sister, ever the voice of reason, despite the fact I thought perhaps my whole life had been turned on its head. We found Mother in her chambers eventually, a messenger standing awkwardly by the door with a rolled up scroll in his hand, looking very much as if he wanted to leave. Mother, meanwhile, was paying no heed to anyone – she was on the floor, screaming and sobbing on her knees, and I knew then that my childhood was over. Our nurse dragged us from the room eventually, because Mother wouldn't talk to us and in any case it was 'no place for a child to be'. I wanted to insist that I wasn't a child anymore, that my whole happy childhood had just gone up in smoke and that I'd suddenly grown up to be an adult and I wasn't sure whether anything would ever be alright again. I asked where Iphigenia was instead, and had my suspicions confirmed when I received no answer. And then all I did was cry.
Because we had been happy, I was sure of it. I adored my father – I still adore my father – and I couldn't reconcile what he had done with my image of him before. Why would the man who had bounced me on his knee or tossed me high slaughter my sister? Why would the father whom I could always turn to, the father who doted on his children, the father who I'd always had faith in – why would he suddenly become a stranger? I decided then and there that he must have had a reason, even if I would never find out what it was, because he had gone to war. I found it proof enough, back then, that he was still the brave and valiant man I had always adored, fighting for what was right – well, fighting over a woman as I know now, which seems a perfectly valid reason for wars to most of the men I know. As a woman myself, I find it ridiculous, but back then I was a scared little girl who worshipped her father and mother, and here I was suddenly parentless, it seemed. Chrysothemis, the young one, the naïve princess that she was, simply sat quietly in the corner with her doll, occasionally crying but then leaving off to look dazed and confused by everything. But Orestes... He turned to me then and touched his fingers to my cheeks, wiping away tears. I looked into his eyes – almost identical to mine, almond-shaped and dark, and I felt calm. I may have been parentless, but I was not alone.
We spoke at the exact same time.
"It's just you and me now."
We were left alone for the rest of the night, trying half-heartedly to play and huddling together when we failed. Chrysothemis was put to bed early, as she was youngest, and her little face, her big eyes, had a pale, drawn look to them. Orestes and I were next, although Orestes was taken to his chamber. I lay in my own bed, feeling empty and confused and more than anything lonely, wishing Father was here to tell me a story or Orestes still awake to play with me. Or even Iphigenia, to make me laugh making shadow puppets on the walls. But she was dead. I was too young then to understand properly my sadness, I was too young to know why it hurt so much to think my lovely oldest sister was never coming back. All I felt was a void, created by losing two members of my family in one day, and from that void crawled darkness.
Iphigenia was there, and although I knew that death meant a never-waking sleep, she was awake - dead, certainly, her throat slit and dripping crimson like a slaughtered lamb. But she'd been smiling, and she'd laughed and laughed as I chased the trail of blood she left at her feet through the palace. I caught her in the throne room, and she had hold of the tops of Mother and Father's thrones, swinging back and forth between them, back and forth.
"If Father was Queen and Mother was King," she sang, almost musical. "Then second would be first."
"I don't understand," I begged of her, oddly fascinated by the wound at her throat. I could have bound it with silk, hidden it away, but I'd have known the ugliness was still there underneath. "Iphigenia, what are you trying to tell me? You're talking in riddles!"
"Riddles are reason if you just think hard enough." She stopped swinging and flung herself forward, stopping straight in front of me. "Think, I know you're clever, Electra."
She'd begun pacing, then, moving around me in a circle, singing her song under her breath. I wanted to grab her and shake her and make her stop, but it felt wrong - she was older than me, first born, and I would have had no power over her movements.
She'd been first born. And I had been second. I felt like this had meaning somehow but I couldn't quite latch onto it, I couldn't catch the meaning behind the layers of confusion.
"Wait -" I cried, as she began to back away from me, falling into shadow.
"Too late, too late," she whispered sorrowfully. But then she paused - there was somebody behind me, I could sense it. I spun, and there was Mother, her face cold and dark. She took me by the shoulder and tried to drag me away, but then Father appeared, proud and strong in his armour, and pulled me back. I curled into his chest, safe and sure, but as I put my arms around him he crumpled to dust. Red, soft, unusually dark, it coated my hands and arms and I screamed and screamed and screamed as Mother laughed and told me it served me right -
"Electra!"
I opened my eyes and there was somebody standing over me. I continued to scream, flailing my arms and legs, but suddenly my hands were caught.
"ELECTRA!" He roared. My brother. I stopped short, gasping for breath, staring at him. He was younger than me, I was old enough to know not to scare him, and here he was being my comfort. I'd grow to depend on that in later years, but I had no way of knowing that as he climbed in beside me and wrapped stick-like arms around my shoulders. He patted my head awkwardly, the double-curse of boyhood and childhood giving him very little understanding of how to stop tears.
"Don't worry now," he said simply, eventually. "It's just me."
"Just you and me," I breathed, repeating his words from earlier as sleep and uncertainty rose to claim me again. "Just you and me now."
