Figures Dancing Gracefully, Across My Memory

Chapter Text

August 15th, 1982

"Dasha, why are you still out here?"

Lilia's feet were already sore and they hadn't even begun their warmups. Madame was a stickler, always bending them into impossible angles, so much so that she feared her knees would begin to grow backwards, like a horse.

"If you're late, I won't defend you. My knuckles are still bruised from last time I stuck my nose where it didn't belong."

The girl didn't turn around. Her slippers were grayed and fraying, peach fading to a dull, moldy shade of brown. She shouldn't be wearing them outside like this, they'd soon be ruined. Her heavy head of hair was tied up in a neat knot atop her head, a few loose black curls falling from the gelled back updo and sticking to her neck.

Firmly planted in place, her silhouette was picturesque, but the moment that light hit her body, the truth of her childlike energy became apparent, shown through her awkwardly bent knees and busy hands.

"Daria?"

"Ah! Lilia! You scared me half to death! Am I late? God, she'll kill me if I'm late again."

Business as usual, she smiled, carefully weaving around the darker oil spots that dotted the asphalt behind the dance studio.

"Not yet. Come inside. What are you doing out here, madwoman?"

Daria cusped one of Lilia's hands in her own, eyes emitting a light which could only be described as holy. Unable to dull said beams, she allowed herself to be dragged along to the petite flower bed hidden beneath a fallen laurel tree.

"Look! They weren't dead. Told you so."

Just as she claimed, the patch of daisies had been successfully aggrandized, their once drooping limbs and dangling heads now taut and spry. Nobody would even see them, hidden beneath the shrubbery. Lilia didn't see the point in catering to beauty that would go unappreciated.

"Well done. Do you plan to rebury them at home?"

"Of course not. They need the energy here to grow big and strong!"

She was thinking like a child, not that Lilia would criticize her for it. That's what made Daria special. Perhaps that's why she excelled above the rest, seeing potential in the most mundane of things and drawing out their buried elegance without a second thought. Pure hearted and earnest, but smart enough to avoid being taken advantage of because of it.

"Is that so?" Teased the taller of the two young girls.

"Oh be quiet. I know you think I'm silly, too. Just you wait. They'll soon wrap around the whole building, and Madame will be singing my praises!"

She was right, as the next spring came pass, a flurry of organic snowflakes littered the lot. Daria squealed in delight, picking a bushel and tying it up tight to bring inside as a gift for their teacher.

Madame made her take them back outside immediately, slapping her wrists with a ruler. Daria smiled regardless, proud that she'd made the effort. Lilia just watched, flinching as the metal bit at her friend's skin in consecutive swatches.

June 12th, 1985

"Happy birthday, Lilia!"

A crudely gift wrapped bundle was tossed into her lap, Daria flitting around her bedroom in anticipation. The scent of chrysanthemum, Dior perfume, and wine wafted through the floorboards as the kitchen below worked to satiate the expectations placed upon them for the evening festivities.

"Thank you. You didn't have to. It's not a big deal or anything, the fact that you invited me over for dinner is generous enough."

The girl, who'd been bent at the waist in front of the vanity's large mirror, twirled around, leaping onto the plush pink bed where Lilia sat rigidly.

"You're ten now! Officially a woman, or that's what mother says, anyways. Of course it's a big deal! It's boring eating all by myself everyday, anyways. Just think of it as doing me a favor!"

Lilia resisted the urge to gnaw on the inside of her cheek. If it grew swollen, there'd be hell to pay with the Madame. Heaving a silent breath, she unraveled the floral wrapping, taking care not to allow the rips to result in a pattern of confetti on the carpet.

What greeted her was something beyond her wildest imagination. Hours of off the books labor in the factory downtown hadn't even made up half the required cost of what Daria had just laid in her lap without a hint of expectation. A pair of brand new ballet slippers, a new leotard, and a card.

She cried in front of someone outside of her family, and felt terribly ashamed for doing so. Daria told her that sometimes people cry tears of joy, and that's ok. When they walked down the grand staircase to partake in supper, Lilia caught a glimpse of herself in the grandfather clock's glass casing.

