The stage lights sprawl hot across her back. Warm, large palms on either shoulder, resolute in their holding of her; a father's hands. She's killed men and women for him. She's sweat a hundred times her weight for him. She's denied herself the small hedonisms most humans enjoy thoughtlessly for the fear she might grow lazy and complacent. That one day of shirking might turn to two, three, four, a week, a month, a year, several. Giving up. She doesn't give up. She won't give up. She can't give up.
Carolina's shadow swells, reverent mother spilling out across the floor in front of her. Creeping, bulking, swallowing Connecticut into its center. The shadow is wide-shouldered and strong-armed. The shadow's ponytail buffers against a staged wind. The shadow is a blueprint. The shadow is a narrow window in which she's meant to fit herself into. Become the shadow or be nothing at all. Live up to the expectation or die trying.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Killing for her father— doing whatever he'd asked of her time and time again— hadn't brought them together. Of course it hadn't.
So I'll kill him. I'll make him pay.
She'll kill her father. Make him look her in the eye. She doesn't know how she'll do it, only that he'll be looking at her. On his knees, maybe. Begging for forgiveness. I'm sorry, daughter. I love you, daughter. Please don't kill me. Look at me, Catherine. Look at me.
Who're you kidding?
Tick.
What about her?
Tick.
You haven't forgotten, have you?
Tick.
She closes her fingers around the handles of twin tomahawks. They're semi-transparent in her hands. Strange stage magic.
Carolina moves forward. It doesn't matter which Connecticut is real because she knows she'll strike both. She has two tomahawks. Connie never stood a chance. There's nowhere for her to go. The shadow surrounds her at all sides. Texas kills Connecticut; that's the story. No amount of physical resistance, of gritting her teeth or squinting her eyes or locking her elbow keeps her arm from raising. She hurls the first tomahawk through the air. It flies, visible to the audience for only a moment, enough to make its existence known, before disappearing into the first Connecticut's chest. The demon rolls off stage.
I don't want this.
Please don't make me do it.
She throws her arm back, tomahawk pointed skyward.
Please please please please—
And in a final act of defiance, coupled by utter silence from the pit and audience— a moment frozen in waiting— Carolina screams a baritone animal's scream.
The second tomahawk whizzes through the air and strikes Connecticut in the chest.
no subject
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The stage lights sprawl hot across her back. Warm, large palms on either shoulder, resolute in their holding of her; a father's hands. She's killed men and women for him. She's sweat a hundred times her weight for him. She's denied herself the small hedonisms most humans enjoy thoughtlessly for the fear she might grow lazy and complacent. That one day of shirking might turn to two, three, four, a week, a month, a year, several. Giving up. She doesn't give up. She won't give up. She can't give up.
Carolina's shadow swells, reverent mother spilling out across the floor in front of her. Creeping, bulking, swallowing Connecticut into its center. The shadow is wide-shouldered and strong-armed. The shadow's ponytail buffers against a staged wind. The shadow is a blueprint. The shadow is a narrow window in which she's meant to fit herself into. Become the shadow or be nothing at all. Live up to the expectation or die trying.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Killing for her father— doing whatever he'd asked of her time and time again— hadn't brought them together. Of course it hadn't.
So I'll kill him. I'll make him pay.
She'll kill her father. Make him look her in the eye. She doesn't know how she'll do it, only that he'll be looking at her. On his knees, maybe. Begging for forgiveness. I'm sorry, daughter. I love you, daughter. Please don't kill me. Look at me, Catherine. Look at me.
Who're you kidding?
Tick.
What about her?
Tick.
You haven't forgotten, have you?
Tick.
She closes her fingers around the handles of twin tomahawks. They're semi-transparent in her hands. Strange stage magic.
Carolina moves forward. It doesn't matter which Connecticut is real because she knows she'll strike both. She has two tomahawks. Connie never stood a chance. There's nowhere for her to go. The shadow surrounds her at all sides. Texas kills Connecticut; that's the story. No amount of physical resistance, of gritting her teeth or squinting her eyes or locking her elbow keeps her arm from raising. She hurls the first tomahawk through the air. It flies, visible to the audience for only a moment, enough to make its existence known, before disappearing into the first Connecticut's chest. The demon rolls off stage.
I don't want this.
Please don't make me do it.
She throws her arm back, tomahawk pointed skyward.
Please please please please—
And in a final act of defiance, coupled by utter silence from the pit and audience— a moment frozen in waiting— Carolina screams a baritone animal's scream.
The second tomahawk whizzes through the air and strikes Connecticut in the chest.