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
And it really, truly was, after that. My life, my siblings' lives, changed in the blink of an eye. Gone were the happy, warm days of chasing each other in the courtyard and exploring from sun up until exhausted we trailed home. Now we were in mourning, we were expected to be mature and quiet, to sit in relative peace until such a time as our mother saw fit to permit us to move, or otherwise to follow her rules and pretend to be happy about it. Still, time moved onward, as is its way. I still had my nightmares, but I grew so used to them that they no longer scared me, and I no longer needed another body to hold me and stop my shaking - I knew now to lock the thoughts away, push them back into the void inside me, and only mentioned them if it was Orestes who asked; However, some details - like the knife plunged by our joined hands into our Mother's heart - I withheld from him. My siblings and I grew older and wiser, and learned when not to cross our Mother and when she'd be able to tolerate our presence. Most days, Chrysothemis was the favourite, mainly because she was clever enough to completely ally herself with our mother's new rule and keep her mouth shut on any traitorous thoughts. Orestes and myself, meanwhile, were always the cast-offs, mainly because I was too headstrong and he too stubborn for us to really be able to disguise the fact that we couldn't wait for our father to return, because then he'd show them all. I couldn't tell you the amount of times I received a slap across the face or a tug of my hair for my supposed insolence, but by then I was old enough to take it. I always had my brother, anyway, even if when it came to my remaining sister my complaints fell on deaf ears. We tried not to be too conspicuous, lest it be said we were plotting – chance would be a fine thing, when even the walls had ears - but every spare moment we had was spent with the other. Orestes was practically the only comfort that I had left and I clung to him with a strength I almost couldn't believe I had, especially after Aegisthus arrived. Next to that traitor, even my mother was practically a divine being, but that was no real compliment. He made me so angry that I found it even harder to conceal my venom, and of course that meant that I was punished more severely. I might have lost almost all hope, be on the brink of running away to sea, but I was happy if I could crawl to Orestes' chambers at the end of the day and lay my head on his knee. He could always make me laugh, cheer me up and remind me that all wasn't lost, and that was always what I needed most. One night, I sat nursing no wounds, but rather hurt feelings. Mother had been on one of her usual tirades about father and his evils, about how he'd ruined us and been the ruin of Argos - our city - about how he was almost the spawn of Hades and how I was a pathetic fool to trust him, and I'd burst into tears and fled. Usually I was strong enough to take what she threw at me, but other than Orestes, the thought of my father returning and rescuing me from my misery was the one bright spot of hope on my horizon. Orestes was nowhere to be found, so I climbed into his bed and wept myself into oblivion – after all, it wasn't often I got to drop my defences so completely. I was found eventually, of course, but luckily by the right person. My brother took me by both hands and pulled me upwards until I stood – older now than the child he had been when father left, he was much taller and stronger than me, though we were both wiry and lissom. His care was almost enough to make me wail, because it showed me I was still loved by at least one person.
"Come on now, hush that crying," he said, sitting me back on top of his blankets and hunkering down next to me, one hand stroking my hair away from my face. "Mother again?"
"Isn't it always?" I sniffed, wiping harshly at my cheeks. "Sometimes I wish father had killed me instead of Iphigenia. I'm sure everyone would be much happier that way, and Mother wouldn't be so mad. And then I wouldn't be so miserable, because I'd just be dead."
"I wouldn't be happier," Orestes said fiercely, crushing a kiss onto the top of my head. "You know I wouldn't. You're the only person who makes sense in this mad-house. You mean the world to me, you know that. And Father, too, I remember the way he smiled and held you, played with you - you were his favourite, his best."
"You're never usually so gushing," I laughed a little, although I still felt like death. I don't think I really understood the subtext of what Orestes was trying to tell me, and I should have – my brother had never been one for over-emotional displays of affection, which meant I should have seen something was wrong, but I was blind in my need for care and attention. "It's not my birthday."
"No," Orestes said, chewing the inside of his cheek. It was his nervous tic, and I knew it almost better than my own. "Sorry. I suppose I just don't tell you enough."
"But it's the only truth I know," I argued. "I love you too, Orestes, and I might not always say it, but always know I feel it. Remember what you told me when father left?"
"It's just you and me," he said distantly, eyes fixed on a point on the wall.
"And it will always be that way, won't it?" I asked. I didn't think I could bear it if he told me no. But he smiled, although it didn't quite reach his eyes, and held me in his arms.
"Always and forever, Electra."
As much as I loved him, I knew my brother could be a liar.
Two weeks later he was gone.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea
I barely even knew he was going until the last – Chrysothemis had known all along, what with her place so close to my mother's throne, and hadn't thought fit to tell me until I lost my temper and hurled almost every object in my reach at her head, alarmed at the absence of my brother from each and every one of our favourite palace hiding places. Eventually, under the onslaught, she had held up her hands and informed me that my beloved brother was being taken away, sent to Phocis without me, where I could neither get nor give comfort. I screamed at my sister then and pushed her out of the way of the door, picking up my skirts and running. I have never, to this day, pushed myself so hard and so far; I had been in the back of the palace, in my brother's chamber, and he was most likely being taken from the front, towards the city. I had no time, I had to find him, I had to stop this or at the very least say goodbye until we could meet again, I could not let this be the end of all I had -
I stumbled out into the bright summer light, eyes screwing up. There was a large crowd congregated by the front gates of our court, and I ran again.
