Act III, Scene III

Mother has made me breakfast this morning. Oh, and do believe me, I am trying so hard to enjoy it. For it is the first meal we've actually eaten together in so, so, so long. We're actually seated at the table; mother with a mug of home brewed coffee, pancakes and eggs, and I with grapefruit and bacon. Whoever knew my mother could even turn on a stove? But with all that has happened, food bears little taste. It means nothing to me. I've lost all appetite, but I fight down some bacon and pick at the fruit so that mom doesn't feel bad. I can see how hard she's trying to make things right. And while cooking breakfast and pretending to be interested in what I'm learning in school won't make up for the past sixteen years, it is a start. Her food really isn't all that terrible anyways.

"So, ballet rehearsal today?" she pushes a cheery pitch in there.

"Yup."

"Opening night is getting closer and closer. You must be so excited."

"Really. I've never performed a lead role before."

"Oh, I know. My baby is moving up. Finally they're seeing your talent. It's about time."

I ignore that fact that she has no idea what ballets the company is even putting on and which ones I'm dancing in. She might know what time rehearsals start and end, but she has no idea what grueling torture happens in between. My quads just burn thinking about it. She can guess The Nutcracker, which I have the part of a snowflake for, but she's probably never even heard of The Sands of Solipsism.

"Yup."

"Am I aloud to come see you in the spotlight?"

I swallow hard on a piece of bacon that feels like a pile of ash catching in my throat. I want to tell her 'yes, that'd be awesome! You've never seen me dance before, and having you there means the world to me'. But I can't. Because all I here is Summer's warning, her telling me not to let my loved ones come to the ballet. After our emotional day yesterday, I'm terrified that my denying her to come see me dance will send us back to our old routine; lonely TV dinners and silent car rides. I'm so caught right now that I actually wish I would choke just as an excuse for not answering.

But luckily there is another excuse. Three hard knocks on the door. Mom and I share a look and we're both thinking the same thing: "who in the hell is at our door this early in the morning?" Secretly, I'm hoping that it's Yugi. I'd give anything to see his face right now. That smile. Those eyes. To tell him how sorry I am for that thing that I did that I don't remember but I'm sorry anyways. Maybe I'm hoping it's Joey too. Or Tristan. A familiar face that has come to tell me they've got my back. Mom sets down her coffee and, shockingly, attempts to cover herself up before getting the door.

Although it's not Joey, or Tristan, or Yugi, or even Yami, there is a familiar face standing on my porch. Two faces to be exact. That porky detective and his haggard sidekick. They've come in their nice suits and axe body wash scents just to ruin what might have been a tolerable day- all things considered, even my impending death at tomorrow night's performance. Stoked.

"Good morning, Mrs. Gardner. We're sorry to bother you like this, but we're going to need to ask your daughter just a few more questions."

"Are you going to arrest her?"

"If need be- such as your or her refusal to cooperate with our investigation."

Mom looks back at me for permission. I really do not need this right now, but I suppose it's better now than never. Or, ok, never actually would be better, but… whatever. I push away my plate and give the ok for mom to let them in, like this time I'm the mafia boss. Yeah. The mafia boss in baby duckie pajamas and some morning rat-nest hair. Clearly I'm one intimidating suspect. They should get the guns out. Don't play!

"Good morning, officers." I begin the conversation.

"Good morning, Tea. I know this isn't the best way to start your day, but this is really important. See, my partner and I our crunching time, so we'll try not to take up too much of your morning here."

"Much appreciated." I sound as joyous as Fantasme did when I first walked in the interrogation room. Cocky, annoyed, and hissing like a viper.

"Well, Miss Gardner, we understand that you went to talk to a Fantasme Dvorzhetski yesterday. Is this correct?"

"Yup."

"Ok. What's peculiar about that is Angeline Everstone arranged for a visit with the same patient just a dew days preceding her death. What can you tell me about that?"

I sigh, leaning over my elbow like I'm about to tell them a secret. And a real juicy one too.

"Fantasme Dvorzhetski was the last person to dance the main role in 'The Sands of Solipsism'; which, if you didn't know, is the primary ballet our company is working on. Angeline would have wanted to talk to her because… because she's also our last hope."

"Tea?" mom steps closer. "What do you mean, baby?"