A mousy thing like her had no place in a house such as this, being pampered by a girl who's future outshone her own tenfold. Daria took note of her hesitance and halted her skipping, pausing to look over the other girl's shoulder into the glass.

"The paneling is cleaned daily. That's why it's so shiny. At night, when I'm on my way to the ladies room, I always catch a fright upon seeing my own reflection. I hope it didn't startle you!"

Lilia fiddled with the hem of the dress she wore, feeling embarrassed to be caught looking at herself like a vain fool. How was she to explain that she wasn't admiring herself, but deconstructing her identity?

Daria didn't give her a chance to stutter out an excuse.

"You look just lovely in this dress! It hangs off of me in the worst of ways, makes me look like a troll. Keep it, won't you?"

Oh, how she always knew just what to say. Though Lilia adamantly refused to take possession of the babydoll ensemble, the young girl at her side laughed away her modesty, guiding her to the dining room with one arm linked across Lilia's own.

Bellies full of foie gras and tiramisu, they drifted back into the bedroom, gossiping about the mean girls at the studio and shuddering at the thought of Madame noticing the slight bloat to their bellies that would undoubtedly remain come Monday.

When they both got a thrashing on Monday, she kept her composure by having a staring contest with herself in the large studio mirror. The others just watched.

October 31st, 1987

"Everyone's talking about it. They say it's an American holiday, and that we should all go try our luck in the neighborhood upstate!" Tweeted Ivanka as she tightly laced her slippers over the bubbling blisters on her pinky toes.

Her older sister, the first teen of the group had told her all about this 'Halloween', and in turn, she'd run off to fill the other young girls in before warmup.

Lilia couldn't be bothered with trivial celebrations, as dance was always priority, and in order to dance, she had to work. That said, she'd been forced to take a week of leave when one of the sewing machines caught her thumb beneath its unforgiving spine.

Excitable little Daria would surely be dragging her into this mess, and for once, she could bend to her whims without fear of repercussion. Feeling brave, she set one hand atop the cold hardwood and shifted her weight in order to inquire upon the matter herself.

When Lilia met Daria's periwinkle eyes and coral complexion, the seriousness and contemplation she was met with stomped out the glowing ember of excitement before it had the chance to spark a proper fire.

"You shouldn't celebrate the devil's holiday. That's what daddy says." Daria murmured.

"Like you can claim to be proper Catholics, anyways." retorted the blonde.

Lilia avoided playing mediator in fear of being punished for their squabble. They behaved like such children. If they wanted to make use of their hard earned skills and experience, they'd have to learn how to get along on their own. At least that's what she tried to convince herself was fact.

So she watched, previous exuberance depleted.

December 8th, 1988

Lilia's hands were becoming ugly. The late night work had begun to show, her once soft and pale palms now littered with faint scars and growing calluses. How would she explain it away? Madame would be irate.

She needed to find a way to carry on without consequence, but it was nearly impossible to find someone who would hire her at such a young age. Only shady factories and scummy middle aged men were willing to take the risk.

If factory work was no longer a viable option, she'd have to earn a scholarship, since she'd sooner die than sell her body to one of the low life's who frequented the street corners and alleyways. It would sully her beyond repair.

So she danced until her legs gave out, trembling in the wind like one of the wilted daisies that Daria had revived. If only she could do the same for Lilia.

In her haste to acquire a means for success, it took Lilia too long to notice the lessons Daria had been absent from. When she did come in, her smiles were strained and posture poorly.

She needed that scholarship.

The bags under both of their eyes darkened, like the tail end of a sudden winter sunset. Daria looked as if she hadn't slept for a month, once dainty form now coming across as starved. Her beautiful curls looked unkempt and dull.

"You're walking funny, Dasha. Let me re-lace your slippers."

"No."

"Fine."

She couldn't kick up a fuss. She needed that scholarship.

A week passed, and Daria had tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as they were stretched into inhumane positions by the Madame. She'd never cried before. They were all used to it by now. When Lilia inquired, the girl took both of her hands into her own, placing them atop her cheeks.

"Still warm, see? I'll survive."

"Dasha-"

"It's unlike you to behave so irrationally. Didn't I say that I was fine?"

Lilia didn't pry. She needed to focus on herself. She needed that scholarship.