"Orestes? Orestes?" I screamed, not caring that my mother and Aegisthus were standing by the crowd, looking furious at my intervention. His head snapped around and he ran for me, and suddenly I was surrounded by two strong arms, much as I had been on the day my father went to war. I buried my face in my brother's chest and clutched at his shoulders, unwilling to look at whatever resigned expression he would give me.
"You cannot leave me. You just – please -"
"Electra," he said quietly, pulling me away. "It's too late, mother's had her say, I have to-"
"NO!" I shrieked, and almost surprised myself with the intensity of the shout. "Please, Orestes, please, I can't stay here on my own, I won't, I can't function without you -"
"You can, you can," He repeated over and over, fingers wiping away tears as they had done almost my entire life. "You can. You are brave, you are so so brave, you can do this. You can show them. Please don't give up. Do it for me. Please. I love you."
"I – no, this isn't what I want, I'm none of those things, I'm not strong without – I love you, please, please -"
But he turned and straightened his shoulders, stalked away from me like the prince he was. He'd never done that before, never showed such stiffness or regality, and it shocked me enough that I stood back. Mother saw him off, and Aegisthus and the others, and then he was gone – my light, my security, my safety. The void inside of me creaked, ripped, forced its way further throughout my insides as I stood. I knew my nightmares would take a different shape that night.
I had never felt so utterly alone in my life.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower breaks the soil.
I was never the same, after that. I lived a life of finery and royalty and all of the misery that came with it, hating every second I spent in the world I'd been born to, feeling poisoned and suffocated by my so called family's very presence. It didn't help that as we aged, my sister and I, our physical appearances only served to highlight our mental differences – she looked almost my mother's image, with her fair curls and fine nose and mouth, and eyes which could convey emotion with a single glance. She would have her pick of all the suitors my mother chose, I was certain. I, however, grew more and more like my father with every passing day, dark and boyish in figure, with a full mouth and dark eyes, and wild, curly hair that fell to my middle back. You can only imagine how that pleased my mother, but in secret, I was rather proud. I would rather say I was Agamemnon's daughter than anything to do with any of the females I was lucky enough to be related to, and I had to force myself to think daughter of Clytemnaestra or sister of Chrysothemis or, although the thought occurred less often, niece of Helen. I only spent time with anybody when I really had to, and it was easy enough to avoid them in the gigantic palace, even with my mother's strict rules. I whiled away my time sewing or walking, or I spent my time in the room which had previously belonged to my brother. Most of his belongings were still here, his old toys from our cut-short childhood, some clothes and other trinkets. A wooden carved soldier, for example. I pocketed it one day, Zeus only knew what possessed me, and hid it under my own pillow. But soon I realised I could take it out before I slept and stare at it, imagine it was Orestes in the future, trained up and returning for me, to save me from my sadness. Or my father, on some distant shore, fighting for his country and kingship. I still missed him with some strange part of me that I could barely understand; I longed for my father's arms and his laugh, his bedtime stories and regal charms. Thinking of my father and his absence always made me feel oddly child-like and dependent, which I suppose was no surprise. I had grown up predominantly without him, but the happiest days of my life had been in my early days, before I was old enough to understand the complexity of reign and duty and family obligations. Back then, he had simply been my father, my first hero, and I needed him more than ever now. The fact that he had been gone for so long, and now my one ally and sole friend in the world had been taken from me, was almost enough to drive me to madness, let the void inside of me consume me whole. But somehow I gathered myself together – I pushed down my feelings, and like a disease they festered. I began spending hours searching my reflection, hoping against hope that I would never find my mother there, the woman who had been the ruin of my happiness. And, if I did – which happened more often than I like, given that I am her unfortunate progeny – then it sent me into a boiling rage. The discovery of my mother in the corners of my mouth or the tilt of my head, the twist of my smile, made me feel violently sick. One day I pulled down all the hangings from my bed and ripped them to pieces, and even afterwards couldn't be sorry. I refused to believe that I could be like her, that I had any fibre of being that was related to somebody I'd been reduced to calling a scheming harlot behind her back. She knew, of course, that I hated, and still hate, her in my very core - but I don't think it caused her any great grief. She had Argos held tightly in her grasp and seemed to smirk as her city shrivelled, she had a sham-marriage with her true husband's cousin, she had a daughter she could mould into a devoted, snivelling servant. I was a black sheep, an outcast, and I would not have had it any other way, because the alternative was abhorrent to me. All I could wish for was the return of my brother and father, the only people I truly believed could rescue me. I would never marry high, of that I was sure, and so I would have to learn to be clever and quick and independent until such a day as I could be helped. Sometimes it felt like that day would never come, and hope seemed like a bird perched on a branch, easily shaken and sent into the distance, never to return.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
My father did come home, eventually. Nine long years had passed, I was a young woman now, miserably unhappy, thinner than I should be and with a rather older-looking face than I would have liked. Chrysothemis was beautiful, of course, taking after Helen and our mother, and already had suitors lining the walls. To give her credit where it is due, she never seemed particularly vein or conceited, more concerned with earning our mother's approval than anything. I understand now that it was most likely fear that motivated her, fear of ostracision, hatred akin to what I received, and I can't blame her, because it was certainly no picnic. Still, I don't truly understand her – even after all these years, I still believe my course was right. She should not be blamed for hers, in the end. But on with the story; My father never did get to see us again, see the difference in his remaining children. The day he returned my sister and I had been sent from Mycenae on our mother's orders. I hadn't wanted to, I'd dug my heels in because I could feel it everywhere, all around me, that something would happen that day. Aegisthus had all but dragged me to the chariot prepared for us, however, and had ignored my spitting and clawing and cursing. I had to give up, eventually, and we set off, though I was in truth elsewhere. Chrysothemis, however, suddenly seemed very willing to be my friend, and I was so distracted that I let her when we stopped in the country and began to walk.