"I mean, the role does stuff. It has been consuming us body and soul, and the only person who has danced the role entirely is Fantasme. If anyone would understand what we're going through, it'd be her."

"You do know that miss Angeline Everstone killed her sister Nathalie Everstone?"

"Yes, I've been made aware of that."

"I want you to listen to something for me, Miss Gardner, and I want you to listen to it real good. Because we're trying to figure out what it means, but we're having some toruble. Perhaps you could shed some light on the issue." the chubby detective pulls out a tape recorder from his pocket and sets it on the table. The way his voice tries to out 'arrogant' me makes my fists ball. Without even hearing a word, I jump when I see the recorder. Nerves zigzag around my body, worrying about all the conversations I've had in the last few days. Did I say something I shouldn't have? What if I let something slip? I swear if one of my best friends has been wearing a wire-

He presses play.

"Well, well. It's been quite some time since I last had a visitor." Fantasme's voice rises form the recorder. I'm so stupid! I had totally disregarded the camera and audio tape in the visitor room at the asylum! I was so desperate for answers, I didn't think about the tape or care about the guard. Ugh! I'm such a fool!

I listen to the whole conversation again. I hear about the stigmata, the story of Dr. Pierre Gölöncsér, and I even sit through the screams. I'm sure the part where we spoke of serial killers and Amunet's dismal lack of empathy would put me into handcuffs. For some reason that actually sounds better than to perform my death for an entire audience. My ears ring at the sound of Fantasme's frantic pleas, remembering how barbarically she'd been dragged down that hall towards solitary. I worried about her all night. Maybe Sekherta found her again and it was all my fault. I know I've only met the woman once, but I feel closer to her than anyone right now. I have to trust my life within her words. If I survive, there's got to be something I can do for her. She doesn't belong in that asylum.

"When the music plays, meet her at the edge of the stage as she had met the arrow!" was the last thing she said before the nurses charged in with their needles.

"Sound familiar?"

I don't answer. My mom steps even closer and this time winds a hand over my shoulder.

"Tea… what's this all about? What does all that on the tape mean?"

I'm cornered. The detectives have me behind bars at my own breakfast table, while mom may be having her first motherly panic attack. There's no way out.

"Angeline killed her sister because she was possessed." the words rip from my mouth. "She truly believed this, as do I. And then she was so struck with guilt and pain that she ended her life. I know this sounds crazy! Believe me, I know! I didn't accept it at first either. Yes, it's true that I was there when she killed herself. It's true that I was jealous of her- I don't know a single dancer who wasn't. It's true that I wanted her role more than anything. But I didn't kill Angeline. Amunet did. The girl you hear us talk about on the tape… Hemet Nesew Amunet… Angeline believed that that was the spirit who made her do all those terrible things. Fantasme believes it because she too was possessed by this spirit. And now I… I have been feeling things, seeing things, doing things that I can't put a reason to."

And that was the best defense I could muster. The sad part is that it's the truth.

The longest silence follows. Yes; it's even longer than the pauses on Project Runway to see who stays and who got eliminated. There's almost nothing to read from either of the detectives' faces. They stare crisply at me, then at the crumbs on the table, once at each other, and then back to me. Mom's hand has gripped tighter- though I'm not sure when. I think she's having a nervous breakdown and I'm surprised to see how well she's hiding it. Normally she's a lit dynamite and poised make a scene out of every mishaps around. Her silence just makes this moment cut even more.

"Thank you." says the detective with the slim face.

"What?" slips out of my mouth. There's probably an expression on my face to rival my question.

"Thank you… for giving us your understanding of the situation."

"You mean I'm… clear?"

The detectives nod. "Mhm. Forensics came back negative. Her wounds were all self-inflicted and her parents strongly believed you had no part in her death. There had been a lot of problems in their household long before any mention of you. You just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."

I can finally breathe.

"Thank God." mom whispers loudly.

"The Everstones just wanted answers to why this all happened. And, personally, so do we. Two teenagers don't just die for no reason. We're not sure of just what to tell them." there is an honest sympathy in his eyes. I want to correct him, tell him that three teenagers don't just die, but I keep my mouth shut.

