It All Comes Crumbling Down

Deceit’s world was made up of many things.

It was watching her mother guide chubby fingers over poisonous, carnivorous plants and whispering the names slow enough for her baby sister to repeat. Again, again, again until she finally got it right- with all the patience of a saint.

It was her mother, angry and distressed in more ways than one, after countless visitors came and went without a word. It was reciting the same plants, with their hard to enunciate Latin names and their uses on demand- not because she was instructed, but because her mother needed a distraction and she was convenient. She was expected to know everything her sister was taught, for no other reason than it had to be.

It was skipping meals by losing track of time when her parents were away. It was spending night after night, sleeplessly wrapped up in books she could hardly read, let alone understand. It was falling asleep in her new classes, and reprimand after reprimand. It was being pushed forward when she wasn’t ready.

It was learning how to sink or swim.

It was not enough.

It was manners and mannerisms. Seeking without being sought. Speaking without saying a word, and don’t forget to listen, listen, listen.

ii.

She must remember names and faces - of friends, family, strangers who visit only once, everyone. Always.

“You never know who’s important, Dear.” Her mother would say, coffee in one hand and a report in another. There was never a look for her, there was never more than a passing moment for her.

She must step lightly, never draw suspicion and slipping around the house without being caught by one being or another. Stick to the shadows, to overhear snippets of one conversation or another.

“Darling, don’t look at me like that,” ‘s and “I’m only trying to teach her what she’ll need to know.” ‘s and

And she never forgets the razor sharp smile on her mother’s face. It’s the first time she’s made it off the property and almost all the way back without notice.

iii.

Deceit wouldn’t ever admit uncertainty, not on this. Spade would ask, again again again, but there was never an answer to provide. Nothing concrete, nothing solid enough to do more than slip through her fingers.

You cannot hold someone responsible for ruining a childhood that didn’t exist.

iv.

Merci is the utmost priority. Where is she, what is she doing, is she safe.

Is she safe.

It was always “Yes, mother.”. Always.

Until she wasn’t so sure anymore.

There was forgetful-ness, there was whimsy, there was reckless.

Deceit was convinced that there had been a mistake, somewhere along the lines. No one could manage all three at once. That was, until a ball of red hair and green green green eyes managed it.

No one is surprised when chemicals and carnivorous plants end up in the same pot. Sure, it was her father to buy the first chemistry set, but it was her mother to teach her.

It was always her mother teaching. Deceit pretended she couldn’t hear, pretended to be paying attention to the book in her lap- strange markings in a different language she hadn’t succeeded in yet.

“She’s your daughter,” Mother says, dusting dirt off her hands and picking up the child before she could put the plant back in her mouth. Teething stages, they said. It was the second time around, where she lost her tiny baby teeth all at once.

“She gets it from your side of the family,” Is Ayah’s easy answer, with a kiss. He makes a point of crossing the room to ruffle her hair before leaving. Deceit knows she was caught, of course, but it doesn’t matter.

vi.

Deceit isn’t sure what safe looks like. There’s no steady definition to remember, no book that has all the answers.

It’s Sunday and they had been sent to bed early, so the grown-ups could speak privately. Merci had climbed into her bed not more than a couple hours before, with a toothy grin and tired eyes. She had waited until the girl was no more than a lump at the end of her bed, under a quilt and breathing deeply.

The end of her bed is cold, there’s no little sister to check on and everything is hazy. She’s dizzy, but the air smells of smoke, and she knows it’s not supposed to. Deceit’s feet hit the floor silently, and she hits the hallway running. The dining room is dark, no fire. The parlor is the same.

Deceit heads for the study. It’s the only other fireplace in the wing, she thinks, and Ayah had been adamant that they stay in the West Wing during the rainy season. An adult decision, she’s told. Nothing she could fight about.

The door is closed and there’s no voices that she can hear, but the light under the door was brighter than it probably should have been. She turned at the knob, her fingers blistering under unsuspected heat.

The door held fast. She fought it, twisting until it gave way.

vii.

“It’s a blur, mostly.” She tells Spade, a glass of untouched wine in one hand. She doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t need her to. They both know it’s a lie, but it stands.

She doesn’t want to remember shaking bodies that would never move again, until her fingers were caked in blood and smoke clawed at her throat.

She doesn’t want to remember the constant tick of where is Merci what is she doing is she safe is she safe is she safe.

She doesn’t want to remember the shadow of a man gone in a blink of an eye, or the way he seemed to grin at her panic.

She doesn’t want to remember carrying her sister through empty, smoke filled halls- or collapsing in the field as the West Wing went up in flames, and Esai flooded her with questions she didn’t - couldn’t answer.

She doesn’t want to remember the weeks spent in the hospital, a revolving door of strangers with faces and questions she didn’t like didn’t like didn’t like. Where Merci didn’t wake up and when she did, she didn’t remember a thing.

She doesn’t want to remember.