"In this light, you know, you're a beauty," she was saying as we moved along together, followed by a guard. "If you would simply make more of an effort to, you know, be a part of things, dress accordingly and make the most of your features – they're so unusual, your cheekbones could cut parchment."
I snorted and rolled my eyes at her, uncomfortable with her unusual adoration.
"Oh, hush, we all know you're the real beauty," I said, though without malice. I never hated Chrysothemis, not really, and I doubt I ever will, ever could. She was, and is, just a creature entirely foreign to me, though her complacency and occasional turns of kindness were just enough back then to remind me of the Chrys, the baby sister, I'd known long ago. "Anyway, there would be no point, it would simply earn me anger from mother and nothing less than derision from the courtiers, and I'm far beyond any hope of a good match."
"Nonsense!" Chrysothemis protested weakly. "Mother could-"
"Mother will not," I bit out furiously. "I want her to have nothing to do with me. I'd take marriage to a peasant before staying here dependent on her whims and fancies any day. You know she hates me as well as I do, Chrysothemis, nothing can cover it up and nothing ever will."
"She just doesn't know you, Electra, you're a -"
"A pariah, a subordinate, a traitor." I interrupted. "I'll hear no more on the subject, Chrys, that'll be that. Find something else to talk of or I'll go."
She did, after a lengthy silence, and even then it wasn't a welcome topic change.
"Do you miss Orestes, Electra? You look so wistful, so sad, sometimes. Is it our brother you're pining for?"
I snapped my head up so fast to look at her that my neck actually cracked. Narrowing my brown eyes, I felt my fingers begin to tremble. Orestes, much like Father, was a subject nobody ever dared to broach but Mother, and that was only when she wanted to hurt my fragile sense of family and self, already beginning to flail in its death throes. "Don't ever dare to presume you know how I feel about Orestes," I spat. "He's my brother, not yours. You barely looked at us. You barely saw us. Too wrapped up in your own little make-believe, happy world, where you got everything you wanted, you were mother's prize-"
"I am not her prize-"
"No, you're not," I said cruelly, unable to stop myself. "Because we all knew that was Iphigenia, and you were just the best she could get, you look enough like her and you act like she would have, you've been trained to fill her place as Mother's best girl and you didn't even know it. Don't you see, Chrysothemis, you're going to end up just like Mother, or even if you don't you'll end up just living in her shadow and having to be what she expects, and you know why? Because you're too idiotic to realise just how poisonous and evil she really is, she's just trained you up like a little pet."
I regret hurting her now, of course, because even as I caught myself I saw the shutters come down, the mask steal over her features that I often saw her wear in court. I'd hit her where it really hurt – her devotion to Mother, which often paralleled mine for Father in its passion. She drew herself up to her full height, which was a head shorter than me, and straightened her back.
"Mother is right about you, you know," she said, tone icier than mine had been. "You're a canker, a blemish. She says you should be thrown to the dogs for your trouble to spite her. I stuck up for you, said you were just misunderstood and misguided, stubborn and damaged. Damaged you may be, but I want nothing more to do with you. You are the poison here, Electra. You are the problem. Either fix it, before it's too late, or face whatever the Gods give you for your ways. But I will not stand by and help you."
She looked away, and that was that. She refused to talk to me for the rest of our day together, and I was too full of my own pride to talk to her, but I was surprised when tears burned at the corners of my eyes. I wiped at them harshly, hating my weakness, and dreamed of what would happen when I returned and saw what all the fuss had been for. I hoped it was Father with everything I had, and after so long it was the only pleasant resolution I could believe in. We returned, and there was no sign. I was crushed, but refused to give in, and set about searching where I could. The servants were curiously absent, and the palace felt like a tomb. Eventually I stopped to rest by the olive garden, arms curled around my knees as I shivered and ached with need for a father I missed in every part of me.
An hour later, however, when I heard the calls of treason and murder and, worst of all, the King is dead, I resolved the perfect way to do what Chrysothemis had said, and fix things as I saw fit. I wanted the dreams I'd been having for my entire life to come true.
Her wide bed bore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything when I wormed back under my mother's heart.