Now, I highly doubt that there is the slightest chance of these detectives believing me. Instead they'll probably tell Mr. and Mrs. Everstone that their daughter had suffered some kind of psychosis and failed to receive treatment. This in turn will make her parents feel guilty. They'll be plagued by "what-ifs". They could be tossed into denial, repression, all sorts of stress disorders. How this is all supposed to give them closure is a mystery. And only now when I really think about it, how both of their daughters are dead, regardless of how snobbish, bitchy, or high-maintenance they were, how empty and melancholy they must feel. My heart truly goes out to them. Soon, my own mother may be able to relate to them.

"We thank you for your time." the other says as they stand in unison. Mom tells them to send the Everstones comforting words, gently ushering them out of the house as I had never seen her do before. I only sit and stare at the food I've scarcely touched. The hunger that bemoans within me is not for meager grapefruit or bacon strips, but for blood and torture. Kill. Kill. Kill. Nothing will satisfy me until that final moment of domination, when a victim's last breath is lost between puncture wounds in their lungs. I can not let that urge control me. I can not let Sekherta- I mean, Amunet- control me. That is the least I can do for Angeline's parents, for her sister Nathalie, for her.

While mom converses at the door, I push violently from my seat and head for my room. Where all this steam and anger came from is beyond me. But now that it's here, I want to revel in it. I want to be mad. I want to scream at the top of my lungs if it will let everything go. I fight myself into my clothes; some beat up pink leggings, the black leotard I never bother to replace, and a grey, free flowing shirt that hangs off my shoulders. All the while there are glimpses of Ancient Egypt all around. My mirror moves with the past, my posters whimper like murder victims, and flashes of Amunet pulling out the ribs of Sitamun crash all around me. I try to shake them off, too mad to bother with them. I shove my feet into some flats and throw a pair of pointe shoes into my dance bag before thumping down the stairs again.

"Mom, I'm going to be late for ballet." I hiss. She immediately spins my way. I'm still not used to seeing worry lines in her brow or nerves in her eyes. She asks me what's wrong but I tell her it's nothing. I tell her I'm just tired and stressed through gritted teeth. She drops the issue before I can snap any louder at her. And I really don't mean to. I don't want to be some bratty child when we've just come to a peace agreement. But maybe it's my way of pushing her away. Maybe I don't want her to feel bad when I die tomorrow night and so I have to get rid of her before Amunet does. Whatever it is, we don't speak about in the car ride to the theatre. We don't speak about anything.

Truth is, I'm not late for ballet. I'm actually really early. But I want it this way. I want it to be just me and the evil queen like it was the other time I was early. Except this time I know what I'm getting into. I wave mom goodbye and watch as she pulls away. It is just as freezing, just as windy and unforgiving as it was last time. I know Amunet is with me in these icy breezes; I can hear them whisper and beg for death. I mount the steps and come face to face with the row of glass doors. The revolving ones in the middle that most visitors walk through are blocked off with a metal hatch. But these glass ones to the side are only locked, and I can still peer into the main entrance from them.

"Come on, Amunet. Open that door again." I command to the snow.

A few moments pass by. I think this a total waste of time, my spark all burnt out, and now I'm just standing here in the cold like an idiot. Just as I turn to park myself on the steps, I hear the door unlock. It creaks open against the ice's will and hits the door to its side with a clang. I am met by that same darkness once again. Amunet welcomes me in.

I take one last gulp of harsh, winter air and step past the doors. My next breath is warm and dry. Instead of the Romanesque theatre, painted cherub ceilings, and French chandeliers, I am met by immense pillars, an alabaster floor, and an open view of a city in the distance. Torches struggle against the walls. Everything is filled with incenses and the scent of the wind running off of murky waters. There is much to entertain on the high walls around me. There are so many symbols I can not read, designs that I would never have the patience to paint. My footsteps slide and patter down this dark hall, crunching over pecks of sand blown in through the open walls.

I know where has Amunet has taken me. I am in Yami's old home- his palace. I am lost in the halls of his homely edifice, and suddenly I'm burdened with wanting to see him. Where would a pharaoh be at this hour? Where would my friend, my crush be at the moment the sun nestles into the horizon? I almost feel like I'm searching for him, although Amunet will hardly allow me a glimpse.

