The Deeps - Volume 1, Issue 2

Estranged

C. C. Rayne

My dearest Everett,

I expect you are surprised to find this letter. I left it on the mantle so you would see it as soon as you came home. Your trip has been a long one. An eventful one, I’m sure. The newspapers say you’ve gallivanted all across the world. How wonderful that must be. The strange and terrible sights you must have seen . . .

Do you recognize my handwriting yet?

No, I don’t think you do. It’s been years, after all, since our last unpleasant meeting.

Let me introduce myself. Long ago, you knew me as your little sister. Five years ago, you threw me from this house and left me to die.

I hope this sounds familiar. It would be a shame if you’d somehow forgotten. Memory is fickle, Everett, is it not? It drowns the inconveniences—yet it dredges them up, just when we thought we’d completely laid them to rest.

We were born five years apart, you and I. You were the son, and I was a happy afterthought. This order of operations was all that could be desired. You took on the pressure and focus of the inheritor-to-be. Meanwhile, I was free to fly beneath the watchful eyes of three generations of family members. Left on my own, I explored every inch of this house, the strange cradle where they birthed and named and raised us. I loved it here. I never dreamed of traveling anywhere else. Home was placed squarely within the walls and doors and windows of the manor. Home was my little first-floor bedroom and its crackling fireplace. I was content.

How very naïve of me.

One day, when I was twelve and you were seventeen, a carnival came to town. It set itself up in the square behind our house. A tawdry mass of tents and shapes and colorful flags was visible through the wavy glass of the window. You begged to go outside, but the adults said no. There was a family reputation to uphold. There were books and letters and lessons to pursue.

They locked you in the library until you stopped trying to escape. But they didn’t pay enough attention to me. I darted wraith-like down the servants’ staircase. I made my way out through our high-walled garden and slipped through the gate.

The carnival itself held little interest for me at first. I did not know the world. I did not know the adventures I had been missing. I had simply heard your arguments with the family through the walls. I felt sorry for you. I wanted to make you happy. I wanted to bring you back something nice. Something that could decorate your room, perhaps.

As I left our home behind, however, all of these thoughts slipped away, eclipsed by awe and utter captivation. Never before had I seen a world of such wonder. I wandered through the twisting lanes, my mouth wide open with astonishment. The people at the carnival were multitudinous and wild. Acrobats walked on silk-thin wires. Contortionists squeezed through hoops the size of my head. Fire billowed from the beaming mouths of street performers.

But I was most mystified by the clothing which surrounded me. Smart suits were worn by women with long hair; skirts swirled around the ankles of tall, beaming men. After a while, I realized I could not rightly tell the gender of anyone at all. They were a mystery, a marvel, a revelation.

The world felt shaky beneath my feet. It was as if I, too, walked atop one of those high wires, balancing above this strange and fluid crowd.

I returned hours later, a paper rose between my fingers and a thousand thoughts in my mind. The flower I slipped beneath your bedroom door as a souvenir. But the thoughts—those I carried with me, as days turned to months and waned into dangerous years.

What was I to do with my newfound knowledge? The boundaries I had been taught were now as naught. The stringent rules of masculine and feminine were a lie. In the face of this upheaval, I did not know what to do. For years and years, I kept myself hidden in my room. I dared not ask questions, lest I get into some deep trouble.

As time passed, though, my fear turned to wonder, and then to curiosity. I do believe, Everett, that curiosity is the most beautiful of emotions. I do not blame my curiosity for what happened next. No, no, I do not blame myself, although it would be easy.

One day, our family were all engrossed in meetings and mutterings and grand affairs of state. I slipped from my room and made my way up towards the grand wardrobe. As noble children, you and I were not allowed to dress ourselves. A separate dressing room was needed to hold our clothes.

Do you remember that room, Everett? Hidden deep within the labyrinth of the central floors? Even for our house, it was particularly ornate; its doors all grand and golden, as if a ballroom was hidden behind. But on this particular morning, no one was using the dressing room. The key had been abandoned in the lock.

With quick-beating heart, I opened up the doors. My clothes hung shimmering in one closet, and your clothes in the other.

A thrill ran through me. I slid aside the curtain that had long concealed your half of the dressing room. As I stared at the racks of jackets and pants, I realized something. Though years apart in age, the past several years had seen us very similar in stature and size. No one was watching me. Might I not be able to try your clothes upon my body, as if they were my own?

It was not long before I was ornamenting myself in your finest attire—a fancy hat, a gleaming coat, a tailored suit, the shiniest possible shoes. My choices clashed merrily, a thousand times more awkward than the carnival tents. But I did not care one bit.

Instead, I stared in wonder at the perfect person who had appeared in the mirror. She did not feel like the correct word for what I saw. He, rather, felt much more appropriate. Yet I had not become you, Everett, nor any of our relations.

The person in the mirror was unknown. He could have been anyone, from anywhere or any time. I realized with a growing, dawning joy that I could name him anything I liked. He did not even have to be a he.

What stories could this mirror-self of mine step into? What worlds could it inhabit? What strange lives could it lead?