I spent that night screaming, overcome by grief. I clawed at pillows and screeched and sobbed, so much that I made myself violently sick. Nobody came to attend me, and I hadn't expected them to. I was grateful for the absence of any other life, more than willing for solitude. My world was crushed, my hope shattered into a million pieces. Orestes was still gone, and I hated him for it, cursed him even as doing so broke my heart further. I was truly beyond comfort, beyond help, and I believed I was to be left to rot, unable to contact my brother and inform him of what had happened and just how badly I needed him. I doubt he found out about Father's murder from Mother, because there wasn't even a funeral. My father, the great king whom I had so adored, was given a rushed, pathetic excuse for a royal burial. I held a vigil in Orestes' room the day it happened, dressed in mourning clothes, saying silent prayers for my father in the hope that he would receive a hero's welcome in his passing onwards. He had better, I thought petulantly, although complaining to the gods had never gotten me far before. At some point in the night, Chrysothemis looked in on me and offered me a jug of water, saying nothing before making her way. I wish I had been brave enough to thank her, but I simply stayed silent and looked away. I was broken now, our connection – what had been left – was perished, and she saw me no longer as a sister but as simply somebody to be pitied in her stupidity and anger. Mother, however, was even more avoidant of me than usual, and that made me uneasy. I didn't have to deal with her, though, and that was a relief – until she and Chrysothemis became ill, caught a fever. Chrysothemis dealt with it alright, but Mother was delirious, so much so that I had a serving girl knock upon my door in the middle of the night and inform me that I was being demanded in my Mother's bed chamber. I went, albeit reluctantly, and only out of the knowledge that I'd be punished if I didn't. She was raised high on pillows, red and shiny-faced, and she still managed to look impossibly beautiful even as she smiled dreamily at me. We were left alone, and she called out to me.
"Come here, I need you to nurse me."
Confusedly, I moved forward, picking up the damp cloth at her bedside and dampening it before sweeping it ineffectually across her forehead and straightening back up.
"Better. You're an awful nurse," she informed me. I'd barely started, but stayed silent rather than defend myself, even though I knew I'd tended to enough of Orestes' small injuries and illnesses in our time together that I could be considered more than competent. "Like me, whenever Helen was ill and needed me, I was useless. Sit down, stupid girl, don't just stand there like a fool." She admonished, and I sat myself precariously by her side. "There. I wanted to talk to you."
"About what, Mother?" I finally broke my silence to speak. My voice cracked; I wasn't used to civility from the woman before me. She smiled again.
"You, of course. How like me you're becomining. I see it in you all the time, when you bother to grace me with your presence. Not that I much miss it. Still, it's there, you know."
"What is?" I asked, mystified.
"The part of you, the streak of you, that's all me. And to start, you can wipe that horrified expression from your face. I don't love you much, which is a sin for a mother to admit I suppose. You don't make it easy, little witch. But you are still my daughter. You can run away from it all you like, you can spit and cry and refuse your sister and deny Aegisthus and pretend you're above us all, but underneath it all, I know."
"No-" I began, choked, but she was by no means done.
"Oh, I know. I see it in you. Chrysothemis never had it, and Iphigenia would never have developed it. She was a perfect little thing, you see. And Chrysothemis has never been anything of power, she's too weak of will and too simple, too easily swayed. But you... you've got me in you. You've got that fire, that power. You've got that streak of nastiness. I can see it in your every move, your eyes. You think horrible things, you wish you were powerful enough to do what you wanted to. You burn and you yearn and you need to do something, and you hate so strongly that it eats you up. You're scared to sleep and scared to wake, and sometimes you wish those worlds would cross over..."
I turned my face away, hot tears stinging my cheeks. I felt like she was ripping my soul from my very body the more she talked.
"Look at me, Electra. You can hate me forever, and I won't mind. Do you know why? Because in the end, it's all the same. You hate me because of what I've done, but there's more to it than that. You see yourself in me and it terrifies you to think that you could ever be like me. Face it sometime, darling." She said carelessly, and one wouldn't have thought she was sick at all. "We're the same, you and I."
"Never! I am not like you, I never will be like you, you're a hateful, wicked, evil woman and I hate you! I wish you were dead!" I screamed, and then I ran. Somehow I ended up in Orestes' room again, without even knowing how I'd gotten there. Half out of my mind, sobbing and shaking and horrified, I divested myself of my clothing without thinking and climbed into his clothes that were left behind. I thought how like him I looked, how if I cut off my hair it would be easy almost to be him, and my heart was filled with spite – he could go off and have fun in Phocis, he wasn't faced with all the horror here, he didn't have to worry any more. I left then, drifting without purpose as my mind whirled. Even furious, I needed my brother here. I always did, I needed his comfort and assurance. I made my way into the armoury and found my father's things still there, surprisingly, kept in a closet. I picked up his sword, heavy in my arms, and gave it an experimental swing. It floored me, and I got up, embarrassed. I traced my fingers around the shield, cleverly deigning not to lift it, before raising my eyes to the helmet at the very top of the cabinet, hanging between two hooks. It was a perfect fit when I tried it on, the sides just brushing my cheekbones and the visor resting perfectly on my brow. I choked out a sob, cut deep by this similarity, this likeness to a man I would never see again. That sob grew into many as I faltered under the weight of all that I'd lost, all that I could never have, and collapsed to the floor, dressed in my brother's clothes and my father's helmet.
