Prelude
Dear Janis Michelle Ezell,
This letter will not find you in good spirits. You found this letter in the red dustbin next to the books you bought me. My photo lies a little next to the lamp Kim gifted you. The photo is surrounded with clouds of questions, invisible and your hands holding a memory, not yet forgotten. Mr. Cat is distraught by the rain that is pouring, the sirens that are blazing and by the visible loss of your cotton hands on him. Your hand holds the hand of my spirit. I am Spell.
The order of events is impossible just like the equations you taught me. But it started somewhere, started when the god matched your veins with him. Him, his name is forbidden, yet joined to you. It began when I set fire to the red dustbin. The red dustbin held curses, you called them memories of love. Your diary wrote down that your daughter tried to burn polaroids of you and him, the red dustbin was still red and the pictures never caught the blaze. You hugged your daughter tight, the his speculations were coming. The river had begun to flow. Spell minus Spell’s equation had struck.
Component of equation two, Kim. The daughter of the sun, the stealer of Zeus’ thunderbolt and Bast’s companion. The one with the rosette knit sweater from grandmother, the one Mr. Cat leaves food to be embraced with, the laudable yet the one who shares the same blood with you. We are half-sisters, yet I do not share any half with her. She ran away to the maple tree island because she was smart, she couldn’t distance me from her mother. His eyes had become stronger. The river had reached the mainland. Spell minus three-fourth Spell.
Of all the stars you showed me, the sun is the strongest. You told me I could get lost, but the sun will always show me the way. You had found him, you both dictated letters in the name of the moon. But my sun told me otherwise. Your book number one taught me to not hurt someone I love. So I ran to the sun, ran because you had achieved serenity. I ran because you couldn’t see the real him. You were in love with him. Mr. Cat watched me runaway. The moon and the sun fought with each other seven yards away. But you caught me in your arms before they could decide anything. Him was succeeding. The river had reached its top. Spell minus half Spell.
My bed became yours too. You held my hand until the dawn touched the white veils. The veils knew what was to come. Him came to give me breakfast and lend a shoulder to the echoes of your soul. His breakfast was an invite to Tartarus, to the gleaming devices he controlled. Mr. Cat chose to be conscious yet quiet. Mom, you didn’t come home that night. His traps of charms had caged you, your 28th birthday deserved balloons and a cake red. The portrait of Mr. Dwight Schrute that you painted with me on your lap fell that night. Some other things fell too, the bundle of candle-lights on the redberry cake and my hand. The river was half-way through the descent. The ocean is near. Spell remains one-fourth.
The closet was filled to the brim. Our pictures with Mr. Cat, the knitted handkerchief you pinned to my pre-nursery self, me frowning on my birthday and your kiss giving me my smile back. Mr. Cat was sitting with two selves disguised by time. Spell was in a photo, Spell did not remain in this world. Him smiled in his capes. Him had reached the end. Him took my mom. Him was the devil. The river had reached Oceanus. Spell became null.
Mom, it is too late to reach this end. Him's aftermath has rained upon our cottage. My spirit cannot hold his power. Mr. Cat and I are in the loop of infinity. The second world is coming to sparks. I am fading but the river will flow again. Cherries eat people to fill the spaces in them. Him will disappear, too. Spell will become one again.
Your daughter,
Spell Count D
Act 1; Day; Vernal Equinox
Janis
The house is empty. Him came to lock the doors last evening. All that remains is me, boxes brown of taped hoodies and a packet of gummy bears that are too glittery. I told him to put up posters of Mr. Cat but the telephone is quieter than the silence Spell left. Kim is trying her best to cope with Spell’s departure. I sent her candles and cherries to feel better but there are hundred miles and two larynxes defunct between our calls.
Spell hated rains. Our curtains lied close to cover the grey crevasses of the sky. I loved rains. Our curtains are sold to the local business.
The synchrony of the rains ever since she left has created more puddles. It is raining. Him’s black screened car has come. It thundered. My boxes are now at the leather seats. Him locks the home. My face is like the rains, a grey crevasse staring onto sunflowers.
His home is under renovation. A little brighter, too many flowers being grown in a huddle and white scenic backdrop to the grey sky. His warm hands and laughter are reminiscent but as we open through another door, together, there are boxes.
Spell loved opening boxes. Our boxes held chocolates and crisps. I hated opening boxes. Our boxes held a musty smell and diaries.
I finally settled our cupboards. Him was planting flowers of peace when I remembered to capture the clouds. My canvas and brushes zoomed towards the green grass until I found a letter.
“Dear Janis Michelle Ezell”
This is when it all went red. Him’s eyes became a shade deeper. The clouds stopped raining. And all my mind remembered was.
Act 2; Night; Autumnal Equinox
Him
“Cherries eat people to fill the spaces in them.”
The night is lonely, the birds are lonelier but I have Janis. The boxes are assembled clean. She doesn’t know but I burned her curtains and the polaroids with Spell where the sunflowers grow today. Time is powerful but my step-daughter was its charioteer.
If one notices carefully, the cherry tree has changed its roots. It’s cherry but a shade darker than my eyes. The roots have changed their configurations, she is preparing her doors. Not all doors stay locked forever, some come alive after dying.
Janis is a sunflower. The blue skies stand after her. She is a feather. I am her wind.
She woke up in a daze. The orange clouds, the unfinished painting now showed me and her growing sunflowers together. She calmly agrees to the Vitamin-D loss fatigue, the doctor prescribed her.
Our hands unionise to the sun rays, the curtains hidden behind walls, our painting lies perpendicular. The door has opened.
I drive behind the home that belonged to the inveterate spelled disaster. She is a metaphor of Set, she hung the locks to the cherry tree to celebrate her coming back. Mr. Cat screamed at the iron locks while her letter rung on the blue-lit notification.
Janis. Janis. Janis.
Our sunflowers are trodden by hands. The cherry tree has devilled. The equinox parade has begun.
written by. Dahlia
painting by. Arkhip Kuindzhi (Sunset Effect, 1890)