Then the time came when she could no longer feign ignorance. Both of their feet were covered in sores, that was commonplace in the world of ballet, but Daria's were no accident or byproduct of passion.

Lilia finally took her eyes off the prize, the blindfold untangled from behind her ears.

"What are those- What happened to your feet?"

Daria jumped in place, scrambling to slide her legs beneath her gym bag, wincing as her spotty red flesh caught on the hardwood underfoot.

Lilia didn't wait for an answer this time. God knows she'd find a way to convince herself it was nothing, that she was losing her mind, and that all she needed to worry about was crawling through the glass garden that led to her dream, steeling herself to snatch it by any means necessary.

She slapped the bag away, on all fours like an animal. Before Daria could escape her grip, she'd managed to hold one foot in place long enough to make out what the symmetrical 'o's dotting her feet were. Burns.

Cigarette burns, though the larger ones may have been from imported cigars. She now seemed to smell of sticky tobacco, exuding the scent of ash instead of the chrysanthemum Lilia had grown to adore.

Her heart contracted before shattering to pieces. Her gentle, sweet Daria had been brutally violated, the instruments for her symphony marred and grotesque.

"Who hurt you?"

Practiced and even, as she always worked so hard to be. But that's not quite right. As steady as she had intended her voice to be, the tremors in her hands and rivets of soapy tears pouring from her waterline betrayed the tone in which she spoke.

"Don't cry for me Lilechka. I don't want your pity."

"Shut up!" She caterwauled. People would take notice if she didn't pull it together. All of her hard work would go to waste. She needed that scholarship.

"What's the matter with you? How could you keep this from me?"

Daria, as airy and poetic as a field of cotton. As calm as a stagnant stream. Daria, who brought with her life, never taking more than she could give in return. Daria, Daria, Daria. Who could hurt such a well meaning creature cloaked in light?

"Tell me, Lilia, what would you have done to fix it? We are children. The both of us. We're powerless… and mild- and- and subservient."

Her voice teetered off, her last addition a mere ghost of a confession.

"You even more so than I."

"Don't they sting? How do you continue to dance with the way they must ache? There has to be something I can do."

"We all have sores. Mine are just a little different."

Daria skimmed over her question, serving to heighten Lilia's rampant anxieties. Something darker than she could possibly conjure was living inside of her best friend. Why had they planted the seed of sickness in a positively charged vessel? She'd be far harder to tear down than most.

Lilia needed to be strong for her. Daria had done all the heavy lifting, and it was beginning to show. Somehow, she had to find the beauty of it all.

"Fine. I won't ask anything else of you, but please, Dasha, just tell me who did it."

The smell of smoke thickened. Silver ringlets of sleep encroached upon her, insisting this could be nothing other than a waking nightmare.

Daria chewed on the cuticle of her pointer finger, nubbins worn raw from malpractice. Lilia shot her a pointed look, one that demanded satisfaction.

"It was papa. I'm a woman now, and he says I must learn to behave as such. When he thinks I'm giving into earthly temptations, I get the gift."

"The gift…?"

"He gives me the gift of repentance."

"By maiming you? He gives you the ' gift' of embedding lifelong scars onto your growing body?"

"Try not to think of it that way… He does it out of love, don't you see? By offering our gracious god my suffering, he relieves me of my sins."

Lilia sniffled.

"You don't seriously believe that, do you?"

The girl offered a sad yet knowing smile, brushing a stray strand of hair from the wetness it clung to upon Lilia's puffy cheek.

"No. But if I don't at least try, I'll go insane. I did as you asked, so you mustn't say a word. It'll only get worse if he finds out I told you."

"Can you promise me something, then?"

"Depends. Let's hear it."

"If you decide… if you decide that you can't handle it any longer, or things get worse… you'll ask for help? You don't have to ask me. Tell a grown up, or an officer. Anyone. Don't let him wipe the beauty from your soul."

Daria pursed her lips, eyes seeing something Lilia couldn't hope to comprehend. Probably grace. She saw it in all things.

"Sure… And when we are grown ups, we can run away from it all. We'll dance upon the finest stages in Milan, tour Italy and China all on our own."