Without them, I was nothing.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
Nothing, as it seemed, was what I was destined to be for the rest of my days. Mother and Chrysothemis recovered, thankfully without requiring any more of my dubious assistance. I was ignored even more than usual, and the void inside of me often roared, the sound like wind across an empty plain. Argos continued to struggle under my mother's rule, but that didn't seem to be her primary concern any more. No, she seemed pre-occupied, and I found out why the day she called me into the great hall and I found some small amount of my belongings packed by the door. I had been in the olive garden, attempting to gain some shade from the sweltering heat – I'd been tired from waking in the night afraid that I had finally done something, and had been astonished to find my hands clean of blood - but when I was called in, I felt like ice. Standing by my things was a man I didn't recognize – stocky, obviously a labourer, with dirty hands folded behind his back. He was handsome, I supposed, in a rather rough, uncultivated way. But it wasn't as if I was the most finely crafted beauty I'd ever seen, and I had never been in the business of judging on appearance.
"Electra," Mother said from her position. "I've been spending the last few weeks searching for a husband for you. I've found somebody I believe suitable, this man here, and you are to go home with him as soon as you are ready."
I was shocked, momentarily, into silence. What my mother was saying made very little sense – I had absolutely no idea that she would stoop so low as to get rid of me this way.
"Why?" I eventually managed to demand.
"You didn't think that after your behaviour all of these years you were worthy of a high match? Please. You're more of an imbecile than I thought." She sniffed harshly. I hadn't thought that, but what I had presumed was that I'd simply live alone all my life, be a spinster, doomed to a solitary existence.
"I – no. This is just a surprise. I'm amazed that you even thought to go so far and make me a match at all."
"Don't take it as me meaning anything other than wanting you out of my sight." She spat. I simply glared. There was no love lost between us, in that moment. I hated her, pure and simple, and I knew then I always would. I had meant it when I said I wanted her dead, and I couldn't be sorry for it, not now. "Your sister might want to say goodbye to you, Aegisthus is out and I doubt he would want to see you in any case. And this is our goodbye." She said. Something was off, however – her face had turned carefully neutral. "So. Well. Goodbye. I'll need your..."
Mother waved her hand absently at my head, where my diadem sat. It was honestly the only piece of royal memorabilia I still clung to, and that because it reminded me of my link to the King, my King, the family I'd once known. It was a simple thing, really, twisted gold with a few gems inset, but it was pretty, and I'd had it for years. I didn't move to take it off, so saddened was I to have to part with it. My mother moved instead, gently plucking it from my head – more care and sensitivity than she'd shown me in a decade.
"Thank you." She said quietly. Her hand lingered on my cheek, and I was forced to look her in the eyes. So clear, so different from mine, and yet... She smiled as she looked back, almost wistful. "I'm still there." She whispered, and my stomach dropped as she turned and walked away.
My mother said you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
"So, Electra," my soon-to-be husband began, as we bounced along the road towards the outskirts of town on his cart. I was being stared at, but I didn't care – it was probably just as much because I was rarely seen out of the palace as the situation I was now in. "My name's Akakios, and, well... Well, I'm sorry about all this."
"It's not your fault," I said stiffly, face turned away. I titled my head up towards the sun, which was warm and pleasant on my skin. "Blame my mother."
"I don't know if I should blame or be thankful," he said with a small smile. "It's not every day you find out you're going to marry a princess."
"A disinherited princess." I corrected, turning to look at him – he really wasn't all that bad at all, I thought. He had kind eyes and a warm smile, much like my father had when he looked at me, and my heart melted a little. I smiled gently, and his own smile grew in return.
"Well, a beautiful disinherited princess, in any case." He said. A silence tinged with awkwardness fell between us as I fixed my eyes to the road. We didn't talk again until I reached my new home, which was little better than a hovel – a two room cottage, with a small yard and a goat tethered up outside. I couldn't help but let my nose wrinkle. I had never been a snob, at least not by the standards of everybody else I knew, but this was a very big change.
"I hope you'll be happy here, in any case," Akakios said quietly, helping me down and taking my few things inside. I knelt and scratched the goat behind the ears, suddenly feeling sorrowful. How much more was I to bear? I had lost my father, my brother, my sisters, and my mother. I'd lived like an enemy in my own home. I'd borne the brunt of my mother's nature, I'd fought nightmares and depression and despondency, I'd been alone, and now I had been thrown out to pasture, like some animal ready to die. But I wouldn't let it break me. I couldn't. All I could do was keep hoping that one day my brother would come back for me and save me from this Godforsaken mess. I suddenly noticed Akakios watching me from the doorway, and I cleared my throat.
"Yes, I hope I can be happy here too."