I wander as though I were still making my way towards the stage. I know I used to turn here where instead of this divan and plant, there were water fountains. The next hall was where the management offices used to be, not these tapestries or torches. I am guided only by instinct, only by the feel of where I think the stage should be. But where I am makes no sense. The shadows are bent and distorted. They're not where they should be.

I stop when I hear talking. Then banging. A tousle perhaps. Although there's no way for me to translate the ancient words being spat, I know they are not at all friendly. I turn the corner and enter a gentle room where it looks like one would drink wine and entertain guests. There are divans spread around the room and a few stands with empty jugs and chalices. Pillows of the finest fabrics are littered everywhere from the wrestling match that takes place by the grand window. Which, if you ask me, is hardly a window at all. More of just a large opening in the wall between pillars. A setting sun lurks between the two figures that fight each other at the base of one of the pillars.

They are two girls. It's hard to see their faces because of how close they are to each other's, how quickly and beastly they struggle against one another. Neither are servants, that is for sure. They wear golden headdresses, extravagantly beaded necklaces, and an array of bracelets, armbands, and rings. One girl is pushed up against the pillar, her hands clenched daringly around the throat of her opponent. I assume that one is Amunet. The other fights back, kicking, swatting, and choking for a plea in any way she can. I try to shrink into an invisible size and stay out of their sight. I wouldn't want either of them to direct that sort of aggression towards me.

Then, with a grunt and a most powerful heave, Amunet is able to push her rival back and off the edge of the palace walls. That is when my body lunges forth without my consent. I think that maybe if I hurry, I can catch this girl before her death. But then I remember that this is the past. This is already happened, and she is already dead. Nothing makes that realization more clear than the cracking, crunching, smacking sound that emanates from the window. Amunet leans over the side, eyeing the broken body below. I don't have to see it to know that it's there. I can almost smell the blood. I have to steer my thoughts away not to think of mangled limbs, backwards elbows, and blood seeping into the sand. All I need to know is that she's dead and there's nothing I can do about it.

But I don't listen. I run over to the edge and look. Something in me wanted to look, wanted to see a human all distorted and in pieces. I stare as ardently as the killer standing beside me. I can't take my eyes away. I am like Amunet. Now she lifts her head, in just the slightest, eeriest motion, and looks at me. Her reptilian eyes slither in my direction. They lock onto me, death freezing the very blood pulsing through me. Her eyes are the darkest black, while her Egyptian kohl does nothing but sharpen her innocent scowl. They see everything and yet nothing. They see through me, past me, in me. But the rest of her face is blank. Flawless nothingness that makes me want to forget the hellacious orbs beneath her brow. She has high cheek bones, a slight rosy tint to her caramel skin, and lips as pale as rose petals. There is a simple beauty glowing there on her face.

This is surely why Pharaoh loved her most.

I realize that this is the first time I've ever seen her. I mean, really seen her. Now in this memory, I stand face to face with the killer I have been so afraid of these past few days. And, really, aside from her bold and cruel eyes, she's not so scary. If I saw her on the street, I'd think she was just a normal girl. A lonely, lonely girl who could use some highlights and maybe mascara, but you get my point. I wonder about the sadness swirling there in the pools of her eyes. I wonder about the horrors they have seen, the tears they've cried. I wondered about who would have listened to them…

"Sedeb hat-ib." she says in a desperate croak. "Feka mudep keded. Akha sheta-ger, sesheh iawey sheni nekhet paraa." *

And then I am back in the theatre. The ledge of the palace is actually the edge of the stage. From here I can espy the entire room; the curved balconies, the entire length of the red carpeted aisles, every cushioned seat and chandelier. I can look straight over the orchestra pit. I stand on a taped X, placed there by Madame Thibeault during our last rehearsal. This is where I stand for the finale. It's where I spin my last round of fouettes, where I float in the spotlight of Sekherta's last moments. This is where I die.

I still want to be mad. I still want someone to hear me yell like never before. So, in the midst of nobody, I break down at the edge of the stage. My knees fold beneath me as I collapse onto the floor. Tears sweep over my eyes before I have the chance to stop them. And I scream. I scream at the only person who can hear me. Me.