Uncharacteristically naive, Lilia nodded, one hand held with an outstretched pinky.

"Deal."

So she watched, never interfering.

November 11th, 1989

Lilia was awarded the scholarship. Her mother was at the back of the crowd, her dingey scarf and scuffed flats acting as a street sign, one that marked her 'less than'.

Mother came anyway. She'd assured her daughter that she'd understand if she'd prefer her not to be in attendance. Lilia kissed her cheek and insisted she paid the sybarites no mind. They'd both worked assiduously in order for her to earn a place in the studio, a nameplate beneath the spotlight. What good would all that attention be if mama wasn't there to see?

Next to her mother was Daria, smiling with more genuine contentment than anyone else in the room. After her secret had been unraveled, the two grew even closer, spending long evenings together and reveling in their newfound bond of secrecy.

It was so like her, to see the silver lining in a situation as infected as theirs. More than a bond was their shared awareness. It had become a lifeline.

That same evening, Lilia washed and folded her uniform, proudly setting her shoulders back and her chin straight as she dropped it off at the factory.

Her walk home was dreary, though her spirits remained high. The sky was a dull shade of gray-blue, the sun already rippling behind thickets of rain clouds. Petrichor was in the air.

The sidewalk was cracked and crumbling, sprigs of yellow grass snaking through its foundation. If they were watered, could a flower bloom from their bosoms?

Try as she might, black remained black, and white remained white. If only she could see the world through Daria's opulent eyes.

Everything would be neon and technicolor, pleasantly encapsulating her in beams of green and pink. Every sense would be heightened, her legs long and limber, never to ache again, as angels don't feel pain.

Seraphic as she was, however, Daria suffered more than Christ himself as he hung stapled atop his gravestone. This, Lilia was sure of.

Her father's wish was becoming reality, Dasha would soon metamorphose into the second coming, with how she bore the tsunami of cruelty while wearing a patient grin.

It shone when she flinched needlessly, instinctively stepping back whenever someone moved too fast. The damage peeked from behind the blinds, Daria suppressing a faint shiver when Madame doled out her punishments, contorting them into goddesses among women, ruler in hand.

At some point, her freckles had begun looking less like a fawn's coat and more like rounded shadows filled with pools of unlit kerosene.

Yet she hadn't sought assistance. Promise withstanding, Lilia watched, pretending everything was as it was meant to be.

May 22nd, 1990

The first time they crossed the threshold was when Lilia was only fifteen, Daria two years her junior.

Burns had turned into crescent shaped bruises reaching as far as her jawline, human paw prints draping across the smooth flesh of her nape. Lilia cried, as she only seemed to manage for Daria's sake.

If she marked herself in the same way, would it make up for the younger girl's quiet destruction?

In her fit of grief, Lilia had thrown herself into her lap, tearing at her own arms as she bit back screams. Daria brushed through her hair with one hand, the other station between the butterfly bones on her back. She'd tearfully kissed both of Lilia's cheeks, then her nose, and then her lips.

All at once, the world paused, taking a snapshot meant only for them. She'd be a liar to claim innocence, to deny kissing her back, lips trembling.

Daria was more taken aback by her own actions than Lilia was. She seemed terrified, unsure. So Lilia did her best to console her with a loving embrace, mirroring the other girl's actions to the best of her ability.

As the weeks crescendoed to months, they grew bold and tactile, linking pinkies during class and taking turns walking one another home as dusk bloomed into an array of pink and purple watercolors.

Soon, Lilia had been given the privilege to memorize every line on Daria's body, but with that privilege came the burden of knowing every scar and its origin.

Her kisses were a balm, hands instruments of medicine. She'd hold her with every ounce of strength she could muster, their breaths intermingled like sand and sea. Burns and bruises, love and life. Black and white, as it had always been.

So she watched as Daria blotted a thick layer of full coverage foundation on her pale skin. She'd grown so good at it.

March 15th, 1992.

Their relationship had grown domestic, but not in a boring way.

Lilia had gotten herself a thick thermos with her extra scholarship money, a rare treat that she savored appropriately. Soon, she found herself filling it with watered down orange juice instead of iced lemon water. Daria sipped it with a content expression, eyes round and dotted with stray lashes that contoured her arched brows.