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide
And I am, if you so care to know. Or at least, I suppose I am; I think I'm close to happiness as I will ever get. Akakios treats me kindly, refuses to touch me in any way that would befit a husband, other than to kiss my forehead or take my hand. He says it would be a sin, dishonourable considering who I am. Sometimes I can almost make myself believe that I love him, but in reality there is no room left in me for it – everything I am is taken up by my father and my brother, and my hatred of the woman who bore me, all ranging around the precipice of the empty space in my soul. Even if I don't love Akakios, though, I try my best to repay his kindness through other wifely duties like cleaning, and cooking, and planting flowers. I'm not very good, of course, having never had much education in the matter, but after seven years of our strange, stilted marriage I'm almost passable. And Akakios doesn't mind on the days when I feel ill, the days I don't want to move, he simply leaves me until I can make my way from absolute darkness to something like early dusk in atmosphere. Best of all, I'm allowed free reign here, which is more than I was ever truly allowed as a princess, and that brings me some kind of happiness. I can visit my father's tomb freely, wander the fields freely, sit freely and often do just as I please. I'd expected less, and I even have friends amongst the townswomen now, although I think they often see me as silly for my childish fits of sadness and introversion. I try to keep my thoughts about Orestes and my poor murdered father to myself, but that doesn't mean I can always do it. Akakios has heard me extolling their virtues more than once, and he's wise enough to keep his mouth shut. Especially today, of all days; I wake up and I instantly wish I hadn't. It's the anniversary of my father's murder, which has grown no easier to bear, even though now it's been seven years. I wrap myself in mourning clothes as I do every time this day comes around, I eat a small breakfast, I clean and I try my best to be cheerful, but often I find myself swatting harshly at tears. I hate crying, I always have, and my husband knows this, too – he steers clear, whistling quietly as he goes to till his small plot of land. With nothing left to do, I try to gather my wits and straighten myself out, before taking the long walk to my father's tomb. It's a beautiful day, with the leaves rustling in the trees and not a cloud in the sky. When I eventually get to the tomb, I let myself rest. It's well taken care of, on the outside, and shows no sign of decay, but only because I bother to attend it so often. I picked flowers on the way, so I lay them across the bottom of the memorial and I give myself over to weeping. I'm not alone for long; in a show of solidarity a few of the women from Argos show up with more flowers and purified water. Together we say a few simple prayers, and we're about to leave – myself reluctantly – when I'm stopped by two strangers. One seems familiar, as if I've seen him in a dream, so I'm inclined to give them my attention.
"Lady, to whom does this shrine belong?" The other asks. I eye him carefully – he most certainly isn't from around here, so I withold a direct answer.
"A man unfairly murdered," I say simply, drawing the shawl I wear closer around myself.
"What man?" The first man interrupts. The cadence of his voice is familiar, too, and I find myself frowning. If only I could place him, perhaps I could work out what they want. The void inside me whispers of nights spent hand in hand and curled together with Orestes, and I wonder why as I formulate my next answer.
"My father, the King," I say quietly. "Agamemnon, murdered by his wife, the queen who sits on her poisoned throne. Is that enough for you? Excuse me, I will be on my way-"
"Wait," the second to speak catches my hand. Even his touch is familiar, so sure and clear and warm. I flush and turn to face him – I can't have known him, can I? I stare, trying to analyse his features. A full mouth, dark eyes, curls not unlike my own – I suddenly want to scream, to cry, to fall. It can't be, my mind must be playing tricks, because there's no way I have been blessed like this, not after so long. Boldly, I reach up to push away the curls hanging over his forehead. A scar sits above one brow -
"When you and I were young," he says, and I want to call him a liar, tell him he's being cruel. "We were chasing a fawn. Do you remember, Electra? You were eight and I was five. Chrysothemis was too young and Iphigenia didn't care, and we were on our own. Remember? It was -"
"Just you and me," I say, and it sounds like a sob. He smiles.
"Yes, it was. Just you and me. And I tripped, you weren't fast enough to catch me. I scored my head on a rock, just-"
I reach to touch his scar again, and we both say 'here' at the same time. We still have our connection, after all these years.
"Orestes," I breathe, jaw dropping. The women gasp, and my long-gone brother's companion is looking amused at my reaction.
"Of course," my brother grins at me, my father's duplicate. How I've missed that smile. "Silly Electra, did you think I'd left you forever?"
I burst into tears, flinging my arms around his neck and giving myself over to tears for what has to be the tenth time that day. He catches me easily, holding me firm, and I'm suddenly alive again, more than I have been since he's been gone. The sky seems brighter, the breeze stronger and everything is so loud and close. Everything in me is fluttering and jarring and wakeful, from the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet. I don't know what I've done to deserve such a turn of luck.
"Don't cry, you'll only regret it later," Orestes teases, setting me down. "You know how proud you always get."
"Not proud, just stoic," I say tremulously, one hand on my hot cheek. "I get it from father."
"That and your face. You're a lovely thing, you know, you've grown up well. Didn't mother marry you off properly?" He asks. Something in me is so wonderfully pleased when he says that, because his approval is all I need now, not that of anyone else.
"Chance would be a fine thing. She's had me married to a peasant – oh, you must meet him, he's so kind – Akakios, he's called. He treats me well, I've not been so miserable in my time with him-"
"Then you weren't happy in my absence?"
