PORCELAIN

Because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead, you will not let your holy one see decay. Acts 2:27 Kate It was a feeling of the train floor swaying once under my feet and then holding still for a long moment, building up the force to propel itself forward. Always the same unexpected powerful jolt of the Earth going away from underneath me and then nothing... I wasn’t sure where the metaphor came from or why it stuck with me, since the most of the traveling I’ve done in my life happened either by plane or car, or both. My train rides were few and far between, neither one memorable enough to explain where the paralyzing pang of panic came from or where it went with the next gulp of air I forced through my lungs. Instinctively, I looked over my shoulder, searching through the crowd of familiar faces for something, anything… “Oh, great,” Iris grunted under her breath, dragging me forward, her arm looped through my elbow, “the creep is here.” I shot one last uneasy glance at the towering bulk of St. Magdalena, casting it’s crooked shadow over the two streets ahead of us, before giving my full attention to Iris’s complaints and froze mid-turn. Something among the ghostly saints and monsters adorning its many towers shifted. It might’ve been a bird or a plastic bag caught and carried up by the unseasonably chilly bursts of wind that hit New Augusta in the last couple of weeks, but my lizard brain seized up anyway, locking my feet and closing my throat. “Kate?” Iris called, her voice strangely distant all of a sudden, her movements in the periphery of my vision nearly nonexistent as I focused on the cluster of reliefs and statues above so hard I threatened to give myself a second nosebleed of the day. And then Iris’s face took over the frame of my vision, her brilliant hazel eyes wide with concern and her perfect coppery brows raised in that slightly exasperated, but mostly expectant way that made it impossible for anyone, nevermind myself, to disregard her. And just like that, my lizard brain was reduced back to its usual secondary role of a rudimentary organ, my slightly superior conscious brain spending all the effort it could master on processing Iris’s translucent alabaster skin and long feathery lashes, and coils of rose-gold hair spilling down to her waist. In our deep green St. Magdalena uniform that consisted of a modest below-the-knee plaid skirt, white shirt and a blazer, she somehow managed to look like Lolita’s older more discreet sister. Which in no way made Iris any more restrained, or any less a force of nature. In the two years since Elijah and I moved to New Augusta, I outlived four boyfriends, one of whom was St. Magdalena’s visiting professor. At the end of the day though, and for whatever reason, Iris always loved me best, so none of her bursting romances had any amount of staying power. I knew it probably wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but with Iris everything felt like one. Which meant a lot of resentment from the people she brushed off with remarkable consistency, and one wildly outstanding exception. To that day I still didn’t know what made her choose me out of all the friends she could’ve had instead of this tame apathetic porcelain doll, inferiority complex not included. “You okay, Kitten?” Iris studied my face carefully, from the tense crease in my forehead I knew she hated, to my chapped lips catching air in sharp gasps like a fish out of the water. “Yeah, thought I saw something,” I muttered breathless, almost looking past her at the adorned gothic peak behind her shoulder, but catching myself last minute, “You were saying?” Distaste immediately replaced concern on her face, and I gratefully nodded to whichever generous god that created her, for Iris’s limited attention span. “I was saying,” she scowled attractively and pointedly past me at the road, where Elijah has no doubt parked his truck, “that your freaky brother should really find himself a new hobby. I mean, you aren’t twelve anymore, for Christ sake!” Technically, Elijah wasn’t my brother. It’s just what we told people. He used to be my uncle when I started primary school, and then my brother when we moved to New Augusta and it’s become obvious that he didn’t change much. But I shushed Iris before she could really wind herself up into a tantrum anyway. “Don’t,” I shook my head at her, squeezing her arm in warning, “I’ve heard this before, remember? And I know everything you want to say, and you know what I’m going to say. I don’t mind. Elijah’s been through a lot after our parents died, it’s more difficult for him because he remembers them so much better than I do. And he had a really hard time in the system, so the idea of being away from me again-” “Yeah-yeah, poor Elijah,” Iris interrupted me bitterly, her voice so full of acid it almost made me recoil, “Let’s give him a nice short leash for Christmas so he could keep you at arms length…” She rolled her eyes, clearly meaning it as a feeble attempt at humor, but I couldn’t help the slither of ice that turned heavily in my stomach at her words. I wondered again, as I’ve been with disturbingly growing frequency, if Iris has come too close, if she saw too much… And there were things I never wanted her to know, for more reasons than one. I’ve been old enough for a while now to know that my relationship with Elijah wasn’t exactly conformative for a