Note: What I really, really like about this fic is the fact that I get to tell one story from two starkly different personas and perspectives. Next chapter I'll get to write sweet sad little Celia, and here I can write the frustrated and grudge-holding Marlin. Ee. I love writing a little too much. XD

Chapter Three:

Marlin

What the hell is he doing here?

What the hell is he doing in our doorway, talking to my sister like they're fast friends or something, when the truth is he's been our competition for years? Who the hell gave him the right to come over here and ask us for a favor? Who the hell does he think he is?

I feel my lips curl into a snarl as I lean against the wall, the air of conversation snaking its way through the crack in the door as hushed words reach my attentive ears.

"I'm asking you as a friend, Vesta."

I glance towards my sister, and from the way her hands are positioned on her hips, I'm willing to bet she's frowning. Normally, that's how she holds herself when she's about to throw a hissy fit—like when she's going to shout that I need to be nicer to customers, or be gentler when handling the crops, or anytime that she thinks I'm being a whiny little bastard.

Which happens more often than I'd like to admit.

A gloved hand runs through her tangle of red hair in thought. Taking in a sharp breath, she answers, "Takakura, I wouldn't mind at all. In fact, I'd love to do it for her—but are you sure this would help?"

My smirk drops. I think my mouth is hanging open—did Vesta just say what I think she said? Where's the self-assured, "I reckon if you have any problems, you can handle them by your own damn self," that had kept our farms separate for ages?

"Everywhere she turns on that farm, she's reminded of him in some way or another," he replies quietly. "The bed where he slept, the kitchen where he ate, the field and barn where he worked—it's all a part of her everyday life now. She couldn't avoid it even if she wanted to."

And here's where my cockiness completely falters. Here's where I want to stop listening, but my ears won't comply with reason. Her—that's what he'd said, wasn't it? Her.

"But still, it's her life," Vesta argues. "She's a woman now, Takakura; she has the right to want to live in her own home. Has she told you anything to make you think she wants to leave, that she can't handle staying?"

Oh, God. Oh, God, no. Her.

He shrugs, his eyes averting my sister's gaze. "Sometimes…people don't talk with words. Sometimes they need something, and they can't figure it out on their own. Or they're too proud to."

"For land's sakes, Takakura, Celia is the furthest thing from proud."

"But I think she's afraid." The farmhand crosses his arms and sighs, Vesta waiting as he adds, "She's trying so hard. So damn hard. I think she's pushing herself too far, Vesta. It's only been two days, and she's already trying to get back on track. She's trying to push all this behind her—"

"Isn't that a good thing?" Vesta interrupts softly.

"…No. I don't think it is." He pauses, and I stare at him incredulously, as if this is some sort of gruesome accident—like a car crash—and I can't pull myself away, no matter how badly I want to. "Time is the only thing that can fix these things, Vesta. I don't want her to sulk forever, but I don't want to see that smile everyday--that fake smile that bottles everything inside. I don't want her to let everything out when people can't see her—I want her to come to terms with this loss on her own time. To hell with what the world thinks of her; she needs to handle it on her own, no matter how long it takes."

"…So that's why you want her to stay here," she realizes aloud. "You think if she can try to grab for a shred of normalcy, a home of sorts, that she can figure things out on her own. That she might open up a bit."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

Vesta crosses her arms, and bouncing her head from her right to her left shoulder in thought, she smiles wryly. "You had me ready to agree in the beginning, Takakura. Celia's like a daughter to me. I just don't want her to do anything she doesn't want to do, you know? Where is she now?"

"The Blue Bar. Muffy invited her for dinner," Takakura explains. "She said she doesn't want Celia to have to eat all alone in that house, and to be frank, I'm a little relieved she offered to take her in for the evening."

"Ain't that something. I always knew I liked Muffy, and I haven't been wrong about a person yet." She scratches her head in thought, then nods. "Tell Celia she can come to stay here anytime she wants. We'll be ready with open doors."

And with that, the final nail is hammered into the coffin, and my sanctuary is invaded once again.

People don't die in Forget-Me-Not. Or at least, young people don't die. If you take Nina, for example, there was nothing particularly shocking about her death--but when Jack collapsed dead on the ground, silence descended over the entire village like a thick cloud. Nah, not a cloud—more like smoke, I guess. It's dark, and foreboding, and it makes it difficult to see clearly, but in the end, that's all it is: smoke. It'll fade soon enough, and everything will eventually turn back to normal.

Well, I would be lying if I said that I thought things would get to be this normal.

"Why didn't you slam the door in his face?" I accuse.

