Magda's in a bathtub. Dirty, grimy porcelain, surrounded by the grey tiling of a motel bathroom. She stares up at the light above her: a moth slams again and again into it, flying dizzy, confused circles around the bulb.
You're going to die, Magda thinks.
All things do. ]
I'll come back, [ she says eventually. Quietly. ] I promise. Just— not right now.
[ (The bulb flickers. Stella laughs as Magda holds her chin, tries to apply her lipstick. She can do it herself, but it's a ritual by this point. The little things they do to take care of each other. This time next week, I'll be gone, she says, as she stands to inspect her reflection in the mirror. Maybe we'll go to Vegas, get married by Elvis. Maybe Paris. Her eyes catch her sister's in the mirror. You should come with us.
This time next week. This time next week, Stella shows up dead.) ]
Okay.
[ The conversation stretches. Long swathes of silence, indicative of the dark that's fallen over the house since— ]
Magda had clamped down the flare of jealousy, then. She'd just laughed. Kissed Stella on the corner of her mouth, even though it meant she'd have to reapply the lipstick, that the bright red bow of her lips sat like a mark against Stella's jaw.
Of course I will, Magda had said. Because Stella was a dreamer, everyone knew that, and the cruel thing to do would have been to say But he doesn't even love you.
You'd really choose him over us?) ]
No. It's okay.
[ Her answer comes out a little breathless, on the end of a hiccup. She sounds— tired, more than sad, more than the grief that makes her want to go back to the dark underneath the bed.
There's another pause. And then, softly (all instinct, call and response):— ]
On Friday morning, Gael wakes to the faint sound of a song. It's almost like a dream in how muffled it is. He follows it through the complex — he's slept in the little room he keeps in the club in case of late nights, in case it's better for him to keep an eye out, and a girl gone missing means both of the above — until the timbre of it becomes clearer. It's a phone ringtone.
There's already a crowd forming by the time he finds the body. The screen's lighting on and off in Stella's limp hand, a name — 🔮 maggie 👯💕✨ — flashing on the screen. Oh, you don't know, continues the song. You don't know what I go through seeing someone else with you. Oh, I wish the one with you were me.) ]
I love you, too.
[ Instinct. He would — will — kill for these girls. ]
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Magda's in a bathtub. Dirty, grimy porcelain, surrounded by the grey tiling of a motel bathroom. She stares up at the light above her: a moth slams again and again into it, flying dizzy, confused circles around the bulb.
You're going to die, Magda thinks.
All things do. ]
I'll come back, [ she says eventually. Quietly. ] I promise. Just— not right now.
no subject
This time next week. This time next week, Stella shows up dead.) ]
Okay.
[ The conversation stretches. Long swathes of silence, indicative of the dark that's fallen over the house since— ]
—Do you want me to stay on the line?
no subject
Magda had clamped down the flare of jealousy, then. She'd just laughed. Kissed Stella on the corner of her mouth, even though it meant she'd have to reapply the lipstick, that the bright red bow of her lips sat like a mark against Stella's jaw.
Of course I will, Magda had said. Because Stella was a dreamer, everyone knew that, and the cruel thing to do would have been to say But he doesn't even love you.
You'd really choose him over us?) ]
No. It's okay.
[ Her answer comes out a little breathless, on the end of a hiccup. She sounds— tired, more than sad, more than the grief that makes her want to go back to the dark underneath the bed.
There's another pause. And then, softly (all instinct, call and response):— ]
Love you, Gael.
no subject
On Friday morning, Gael wakes to the faint sound of a song. It's almost like a dream in how muffled it is. He follows it through the complex — he's slept in the little room he keeps in the club in case of late nights, in case it's better for him to keep an eye out, and a girl gone missing means both of the above — until the timbre of it becomes clearer. It's a phone ringtone.
There's already a crowd forming by the time he finds the body. The screen's lighting on and off in Stella's limp hand, a name — 🔮 maggie 👯💕✨ — flashing on the screen. Oh, you don't know, continues the song. You don't know what I go through seeing someone else with you. Oh, I wish the one with you were me.) ]
I love you, too.
[ Instinct. He would — will — kill for these girls. ]
Be careful, querida.