guardian and ward, that we really were, by most people’s standards. I mean, he never hurt me, not really, but then I didn’t think many of my classmates spent any lengths of time in barred locked basements while they’ve been growing up. Which was somewhere around the top of the list of things that I didn’t want Iris to know about me. For one, because she wouldn’t understand. I knew this, since even I had a hard time understanding for a while. A few years back, when it really occurred to me that we didn’t lead the proverbial normal life and that some things about Elijah’s care might’ve been filed away under the tab of child abuse by people who wore a suit and tie to work, it messed with my head for weeks. I didn’t have much in terms of childhood memories, the extent of it was pretty much the vague sense of being scared a lot and sleeping in cheap motels by day, and driving by night. And then there was the basement and days when Elijah was the thing that scared me the most. I hated thinking about it like that, from the outsiders point of view, from the point of view of someone who didn’t and wouldn’t understand… It put me in a vicious circle of superficial shame and guilt, because I knew better than that. I knew Elijah and Elijah was family, my only family with the blue stamp and all. It shouldn’t have made much difference, but I still couldn’t shake the wild irrational sense of relief that washed over me every time I saw the adoption papers. It still didn't all make sense, like the name on my birth certificate - Katerina Ignatus-Pavlovska, that somehow became Kate Keighley in all American documents. But it wasn’t much of a subject with Elijah. So at the end of the day, the thing that had to matter was that he kept me safe as best he could, as best he knew how. It wasn’t fair to judge him from the standpoint of anyone who didn’t know our story firsthand and if it was down to the two of us, no one ever would. Some of this must’ve reflected on my face because Iris immediately backtracked. “Come on, K! You know I’m not serious,” she threw her hands in the air, then took a deep breath before meeting my eye, “It’s just that I wish you had it in you to stand up to people or something... Makes me mad how you let everyone get their way.” Iris had a mother who was more attached to a wide spectrum of semi-legal substances and serial dalliances, than her own daughter and a father with some great expectations, multiple of which Iris would never be able to live up to for a wrong set of genitals at the very least. She might’ve as well been born with a degree in standing up to people. In comparison to her home life, mine was a bedtime story. But I knew perfectly well that bringing up any of it would only give her a reason to feel angry rather than sorry, and Iris had a lot of nasty temper in her athletic 5”4’, 125 lbs body. So instead, I said: “Doesn’t make you that mad, when I let you get your way,” and lifted a corner of my wide mouth in a pointed smirk. Iris gave me a speculative once-over, considering whether it was worth getting into an argument, and then conceded, grinning back. “You are absolutely impossible, Kate Keighley,” she decided, leaning down a kissing me affectionately on the cheek, “Run along then! Tell the creep I said ‘hi’.” I felt slightly lightheaded, momentarily intoxicated by the mixed scents of Iris’s perfume - water lily and peach - and her makeup - vanilla and powder - and her skin - licorice and rosemary. I tried to gather myself together enough to walk straight, but the fog lingered. “Leave it alone, Iris,” I almost managed to sound effectively annoyed. “Yeah-yeah,” she waved me off, “Love you, kitten.” “Love you more,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying back. Elijah barely looked at me as I slid onto the front passenger seat, letting my backpack drop at my feet with a heavy thud. His brow was furrowed, making his usually apathetic face grim, the expression strongly supported by the hard line of his lips, pressed together so tight they blended in with the rest of his pale face. The stubble made him look older, which is why he barely ever shaved these days and the bruise-like shadows under his eyes seemed somehow deeper since I last saw him that morning. “What took so long?” He murmured under his breath, barely audible over the rumble of the engine as he sharply twisted the key in the ignition. “Iris,” I replied just as quietly in a matter of explanation, taking my eyes off of him and focusing on a pattern of slate-grey and taupe lines criss-crossing over the green background of my St. Magdalena skirt, “She said ‘hi’.” “That girl is a full-time job,” Elijah shifted in his seat to roll out of his spot, finally honoring me with a sliding glance, which to my relief looked almost amused, “I don’t know how you put up with her.” I smiled up at the windshield, letting it get just a little bit smug. “She says the same thing about you, you know,” I whispered conspiratorially to him, as if there was something in my life Elijah didn’t know about. His responding scoff was soft and muted, like most things about Elijah, and I relaxed gradually and fitfully into the comfort of the truck’s shotgun as he drove safely as ever away from St. Magdalena Academy and New Augusta, leaving the whole world in the rearview. That was mostly it for conversation. I spent the rest of the half hour drive it took to reach the edge of the