She shrugs, my outburst brushed away with a simple, "None of your business, is it? Now go upstairs and tidy the place up." My sister begins to pile the plates and pots on the counter, grabbing the rag for washing. It's a chore Celia and I used to share, but hey, things change over time. People get married, people get pregnant, people make excuses to escape a chore they only agreed to in the first place in order to see a girl smile.

People die.

"Upstairs? Her room?" I repeat, scoffing. "What, so she leaves us, and then she thinks she can just come back like nothing happened, like she's family or something?"

"And she's not?" Vesta snaps, scrubbing away at a pasta pot. "I said to clean the upstairs, didn't I? Why are you still here?"

My legs don't move, and I face her resolutely, my frown deepening. "So she's coming back after all. Here."

"You alright with that?" my sister challenges, her head snapping towards me. Furious eyes stare through me like knives, slicing through my sneer into my soul. I know that look, and I don't dare respond.

I fidget a bit as she wipes the sauce from another plate, watching as she washes then dries it and places the platter on a shelf. "You'll have to face her sometime, Marlin," she chides me finally. "People aren't just going to disappear just because you—"

"I know, okay?" I growl. It's not just a sneer or a smirk anymore—I'm seriously pissed, and from the look on Vesta's face, she knows it damn well. "I know. I'll clean up the damn room."

I storm upstairs, each slap against the wood adding to a steady rhythm beating through my skull.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Celia. Here. Oh, God.

The room is empty, but strangely, I like it this way; no pictures clutter the bare wooden walls, and sunlight streams through the only window onto the sparse furniture. By it lies nothing but a simple bed—always made, always ready for its owner to pull back the blankets and dream. There's a dresser, there's a rug, there's a lamp and a small nightstand, and there's a tiny book nestled in its top left drawer. There's a page in this book marked by a pressed flower, there's a confession in ink I'm never supposed to have read.

There's a life I was never meant to understand, a girl whose smile was never meant to be mine.

I peel back the worn cover of the book, and I try to suppress the guilt that always stabs me whenever I see the hearts she uses to dot her i's and the curly-cue way she spells everyone's names. But I only let it last for a moment before I remember that I don't owe her pity, and I skip a few pages, I read a little to myself, I finally reach that flower. It's nothing unusual; just a simple, common, everyday Mist Moon. I'm not much for botany, but I wouldn't mind admitting they were pretty—in a simple, ordinary way. I let my fingers hold onto one of the petals, and crinkling it into my grasp, I watch it crumble into yellow dust.

Dead.

Diary, you won't believe what happened today. I—I'm not sure how to explain it, but…he kissed me. Jack. He kissed me. I've never been kissed before—I guess I've never had a boyfriend before for that matter—but oh, diary, it was so beautiful. I can't really explain it. It's the fresh feeling of spring dew, the intensity of summer heat, the many shades of autumn, the cold touch of winter that reminds you this is real and not a dream. It's everything beautiful about the world, condensed into a single instant. I don't know if all kisses are like that, diary. But…maybe it's not the kiss.

Maybe…maybe I love him.

That was when she died to me. That was when I knew this wasn't a fluke, that this was her choice, that she wanted this. Sweet like Judas's kiss, she embraced me once before skipping off towards her perfect little life with her perfect little husband and their perfect little home.

God, I hated Jack. I hated him with every fiber of my being—but Celia, Celia I couldn't hate. Damn, everything got so confusing as soon as I stared into her big brown eyes, and saw the sincere expression she always wore with that dopey smile. I didn't get what she saw in him—what she found so wonderful she was willing to leave everything behind, to marry him, to have his child.

To watch him die.

I didn't know how to take the news, to be honest. Was I supposed to feel happy? Sad? Guilty? Relieved? Honestly, I was just…stunned. I mean, hating someone is one thing. Seeing them dead, well, that's another thing entirely.

And this is where Vesta is wrong—sometimes the people you hate do disappear. Sometimes they do suffer, they do falter, they do die. But that doesn't mean you want them to. If anything, it messes with your head even more—because you're not supposed to mourn the man you've always wanted dead.

But I could care less how I feel about Jack. It's Celia—Celia who confuses me.

"Marlin? Marlin, are you cleaning up there?"

My head snaps up from the book in my hands, and I slam it shut, placing it back into the drawer where it belonged all along. "Yeah, I'm done," I shout back, standing up.

What Vesta doesn't understand is that there's never been anything to be done. Everything in the room has been clean—perhaps the occasional peruse of a diary had disturbed the room in days past, but nothing more. Nothing had moved, nothing was different. I hadn't dared to move a damn thing since the day Celia left. I'd left the memories untouched in hopes that somehow, just by walking in, I could revisit them.

And tomorrow, even that was going to change.