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You’re not supposed to survive the fall.
i.
Mother uses lots of make-up.
On herself when she’s going out, painting her face with everything because she has a desperate need to be pretty; wiping away the black circles under her eyes to hide the fact that she drinks too much and barely gets any sleep, dressing up in tight clothes and acting like she was still eighteen. Smearing bright red on her chapped lips.
(Father will call her a slut, like he’s done a thousand times before, but she’ll go anyway and come back hours later when it’s already past midnight, drunk and loud enough to wake you up. And there will be a man, supporting her weight against the wall and grabbing her breasts, licking up the lipstick; tongue and teeth and saliva, hands roaming over each other; and they will fuck on the couch, and mother won’t remember that you’re there.)
And sometimes she has to put paint on you as well, especially on those days when you’re getting ready for school and the bruises haven’t healed yet, covering them up because ”it’s embarrassing to have those all over your face”. Because ”no one wants to look at ugly girls”. So you let her do what she wants (make you pretty), and father won’t even look at you.
They make you share a room with the prince. It’s big enough for a second bed, tucked to the left side of the wall, and the queen smiles at you, ruffling your hair gently.
”Make yourself at home,” she says, and you’re left alone for a while.
The bed feels comfortable. If you laid down here now, you might never get up.
ii.
Father hates children.
He tells you he doesn’t understand why mother decided to keep you in the first place, why they didn’t put you up for adoption. You’re a mistake, an accident, and you eat too much, wasting his money when he has more important things to spend it on; and you never think of anyone but yourself, selfish little brat who should learn how to respect other people (because ”Don’t you know how much I do for you every day?”). You’ll probably end up being a worthless whore just like your mother.
And you’re supposed to look at him when he says this, or otherwise you’re just asking to get beaten up, infuriating him on purpose because there’s something wrong with you. You need to learn how to behave properly, so he gives you another black eye, pulls your hair; if you cry, he hits harder, because you need to stop seeking attention.
(Later you’ll be on the balcony, breathing in the smoke from mother’s cigarette, and she will tell you that it’s your fault he’s like that. You should try harder.
You should stop being so useless.)
”Mum and dad like having you around,” the prince tells you one night, lying on his side so he can look at you better. You still haven’t drunk the tea the king brought you; it’s probably cold by now. ”And I think it’s super cool to have a sister.”
You snap at him - ”I’m not a girl,” -, and he blinks, taken aback by the sharp tone of your voice; but then he smiles, looks at you with the same warm eyes the king and queen have.
”Okay,” he says, and you turn your head away.
You’re not anything.
iii.
You’re wasting away and you love it.
Father doesn’t live at home anymore so it’s just the two of you, you and mother, and she keeps acting like she puts effort into anything.
Today, you’re too tired to get out of bed, unable to move without feeling dizzy, and mother calls you lazy, smelling like alcohol and cigarettes and cheap perfume, shouting at you with her words slurring together. You dig your fingernails into your skin when she slams the door shut - scratch and scratch and scratch until you’re bleeding -, and think about swallowing all her pills.
You already know that she’ll come back, knock on the door and suddenly pretend to care, pretend to be sorry; she will insist on calling you her pretty little girl and mourn the state of your hair, thin and frail (just like you are) and falling out, clogging up the drain in the shower. Or the smell of vomit in the bathroom, when you shove your fingers down your throat, down down down until you’re hunching over and coughing up your insides.
”You know I didn’t mean it, Chara,” and ”You’re going to die if you don’t start eating again,”, but that’s the point; you’re shrinking and rotting just like you’re supposed to, and you love it.
You’re not even hungry anymore.
You’re screaming, words falling out of your mouth and it’s hard to breathe, because this isn’t fair, you weren’t supposed to survive the fall; and you can’t stand the way everyone’s acting as if you’re someone who’s worth anything, and ”Why are you being so nice to me,”, you just can’t understand -
And then the queen holds you as you sob into her fur, trembling and gasping and wrong, and you can’t stop no matter how hard you try.
You look at the buttercups and think about falling.