I had to know more. I stood transfixed in front of the mirror for longer than I should have, fixing your cufflinks, trying to unravel the mysterious knots of your bow ties.

Long years of being left alone had not taught me caution. Two decades of being forgotten must have made me careless. Perhaps that is why I neglected to close the curtain behind me. For, in my happiness, I did not see you enter the dressing room. Not until it was far too late to conceal what I had done.

The shock of our family was terrible and swift. The outrage, which followed on its heels, was brutal.

I remember that of all our beloved relations, it was you who had the final say. The rest had made up their minds, of course. I was a freak, caught in unconscious defiance, its evidence still hanging from my form. There was no way to save my reputation, no way to sway their minds. But tradition dictated a unanimous vote, and rows of old eyes turned to you to hear the decisive word.

You were raised to be one of us, they reminded you. What had their teachings said? What had their upbringing bestowed?

There was a long silence before you spoke. Yet you did speak.

Send her away, you said. You could not look me in the eye. Your gaze stayed locked to the fireplace flames, no matter how much I screamed. Send her away; let us put an end to this. It’s the kindest thing to do.

In another story, I would generously acknowledge the truth that lies behind this scene. You felt guilty, Everett. You were unsure about your baby sister. You were reluctant to condemn her for her strangeness and her wrongness, hesitant to leave the freak. Perhaps this was love for me. Or perhaps it was just a heavy conscience.

But I have had time to think. And here is what I think: I hate you most of all. The others, they have no hearts. They never have. But you—you had a heart, and you turned it against me anyway. What do I care if you were hesitant? To me, this hesitation is the deepest wound.

I was taken from the house by footmen as you locked the door behind me. I was bundled into a carriage that thundered down the cobblestone streets of the city and out into the marshlands which surrounded it. We traveled many hours through the trees before we came to a stone tower. It had been part of a mill, once, long ago—an old wreck our family had bought, but since allowed to fall into disrepair.

Hands pulled me from the carriage. Servants carried me up the stairs. I struggled despite it all, the embers of rebellion flaring in my stomach.

But it was no use. They tossed me into a small room at the top of the milltower. They tied my wrist to the bed so I could not escape. The door swung shut, heedless of my yelling. A key turned in the lock. Footsteps receded.

Silence ruled all. For the first time in my life, I was truly alone.

Free to be weak, I clutched my chest and cried. I know not how long I lay there—helpless, furious, grieving, blaming myself.

My tears were for you, too, my dearest brother. I had not learned to hate you that night—not yet, not yet. I only knew you had cast me out. I only knew that you had called it love.

When my tears came to an end, I sat up and looked around. The old mill was more mud and sludge than stone. Murky rainwater dripped down from gaps in the roof. The edifice rose so high that not even dark treetops were visible through the window. I felt that at any minute, the tower might collapse and take me with it.

Slowly, I wormed my wrist from its restraint. Overcome with weariness, I collapsed upon the bed and fell asleep.

This is where my story takes a turn. It would seem strange and fanciful, too magical to be real—save for the fact that I live it myself and know its truth.

If there is a God, he must be a devilish man, or else he too was fast asleep. For as I lay in the lonely tower that fateful night, my dreams were filled with thoughts of a new shape. This shape, it was a thousand different shapes. It was an endless mask, which would stretch across my face and fit my soul to the body I was born with.

I woke and threw myself from the bed in a fit of passion. I rushed about the desolate tower—once my prison, but now to be my chamber of rebirth.

You were in charge of my imprisonment, Everett, were you not? The tower had been stocked with little food and even less water, but there was no shortage of sharp implements in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. Perhaps you wanted me to starve to death. Or perhaps you thought that by leaving me these things, you were granting me some mercy. A kind way out.

I wonder if you think that now. When I made my new self, kindness was the first thing I removed. After all, my brother, you seem to pride yourself on it. I am willing to let that virtue be yours and yours alone.

I took every sharp implement I could find, and tore the shreds of my mismatched outfit from my body. Soon, the rest of the room followed suit. I segmented the mattress, splintered the bedframe, broke the window, shredded the wrist-rope into tiny pieces.

With all the strength remaining in my body, I wove this odd wreckage together. No seamstress could have done a finer job. As the sun slowly sunk once more, a garment formed, dyed red in blood from my bruised and blistered hands.

I must have been half-dead when I wrapped this shroud around me. I had not eaten nor slept all day, so focused was I on my task.

But the moment the thing touched my skin, I felt a new strength seep through me, like water poured upon parched land. The room grew real once again. My eyes focused; my heart beat bravely in my chest. My limbs were filled with vigor. My mind felt clear.

When I looked down at myself, my clothes bore no resemblance to my ramshackle creation. Instead, I was wrapped in a fine suit of black and white. My hair was short now, shiny and windswept.

A strange weight pressed upon my face. When I raised my hands, I found that a mask covered my eyes. It was a queer little thing, free from gold or lace or any ornate filigree. Its lines were simple, and its color quite drab and plain. No straps held it in place. It simply hovered inches above my nose—a delicate obstruction, a new view on the world.

