Anastasia looked at her reflection on the mirror. She had blue wide eyes over snow freckled skin, her face surrounded by crimson curly hair. She was pretty - a doll some would even say. This, she had learned, was her best asset. She took care of her appearance through a small routine of sacrifices like eating only a grape for breakfast, and applying treatments, oils and cosmetics to her hair and skin every night. She kept the illusion her mother had taught her to master, which often consisted of shifting the light ever so slightly so that her best angle would show. However, a new thought had started creeping into her mind recently: she had started to wonder if the illusion was worth it - if the satisfaction she gained from following the rules truly made up for the annoyance these small routines often caused her. She consequently had started doubting that she liked or valued the same things as her mother - maybe not even at all - and maybe that was okay. Or it should have been, except that there didn't seem to be any space for he to stray or deviate from them, and this made her feel afraid - out of control.
A part of her knew that she would have probably grown to be a different person if not for the constant pruning and grafting practiced in her family - the soil where her roots had been planted. But then, there was another part of her that was grateful for this care, knowing that through it she was being spared a rather large number of inconveniences and potential hardships. That it was all for her own good - and enforced out of love. These thoughts were complicated. They weren't like a tree, but rather like a weed - an ivy - which has no need of watering for it to grow. She had no readily available answer for any of those questions, but it felt like asking them was the only way to save the part of her that laid within the dissonance between who she played out to be and who she probably was. A person she didn't know, and a part of her that lived in the shadows - unseen, unheard, and unworthy of this attention. She often wondered if Drizella felt the same way, but failed to ask her.
As she headed downstairs, she found her sister Drizella having breakfast. Well, sitting at the dining room table where breakfast had been served, really.
Drizella kept looking at the window with her hand on a book she appeared to be about to read. The tea in her cup releasing a small transparent steam indicating it was still hot. It couldn't had been long since she had waken.
'Oh, hey' greeted Dri as she saw Anastasia approach. Anastasia took a quick glance at the cover of the book Dri held: Botanical Gardens.
'Are you planting something?' asked Anastasia.
Drizella rolled her eyes uncomfortably - clearly insecure of her lack of gardening skills. 'third time is the charm, right?' she said - keeping an assertive voice in spite of her palpable nerves.
Anastasia laughed and Drizella joined in.
'Don't tell mom' said Dri smiling after a pause. 'she'll tell me not to waste my time.'
'I'm as silent as a tomb' replied Anastasia. 'I mean, as silent as the tomb of all your previous flowers'.
Drizella shoved her sister on the shoulder. 'Loser' she said mockingly.
'Plant killer' retorted Anastasia.
'Tone deaf'
'Yet I still play better than you.'
'Sure, the flute, but you don't play the violin better than me.'
'violin is easier'
'is it?'
'eat your breakfast'
Drizella raised her cup of tea with a winning smile. Anastasia looked at her pensively for a couple of seconds; wondering at the health in her sister's dietary practices without questioning her own.
Drizela had round sweet facial features and the mouth of a pistol gun that fired words like bullets. In her disagreeable nature, insults had somehow become the safest way for her to express affection. In her empathy, she had also grown to be loyal to a fault - but only the lucky few. Dri didn't look like a leader - but she was. What a fascinating specimen, Anastasia thought.
Anastasia heard some noises from the floor above near the stairs. She extended her hand towards her sister.
"Give' she said, never taking her eyes from the upper part of the stairs.
Dri didn't hesitate before handing Anastasia the botanical book, who hid it under a pillow she pretended to hug.
Mrs. Tremaine came down the stairs a couple of minutes later. Anastasia noticed herself standing straighter than she had before.
'Hey my girls' said Mrs. Tremaine, placing a hand on top of both their heads when she reached them. She then looked at the empty plates in front of both her daughters. 'For God's sake, eat some fruit. Not bread, but you can have some fruit.'
'Why do they cook all this. They know we don't eat it' asked Drizella.
'Your dad does'. answered Mrs. Tremaine.
'step-dad' Anastasia was quick to correct.
Mrs. Tremaine looked at her at that - as if her words had been a challenge she would allow. 'Yeah, step-dad.' she agreed. Then she frowned. 'Why are you hugging a pillow?'
'I like this pillow. Its soft'
Mrs. Tremaine raised her eyebrows unamused as she flexed one of her hands dismissively. 'To each their own'.
A small pause.
'Excuse me' said Anastasia, as she left to go upstairs.
'Come back shortly, your new dad should be joining us soon. We'll eat as a family'.
As a family - Anastasia thought - as a pretend-family is more like it. We are rather two units. When she was out of Mrs. Tremaine sight, she turned to see Dri, she took the book out and wave it goofily around in a victory dance. Drizella snorted, covering her mouth with her hands, then quickly apologized to her mother for the disruption she caused. Anastasia took this as her queu to just head upstairs and leave the book back at Drizella's room before anyone saw her.
When she came back there were two additional figures at the dining table. Her step dad, and his daughter. The step-sister she couldn't really know what to make out of yet. As she looked at her discretely - her orderly ponytale and the blue dress she wore - Anastasia's eyes landed on her plate - she actually ate.
'You eat bacon?' asked Drizella, lacking all the discretion Anastasia had just exercised: A mouth that fires words like bullets.
'Shouldn't I?' Asked Cinderella highly confused. 'Is there a religious reason, I don't think any of us are jewish, I..' she looked at her dad for help 'I'm confused.' she finished.
Anastasia frowned - she seemed to be so easily frightened. 'To each their own' she said. Borrowing the words from her mother, but cleverly applying them so that they would convey a different meaning in this situation: two family units that pretended to be one. To each of them - their own rules. Cinderella seemed to notice this as she held Anastasia's eye contact. They were slowly finding out how different they were.
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