Re: brielle & wren, gatsby
[Wren recognized the voice. She recognized the drip of betrayal in her maman's tongue, and maybe it was just hurt that made her see things behind her eyes when Brielle spoke. A bedroom, the lights dim, and pictures of Luke, barechested and smiling. There were lies in that greeting, and she was too obsessed; she knew that. Everything had to be hers, and she still hurt like barbs beneath the skin when she thought about them whispering to each other, deciding shhhh, don't tell, and she could picture it, and she hated it. It made bile rise like ashes against the back of her throat, and that shouldn't happen. She knew it shouldn't happen, because she had Luke, and the woman in the chair had nothing, but Wren wasn't always sane, and she wasn't always normal, and life had chipped away at her early and left her cracked where people couldn't see.
The chair clattered, and Wren could smell the burnt feathers on her own skin, and that was wrong. She wasn't trying to do anything. That only happened when she tried, and she wasn't trying.
But beyond photographs on a bed, she thought of a playground, of bruising fingers. She thought of Jack, and she thought of the burnt apartment building, and she thought about the way Brielle had put them all in danger. Her and Evie, and they had to hide from the police now. Her brown hair was a testament, and the woman in front of her had done so much harm, so much, and Wren bit her lip and blood bubbled.
The question came fast, and Wren meant to answer, to tell her she only wanted what was hers. She never, ever wanted to see her cousine again. The girl she'd dreamed of emulating was dead now, and maybe that was cruel, but the hurt that blossomed behind her navel wouldn't let her see anything but betrayal. She heard those whispers, whispers, whispers, and when she opened her mouth, it wasn't words that came out.
The scream was unintentional. It was her magic gone wrong, and it was a shriek that was loud enough to shatter ever single bit of glass in the room, but it wasn't directed at anything.
It was directed at the woman. Sharp and shrill, loud enough to make ears bleed, noses bleed, mouths bleed. And it didn't hurt the little bird that trilled. To her, it was nothing, and it took a minute for Wren to even realize, to understand.
She said nothing. She backed up, and she backed up, and she backed up. Her lips were pressed tight, a seam that might have been sewn with red thread, bloody from teeth and horror.