property staring out of my window at the wall of pines that occasionally broke into an old out-of-use gas station or a cluster of houses clinging to a ranch. Then I watched Elijah go through the motions of leaving the truck with the engine idling on the curb to get the padlock on the gates, moving with a little overstated efficiency, like he was too exhausted to spare any more than the bare minimum of required energy. Afterwards it was a matter of minutes before the old mashroom of a house peeked from between the unavoidable pines. It was impossible to get a clear view of the house, nestled in a small rocky clearing, no matter which direction you chose to look at it, but the first feature that always caught my eye was a steep dark roof, patched with moss and sprinkled with needles. Next was a dim amber porch with four steps leading up to it from the crooked front yard. Overall, it had this sense of a natural formation in organic hues that varied from warm golden-brown to anthracite. It was supposed to be an old servant house that outlived the main building by a long shot. The most of it we found when Elijah took me out on one of his hunting trips, was a charred fern-smothered foundation. The house suited Elijah with his plaid flannels, sturdy jeans and hunting rifles. It set him at ease… Despite all the places we’ve called home through the years, this was the home, capital ‘H’. Even now, as I reached for the passenger door, I could feel the stillness settle into him, ground him. Always watching my back, Elijah took a long deep breath, killed the engine and stepped out of the truck behind me. I hefted a strap of my overstuffed backpack on one shoulder and trudged forward placing my slippery shoes carefully onto the uneven rocks underfoot. “Kate,” he called mildly. Distracted, I turned to look at him over my shoulder in time with the artificial snap of his phone camera. Elijah took two more pictures before I could unfold my well-practiced scowl, saved primarily for this particular routine, and quickly flipped between the shots, choosing. I sighed, gritting my teeth. He raised his phone to my eye-level and turned it so that the screen was facing me. If I had nothing more than that photo to go by, I’d probably buy the siblings story no questions asked. With my lips pressed tightly together and my eyes so wide they took over my face completely, made greener than they usually were by the forest scene in the background, there was some inexplicable similarity between Elijah and me. I had more color in my face though, my nose and cheeks turned faintly pink from the unseasonable coolness in the air, and my bones looked too fragile to have came from the same place as his, brittle. My face looked like a porcelain doll, his - like a marble sculpture. My hair was a frizzy mahogany mane, his looked deliberately tousled, even though I’ve never seen him do anything other than roll out of bed with it. Overall, I looked more breakable than Elijah, but also more alive… Eventually I just shrugged. I might’ve had more to say if I knew the purpose of the regular photoshoot, but I didn’t ask anymore. So instead, I fumbled with my keys getting the locks, while Elijah fumbled with his phone, his expression dark and resigned. I left him to it, letting the door fall shut behind me and leaving my cursed backpack in the corner next to it. The familiar smells of dust and wood, both hardwood floors, old paneling on the walls and the fresh logs in the fireplace, mixed with camomile and thyme, licorice and honeysuckle, filled my lungs and eased the tension in my back. I rubbed my sore shoulder. The house was even smaller inside than it seemed from the outside, which meant that I could see through the cramped living room and into the kitchen from where I stood by the door. It was already furnished when we moved in and we never did much to the place except take off the white sheets that were covering everything and give the rooms a thorough dusting. So it didn’t look particularly coherent, but just like the exterior, it fit. The newest bit of furniture we had was probably the tan leather sofa with stiff polished chestnut frame and gilded legs from the fifties, the rest of it was a mismatch of whitewashed Victorian drawers and crude driftwood shelves, and stone, and deer skins. The kitchen loomed ominously through with its shabby intricate cabinets and black marble tabletop, complete with an out-of-place rounded white fridge and a bulky stove, neither of which were probably safe to use anymore. I was suddenly so hungry it made me dizzy, the tell-tale prickling in my permanently freezing fingers reminding me to take my iron pills first. Carefully orchestrating my clumsy limbs to avoid a surprise trip to the ER, I steered myself towards the first story bathroom. In a flickering yellowish light my muddled reflection didn’t look at all like Elijah, it looked like a mummified corpse that wasn’t necessarily human to begin with. My skin clung to the sharp points of my skull, creating violent shadows in the hollows of my eyes and cheekbones, my wide mouth looked too red, like a long bloody gash along my jaw. Annoyed, I pushed the mirror cabinet door open and locked my prickling fingers around a transparent orange prescription bottle that read in a faded print: Kate Smith, Iron Deficiency Anemia. I swallowed two of the pills as prescription said, and left the cabinet open on