They shared textbooks and T-shirts, nightgowns and sneakers. What belonged to one belonged to the other, though Daria had so much more to offer, with her classy Mary Janes and Chanel handbag.

Fifteen times now she had offered it to Lilia, first with genuine generosity, but now with humor. An inside joke, if you will.

Everything was wonderful. Lilia could dance and attend school without working long nights in the dim warehouse, and had even begun to earn money for performing in local theaters. With those paychecks, she financed a better life for her mother and little brother, buying them both fresh sheets and clean clothes from the local outlet.

She'd take Daria out on secret dates to the cinema and fairgrounds on the rare occasion in which they shared an off day. Inside of her bedside drawer was a collection of Polaroids that detailed their exploits like a picture book.

It was on one of these dates that the fragile balance they'd crafted snapped like an oiled tightrope.

This time around they'd run off to a small park by the small river downtown, bathing in the buttery sunlight, not a care in the world as their hardened bodies and souls melted into the grass, forming meaningful indents beneath their beach towels.

Daria had brought a wicker picnic basket full of plums, figs, Brie and honey. It rested just beneath their feet, cradling the hill with balanced precision.

Somehow they'd slipped, comfort outweighing well trained caution in a moment of weakness shared between the two young women. There was no thrill involved in regards to the concept of being caught fraternizing with one another, no high worth losing what they'd worked to perfect.

Lilia didn't know why she'd done it. Muscle memory, perhaps? She knew better. The Obtatsov household had eyes and ears throughout the country, concentrated mostly within the city in which they resided.

The moment her lips met with Daria's, their fate was sealed, a precious and unknowing goodbye to their youth as they'd known it.

No, the consequences weren't instant. That would have drawn too much negative attention. They remained ignorant for the remainder of their outing, probity intact. Little whispers and nudges were in abundance, as they always were when paired with one another.

Lilia dropped Daria off at her front door, hands itching to pull her close. Instead, she 'accidentally' grazed the girl's shoulder with a low wave, and they parted ways with full hearts.

That was the last time she saw Daria wearing that gentle, doe-like expression she loved so much.

So Lilia watched as she entered the shined wooden entryway, back straight and hands behind her back.

August 2nd, 1992

Many months had separated the two. She hadn't seen her lover even once since they'd parted ways that sun soaked afternoon. Lilia was beginning to think she'd inadvertently killed Daria with her carelessness, desecrating the only angel left on Earth with her mortal touch.

The day she returned to the studio was Lilia's equivalent of being pardoned from execution. Her darling was safe and within arms reach. Class was so long, the entire process mind numbing in comparison to what she knew would come afterwards.

Strangely, Daria didn't meet her eyes the way she normally did. There were no side bars or gentle brushes, and that alone sliced cross hatched lines into Lilia's sore stomach lining. The dull ache multiplied when Madame dismissed them with a lecture and instead of skipping to her side, Daria exited the building without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

Time heals all wounds, and just because there were no visible taunts upon her flesh didn't mean she hadn't been 'gifted' during her leave of absence.

So Lilia gave her time, watching as she began chatting with the other girls, but never with her. What had Ivanka ever done to earn the privilege of Daria's undivided attention?

Three weeks was her limit. She tried to hold out longer, tried straightening the coil of nausea and destitution out with firm words and affirmations, but it did nothing to release her from the cage their shaken connection had melded around her.

As soon as the session came to a close, Lilia thrust her slippers, the ones she'd earned with a performance at a nearby opera house, into her bag. The two didn't go well together, one shiny and new and the other stained and covered in small balls of chafed fabric due to age.

Daria wouldn't be leaving with Ivanka and her group of friends today. The pattern Lilia had picked up on placed her alone every Thursday, though wherever she went and with whom after the fact remained a mystery.

She waited behind the white brick wall that bordered the laurel tree and flower bed, both long dead and mummified. Without anyone to take care of them, they perished and scattered away into the breeze. Unmarked ashes of a time past.

Lilia saw a black curl, and then a sloping nose. It was time. In one conjunctuous movement, she took hold of the girl's wrist, pulling her into the cool shade in which she hid.