I do not know how long I stood in the tower, admiring my shape. Eventually, though, I snapped myself out of my stupor. I climbed into the shattered window frame. I let myself fall—one story, two stories, five stories, ten stories down. The wind embraced me, yet not one strand of hair was blown out of place.

When I hit the marshland far below, I surfaced intact. When I crawled from the muck minutes later, I emerged pristine. When I walked away, not a stain or scratch remained on my new suit.

You see, I finally knew that I was beautiful. The strength I felt was nothing compared to my beauty. I could feel beauty in the marrow of my bones, in the tilt of my head and the gentle twist of my wrist. I understood Narcissus, finally, and Dorian Gray. Beauty curled in my stomach and made me shiver. Beauty bled from me, and the bleeding made me whole.

I stared drunkenly in puddles of rainwater as I walked. Though it was night, I could still see my reflection. I glowed, Everett! My face shone brighter than the sun, bolder than the stars, hotter than any celestial object. As I passed through the darkened forest, the trees were set aflame by my beauty. I imagine they are still burning—a whirlwind of scorched ash, perpetual destruction, an endless forest fire. A monument to me.

I went to bed that night in a small inn on the outskirts of the city. I did not have a plan for what to do, though perhaps some part of me wanted to join you again. I knew it was impossible, yet still I wanted. Whatever I looked like, my heart remained the same.

But there were so many new and fascinating ways to look! I learned this when I woke up the next morning. The little room was equipped with a looking-glass. Within it, my face was now stained with all the shades of the rainbow. Glittering pigments decorated my eyes and lips. My short hair had been changed into glossy curls. My clothes from the previous night were still there, but risqué robes and dresses were draped beside them on my dressing table.

The masquerade mask was the only thing that had remained unchanged. It had not left my face when I fell asleep. Its color was still altogether bland—too bland to merit description. No part of me felt robbed by this realization, Everett. Rather, I was in awe once more, a small child wandering the carnival.

I spent the next weeks in odd rooms and queer back alleys. Each morning, I delighted in seeing what new being I would be. Man, woman, neither, both—all took their turns before the mirror.

If there is a God, he must be a devilish man to reshape me so. And as I learned more, I blessed him for it. I had become a mystery and marvel, Everett! An utter shapeshifter, a freakish revelation. I felt as if I was flying, soaring through the air. I did not wish to return to solid ground.

My travels led me out of the city, to faraway lands and misty, distant seas. For some time, I worked aboard a boat. But when one is at sea, sailors often ask too many questions, and there are precious few places one can run. A year was spent in careful clergy work. Another year I whiled away in rest and contemplation. But I grew hungry, Everett—hungry for my world of wonders. What man or woman or devil could feel otherwise?

So I made my way back to the city, money in my pocket and purpose in my eyes. I wished to find my carnival again. Perhaps I’d even buy myself a paper rose.

The tents and flags were long since gone, of course. I was naïve to hope otherwise. But I set about searching for other entertainment. I believe I read too many novels as a child; it took only a matter of months to wheedle my way into all parts of society. With my ever-changing shapes and names and faces, there was nowhere I was unable to go.

And then I waited. My gaze on the newspaper, I kept track of your whereabouts. Some nights, when you were out, I even called to say hello. The family took me in. They gave me cakes and little cups of tea. They never knew, of course. How could they ever know that it was me?

The house is quiet, Everett, isn’t it? You have arrived home to a strange letter, and a very quiet house.

Surely by now, you must be wondering why.

Perhaps you have figured it out. Or perhaps you simply are trying to deny it. She wouldn’t do that, you have been telling yourself. She wouldn’t do that—not to her family, those who birthed her, those who named her, those who raised her. My beautiful baby sister . . . she wouldn’t do that.

With a smile, I will impart to you the truth.

I am everything but your sister. And I will do whatever I so please.

There are some tableaus so terrible as to be incomprehensible. There are some images no person wants to see. Fingers in the front hall, for example. Blood on the billiards table. Limbs in the living room. Eyeballs by the stove. Neatly braided organs. Bodies that garland flagstones with their gore.

These pictures I posit are hard to comprehend, aren’t they? You do not wish to see them, do you, Everett?

But you cannot turn back. The front door has swung shut, and the house has locked you in. There is no way out but forward.

There is no one left but you.

In days to come, I expect you’ll hate me for this. I am your horror story. I have torn your family apart. This letter is my confession, but it will earn you no arrest, no trial, no execution. You’ll try to track me down—a futile goal, fueled by that vain spark that masquerades as love. But you are a liar if you say you understand me. And you are a fool if you think you know where you can find me.

I have disappeared, just as I was always meant to. I am a new person now. I will be another person tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. I will live a hundred thousand perfect lives. I will wake up in whatever shape I choose. I’ll be male and female, horrible and beautiful, living and dead, everything in between.

But you . . . you will only ever be my older brother.

You will not recover from this. What person could? I have abandoned you now, trapped you and tricked you and shackled you in place. I have locked you up in this tomb of grief and guilt.

How sad, really, that you cannot break yourself free.