"How could I be?" I say with a reluctant smile. "My other half was gone."
Orestes grins at that, and I'm amazed I didn't recognize him from the start. His stance, his mouth, his eyes - all me, all Father. I've been seeing the face in my dreams for 16 years, haven't I?
"Well, you're whole again, then," he informs me, tapping his knuckle under my chin. "Come, I need a rest, as does my friend here – Pylades. You've never met him, Electra, but this is our cousin through our Aunt Anaxibia, Father's sister."
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," Pylades tells me with a grin for my brother. "I've heard enough from Orestes here."
As I hold out my hand to shake with him, I offer him a courteous nod of the head. He looks like royalty, as my brother still does, and I'm suddenly embarrassed at my drab clothes and appearance. But I try to put it out of my mind, and it's easy enough when every nerve in me feels like it's straining to break free of my body. I trip and stumble as we walk away from the women and the tomb towards home, and I wonder if I'm about to faint. I want to laugh; I've never fainted in my entire pathetic life and here I am, given a little bit of happiness and ready to drop like a stone. But we make it home, and Orestes doesn't turn up his nose, though I see him stamp on Pylades' foot when he opens his mouth to laugh. When we go inside, the place is empty, so I find an old, musty bottle of wine and set it on the table. I don't drink, mainly out of force of habit - though I'll admit to taking a swig more than once when Akakios looks away - but my cousin does, and my brother does. He's a man now, I presume he's used to it, especially considering he seems to have been living a life of luxury. All the bitterness I once felt about that is gone, now, faced with the person in front of me.
"So..." I eventually begin, after I manage to scrape together a meagre meal. "Why are you home now?"
"I missed you, of course." Orestes says, though his shoulders shift reflexively backwards, and he looks tense. I raise an eyebrow and sit near his feet, because it's hard to stay far away. He begins to play with my hair, and I lay my head on his knee. I don't want to push him, because as I recall we've never argued, and after more than a decade apart I don't want to start. So we talk. We talk until I'm hoarse, until his hand is tangled in my curls, of what happened when he was gone - of Chrysothemis and Father and Mother, Aegisthus, the broken home that we shared. He tells me reluctantly about his time in Phocis with our extended family, though it makes me glad to know that he was actually happy.
"Electra," the whisper comes just as I'm beginning to doze and I force my eyes open wider. It's dusk, and I'm unusually tired, but I manage. "Electra, I didn't tell you the full truth about why I came home."
Well, that wakes me up. I instantly sit straighter, then stand, nervous about what Orestes is about to tell me. He catches my hands and makes me stand still, and looks up into my face uncertainly. Pylades simply watches, expression unreadable. Eventually, I snap.
"Orestes, for the love of the Gods please just talk to me-"
"I think I may have to kill Mother."
The wind is knocked out of me, but not for the reason it should be. Here I was happy enough that my brother had simply come home, but his purpose makes my heart beat faster. I've been dreaming of those words - kill Mother - almost my whole life, so long that the lust for it has just become another facet of my person. To have it come true...
"Do it," I beg, dropping to my knees. "Please, please do it. I would have, but I don't have the strength, I never have - please, Orestes, please. For Father. It's the only way - she murdered him, in cold blood. I never got to see him again. Our father, Orestes!" The words are rushing out of me like blood from a wound and I can't stop them, even though I know I'm barely making sense.
"But she is our mother..." Orestes says haltingly. He's obviously more conflicted than I am, and why shouldn't he be? He didn't put up with Mother, he didn't hear the cries of those who found Father's body. He didn't live it, and I have to make him understand.
"She's no mother of mine," I say. "She could have been, once. She ruined it the day she went mad, because don't you see? That's what she is. She's a murderer and she's cruel - if you were to kill her I would say to aim for her heart, but she doesn't have one, you'd find no mark. Her killing would be worthy punishment for the pain she's caused me, caused you, caused the whole damned world. I'm telling the truth when I say I would have killed her, but I'm too weak and I could never have got to her. She's poisonous, she deserves whatever she gets. If you won't do it for me, Orestes, do it for him. Do it for Father."
My brother stays silent throughout my tirade, and to my surprise it's Pylades who responds when I stop, chest heaving as I draw in air.
"She's right," he says in a low voice. "The Gods command that all murderers be punished, and as your father's heir you are the only one who can."
"Alright." Orestes eventually says, sounding heavy. I fling myself into his lap, arms around his neck so tight he probably isn't able to breathe, but I don't care. The void inside of me is sealing, closing, drawing in on itself and I suddenly have an idea.
"Let me help," I cry. Orestes jumps, but I keep talking. "Let me help kill her."
"So bloodthirsty, Electra, so hungry for revenge." He says with a laugh, but his eyes are uneasy. I don't judge him; if I was looking at myself through the eyes of another, I'd think I was mad. Maybe I am. But I know now, I know that I can set everything right, make all of the venom inside of me go away. I can be better, I can be more than nothing, be the one to help make Father's death worth something.
Now that Orestes is back, I can finally be free.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father - your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
Electra on the Azalea Path - Sylvia Plath