Over the course of several months, Daria had grown. Her chipmunk cheeks were pale and hardly freckled at all. Both of her eyes were dull and goat-like, so flat that even her pupils seemed to disappear within them. Her lips, which she'd always taken care of, using expensive bubble gum flavored lip scrub and chapstick, were torn around the edges, swollen and flared.

If Daria was once an epicenter of life, she was now a deserted wasteland.

Just for a moment, the shock of being pulled from her gait was apparent, but the placid expression she'd returned with was quick to take its place.

"Where have you been?"

Start simple, so as to not scare her off.

"I've been getting help." Daria said as she pulled a silken handkerchief from her bag, scrubbing the skin on her wrist clean of invisible dirt. Right where Lilia had grabbed her.

"For what? Care to explain why you've been avoiding me? You disappeared for months, and you suddenly have nothing to say?"

"Not to you. Goodbye, now. Take care of yourself."

What? Where was the friendly little chatterbox of a ballerina she'd fallen in love with?

"Are you serious? Have you gone mad?"

Normally, Daria would be the one to keep her head. Not this time.

"I'd watch myself if I were you. Just because you tempted me once doesn't mean I'll allow it to happen again. You can commit atrocities and acts of blasphemous impertinence, but don't you dare drag me into it. I will never take the name of the beast."

She sounded like her father, like the sermons he preached at every elevated dinner party had been injected into her veins. Lilia felt betrayed, but not in a way which caused anger to bubble over and boil her words.

No. She was hurt beyond belief, scared for herself and Daria, because what had he done to her in order to imprint his beliefs into her malleable mind?

Maybe if she'd acted instead of watching, things wouldn't have turned out like this. It was too late to mourn.

They walked home separately that evening, and every evening afterwards. No longer pink, the sky was instead saturated in a gross green and purple, reminiscent of the bruises Lilia had kissed off of the girl's skin one too many times.

June 28th, 1993

Madame handed her a tightly rolled sheet of paper and an envelope as the crowd cheered and tossed foil scraps of confetti into the air. An entire auditorium celebrating the long nights and early mornings she'd sacrificed to achieve what shouldn't have been possible.

"Lilia Baranovskaya, at eighteen years old, has been invited to join the ranks of the Mariinsky Ballet Company. She is a prime example of what hard work and self control will earn you in the world of dance. Though we will miss having her talents accessible to those within our humble studio, a bright future awaits her as a professional ballerina. Congratulations, Lilushka."

Clapping hands and bright lights. A tight leotard and even tighter slippers. Though she was now on a pedestal, everything was as it always had been. Except for one deciding factor.

Mama was cheering, just as she had several years prior when Lilia had sunk her claws into that scholarship. Next to her was Ivanka, her sister, and Daria.

Externally, Daria appeared to be just as excited as the rest of them, palms reddened by their insistent beating against one another, in time like a ticking clock. But behind those dull eyes lurked a festering trepidation.

Even after the ceremony, her watercolor eyes traced Lilia's route, reminding her of what they had once been, now nothing more than strangers with a hint of contempt.

Suffice to say, when Daria grabbed her hand with a familiarity that should have been long dissimulated, Lilia nearly choked. Every affirmation and curse she'd spun to comfort herself in the girl's absence bled from her breath, flying away before she could catch and make use of them.

"Congratulations, Lilia. I knew you could do it."

The little hallway she had been excommunicated to was drab and pale yellow, outdated like the words Daria pushed past her lips.

"Is that so." She spoke it as a statement rather than a question. Lilia would have liked to be anywhere but in front of the one person she'd willingly throw it all away for, knowing damn well the feeling wasn't reciprocated.

"Of course. This will be our proper goodbye, it seems."

Daria's eyes shone for the first time since their initial separation, a hint of life painting the canvas with watery sorrow. Her breath hitched before she continued, holding Lilia's palms flush against her own and speaking with the haste of a man on trial, syllables clattering against one another.

"I need you to know that it was never your fault. Father has damned me, or maybe it was god, or both- I don't know. Something has buried itself inside of me, and I have a limited time before I lose myself completely. I have these thoughts, these fears that I know aren't sensible, but saints and angels, they terrify me."