My legs are jelly after ballet. Today's rehearsal went from eight in the morning to eight at night. It was our final day of preparation. We all know where to stand for each sequence of the ballet. All our costumes fit snug and appropriately. We know how much time we'll have in between sequences. Tomorrow night is the big night, and I try to think more about how spectacular it will be instead of the finale that I know is coming. It's about the journey, right? Not the destination. That's what I tell myself. I repeat this over and over again as I walk home from the theatre.

I insisted that mom not come and pick me up. I could brave the cold, the ice, and even the alleyway strangers if it meant walking down memory lane one last time. I could have asked Tristan- or dare I say it; Joey- for a ride, but I decided against it because of all the tensions. Yugi may have told Joey and Tristan what I've done. Even though I have no clue what it is, I can tell by how much they've been avoiding that it can't be good. Instead of troubling my last hours alive with stress and worrying, I opted to take a stroll through the city. It is so diverting with all the decorations and displays. Even in the summer there is plenty to do here. I guess that's why dad moved the family here when I was real little.

All of Domino is prepared for the festivities. The radio stations are playing nothing but holiday jingles, the shops are filled past capacity, and the lights that beam from skyscrapers, bridges, and even Kaiba Corps have jolly reds and greens. I breathe in the city air; bitten with snow and crusted with coffees and life. The winter chills my lungs and courses throughout my veins. Nothing feels more invigorating. And despite everything I know is soon to come, I want to join the mobs in shopping malls. I want to smile at the ice skaters and taste the samples of baked delights. A thrill from somewhere deep in side me emerges- one I have not felt since my days of believing in Santa Claus. I want to shop for presents, run through the snow, eat all the junk foods my ballet instructors forbid me to even smell!

So, seemingly without any blatant conscious thought, the first place I go is Kame Game. This shop is like another home to me. There's another family waiting for me there too. Another grandfather, another mother, and on a rare occasion there is another father. But most importantly, there is Yugi. I can't even begin to surmount all the memories I've helped paint into the walls. If there's any place that makes the picture-perfect holidays in the movies come to life, it's here. And I don't want to be mad anymore. I don't want to moan and grumble hateful words as I have been all day. I want peace. I want… Yugi.

I don't know what I could say to Yugi if I saw him. I don't know what I could do, what I would do, if he were to come downstairs the moment I walk through the door. But I have to try. So I give the door a gentle push, and the bells lightly ringing above me spark Solomon's attention.

"Tea?" the old man perks up. He's standing on a ladder, trying to reach the boxes of games on one of the top shelves when I walk in. He's so busy smiling at me that he wobbles and loses his balance, falling backwards in a bit of a slow motion.

"Mr. Muto!" I dip for him, reaching my hands just beneath my arms in the knick of time. The old man weighs heavy in my arms, but safer here than on the floor. He sighs and wipes a bit of sweat from his brow.

"Oh my." he shakes his head. "That could have been dangerous. You young people sure have quick reflexes, and boy am I grateful for that."

"Are you ok, Mr. Muto?" I help him to his feet.

"Yes, yes. And thanks to you, my dear. Now, about those boxes."

"Here. Let me get them for you." I don't wait for his answer. I step up to the top shelf and grapple the boxes he almost died trying to reach. I follow all his orders of carrying them down carefully and placing them on the counter where he went on about why he needed them, who they were for. Stuff like that.

"Wonderful. Thank you, Tea. But I highly doubt you came here just to help out an old man. What is it that I can help you with, dear? Perhaps… you were looking for someone."

You really can't hide things from Solomon Muto. Maybe it's his age and experience, but he always seems to know what's up. I stare at the floor. I can't seem to bring my eyes to his, to tell him that I madly in love with his only grandson- though I'm he probably knows that part too. I want to ask how Yugi's been doing, if he said anything about what I'd done. And when I finally do meet his gaze again, he has a quirky grin and a cocked eyebrow like he knows something. That know-it-all smile is buried under his moustache as he nods for me to turn around.

"Yugi…"

Ok. So, in this chapter you saw Amunet speaking Ancient Egyptian. While I have taken baisc courses in the reading and speaking of Ancient Egypt, I do not hold those words to be 100% accurate. I tried to make the as accurate as possible, though. And they will be understood in later chapters (thanks to our wonderful Solomon Muto!)