❮ in memoriam of us ; summer&mackenzie ❯

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

summer rochelle

" the lights go out, I am all alone
all the trees outside are buried in the snow
I spend my night dancing with my own shadow
and it holds me and it n e v e r lets me go "

Once, Summer Rochelle hated silence.

Now, she hates how no one cares when she breaks it. An unsteady breath, heels against a marble floor, tiny sounds that mean nothing — but she still strains her ears, hoping for those bitter words. 'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.' They never come. No porcelain on the ground, no furious eyes. Just sad ones. All the fine china has been locked away. And Summer's mirror has been covered with a black shroud, buried beneath a garden she has no time to tend; and the roses are dying. Everything is dying. All that's left is decay.

Wynter Rochelle is dead.

Mackenzie Pryce is a survivor. That's what matters. It still feels like she's walking on glass. She finds it funny, how you can spend so many years wanting to be free of a burden — just to realize it had never actually been one. Not really. Wynter would have devoured the world if it meant keeping her sister safe, and maybe in her own way, she died doing just that. And Summer watched her choke. She plays the role she always has, her hair in a braided crown and wearing a smooth dress. Her cheeks are dry. She counts her steps, expecting the worst from every potential scenario.

Such an anxious creature, always concerned with appearances. A war in her mind, a white flag wrapped around her body — and it's not that she's a contradiction, it's just difficult to find a balance. She and Wynter were two halves of a whole, a mix of every trait shared between them. Where she was cautious, her twin was reckless; and where she was fragile, Wynter was a stone. She doesn't know why she's the one still standing, how she's meant to go on like this. With only one of them left, there is no order. Only caution. Only fragility.

The crowd notices her before he does, and it's one of those rare moments where having the face of a dead tribute is useful. His back is turned to her, he's got a bouquet in his arms, and the crowd loves him. They're hounding him with questions, showering him with affection, and then the downpour stops. They give them space. And she's grateful, but she's also terrified, and knowing what to do in the presence of the last person to see your sibling alive is an impossible task. "Mr. Pryce?" she starts, too afraid to tap his shoulder. "I'm Summer."

She looks down as he turns, worried about what he might think — what he might feel. Summer knows that he loved Wynter, too, in his own way. It's hard to be a reminder of something so terrible. Both of them are painful memories; a victor and a dead girl risen. "And I just wanted to tell you congratulations." Her hands are tightly clasped, lips pursed in a thin line. She's coiled like a snake about to strike, but the tension never settles. She doesn't know how to back away from the edge. "You were a good friend to my sister. Thank you for that."

'Thank you,
Friend.'

---

[ dars ]