my way out unwilling to face my twisted reflection again. On my carefully thought out route to the kitchen I wondered as usual if they were real, more specifically if they were really anemia pills. From what I gathered from the internet Iron Deficiency Anemia was managed via the means of food supplements, a diet and medical observation. I’ve never seen the doctor in my life, or at least not since I could remember and even though the pills were in constant demand, the refills always appeared in the same old bottle. Thankfully, they never failed to make me feel better, because that at least meant that I didn’t have to bring it up with Elijah. When I got a steak out of the fridge and some seasoning to marinate it with, he was still outside, his silhouette sharp against the slate grey weathered planks of the woodshed. Usually, when he needed to clear his head he would pace around it in circles for hours, or chop wood, or set up a bonfire. Today though, the shape in the corner of my eye was still, so I wondered idly as I smeared oil over the unnaturally red slice of meat in front of me if he was still on his phone… That wasn’t like Elijah, he usually treated his cell phone with loathing and repulsion that most people saved for vermin and contagious disease... Just then a muffled thud came from the bathroom without warning, forcing me violently out of my reverie. My heart stopped and my short nails dug convulsively into the slick flesh of the steak, my stomach plummeting into my throat, closing my windpipe and making me nauseous. “You left the medicine cabinet open again,” Elijah complained in a low voice only audible because the house was so small and the walls were so thin. “S-sorry,” I choked, my pant breaking twice on the way out, and then tried again. I must’ve done a pretty pathetic job of it, because a half-second later he barreled into the room with an expression suggesting that the thought of me being strangled, or at the very least held hostage did cross his mind. I was fine. It was all fine. Elijah was there. Elijah was with me. But if Elijah was with me, who did I see outside? Letting the meat drop back onto the chopping board, I swirled away from Elijah, my eyes wild, and stared out of the small window over the sink. The shed stood still and grey as ever, surrounded by piles of wood for chopping. There was no one next to it. The air that whooshed out of my lungs sounded more like a sob than a sigh of relief, which made Elijah step closer again, his footsteps so soft I could barely distinguish them even when he was five feet away from me. I sobbed again and wanted to bury my face in my palms, but they were still covered in oil and bits of meat, so I compromised by holding them up and pressing my wrists to my forehead. Then, I finally managed to get my breathing in order. “Kate?” Elijah called, sounding of all people, exactly like Iris did in the school yard, anxious and wary. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assured him, letting my filthy hands drop to my sides, “Imagination running wild, is all.” He didn’t look particularly convinced, but I didn’t have anything else to offer, so eventually I just turned back to the sink and busied myself with trying to get the water running without smearing the handles. Elijah was so quiet it was impossible to tell if he was still in the room. I glanced over my shoulder. He was, and still worked up judging by the sharp glint in his eye. “You’re hovering,” I reminded him mildly, which wasn’t unusual or even especially uncomfortable, but maybe Iris had a point, “The dinner will take some time.” Elijah didn’t respond and I didn’t look up to see if he was still there, because I didn’t want to look paranoid. Finally, the ancient boxy tv with a curved screen flickered to life in the living room with a sound kind of like a match being lit, and muted sounds of some game drifted over to me. Elijah switched channels until he got the local news, and I knew what was going to be the main story of the day before it ever came on. “A 21 year old student of St. Jude University in New Augusta, Washington was found dead on the outskirts of town,” a cool professional voice of a female news host carried over to where I stood frozen, waiting, my stinging eyes fixed unseeingly on the goddamn woodshed, barely visible now in the setting dusk. Elijah switched back to the game we both knew he wasn’t watching. I sniffed quietly, willed my hands to stop shaking and started peeling potatoes. Almost an hour later, after a silent meal that Elijah nibbled apathetically at and I all but forced down my throat, when I was just about to start on my homework and he was drying the dishes, a phone vibrated in his pocket. I set my copy of Wuthering Heights very deliberately on the dining table. Elijah finished drying the plate he was holding. The phone continued to buzz. The phone that he never used except to take photos of me. I felt hollowed out, limp and unsteady, lightheaded, like there suddenly wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. Elijah stepped outside through the back door without a look in my direction, and closed it carefully behind him without a word. Two minutes later the truck’s engine roared to life. I blinked heavily and felt something drip down my chin onto my copy of Wuthering Heights. Faintly, I ran my unfeeling fingers over my dry cheek, and then I looked down. There was blood.