Her darling was crying now, and Lilia couldn't move an inch, frozen in place as she watched the quivering mouth form consecutive confessions.

"Fact and fiction are becoming irreparably intertwined inside of me. I don't even know if this is actually happening, I mean, the world is topsy turvy and my eyes shake until it all blends together- Everything is so far away, yet suffocating- But you, Lilia, you've never changed. I'm lucid enough to know that much."

"What? Dasha, your scaring me-"

They were both scrambling now, one to speak, and the other to understand.

"You go out there and live enough life for the both of us. Show them what you are, put everything you've ever told me on that stage. That is the greatest analgesic you can offer me."

How could she walk away from this? How, when she'd gotten her angel back? Lilia's turmoil must have shown on her face, as the hands tightened, impossibly so, but not in a way which caused physical pain. They served to ground her, locking her in their clipped compartment of time.

"Do not hurt for me, but if I may be selfish, remember who I was. I love you dearly. I always have, and always will, even when my mind deteriorates and I am nothing more than a page within your book."

"In two years, you'll be eighteen too! I can wait, I don't have to go now- and - and whatever he's done to you can be reversed! There's medication, and therapy, and-"

Daria stomped one foot. A small but meaningful action, drawing a hard line in the sand.

"You will do no such thing. This opportunity is fleeting. Grab it and beat it to death with everything you have. When I am an adult, I'll come to find you. I swear it. We can figure it out, get help…together."

So Lilia resigned herself to let it be, watching Daria's butterfly bones crinkle beneath her silk dress as she turned away and rejoined the crowd, vacant once more.

December 6th, 1996

Those two years came and went. Like a fool, Lilia clung to their promise, with nothing but a weeping heart to show for it.

What she did know was that Daria was a free woman, gracing the stages of the Paris Opera Ballet with her beauty. She'd watch the fifteen second recordings over and over again, picking apart every pixel that flashed beneath the grainy TV screen.

As she danced, their promise bled across thousands of miles. What pain, what longing. Why not amend it, then? Lilia knew she was thinking like a hypocrite, because why hadn't she been the one to close the distance?

Titles upon titles were mounted upon her wall. Hell, she was a prima ballerina for one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the world… but what is life without love?

Every morning, she woke up with a start, hoping that today would be the day that everything fell into place. It never was

If only she'd done more than watch.

October 11th, 1998

Daria did show up, eventually, but not alone.

Who was that man, the one cradling her darling? Was he the one to blame for her rounded belly? How dare he take away her career before it's even begun! Pregnancy is an act of treason, one a ballerina must wholly commit to if she deems it important enough to sacrifice the years she'd dedicated to her craft.

More valuable than her art. More sacred than her dreams.

Lilia hated him for his white hair, for his tender touches. For taking away her dream as well as Daria's.

She'd no longer stand to the side and watch as everyone changed in a way she couldn't yet grasp.

They ate a meal together, Lilia playing the part of an auspicious hostess while her guests made small talk with the wait staff and sliced their chicken breasts into microscopic bites.

Daria looked mildly uncomfortable. Perhaps guilty, or ashamed, like she knew she'd done something wrong but not what . No, she was absent . Blank. She could hardly be called Daria at all.

December 31st, 1998

When the little boy came into the world screaming and clutching at the air, Lilia cried. She pretended they were tears of joy, the same kind Daria had taught her about when they were little girls.

She kissed the baby's forehead, then Daria's, and slipped away, returning to her life as it had been before this imposter had returned in her darling's place.

It was time to live for herself.

January 14th, 2008

"I'm sorry?"

"In her note, she named you as his new primary caretaker… in the event that the father was a no show. If you can't care for a child at current, we can find a good foster family for him and-"

"What about the grandparents?"

"They've refused to speak with us."

"I can be there by four."

Lilia slammed the mobile onto her kitchen table, heaving and dizzy. Nothing made sense, every feeling she'd boarded away in the cupboards came pouring out of their prison, dusty and water stained.

Daria was dead. She killed herself, leaving behind a little boy and a stale rental in the same area of town Lilia had originated from. The white haired man, the one who'd done nothing but take hadn't even been by her side as she lost battle after battle, eventually succumbing to the war as it's both its millionth and its first casualty.

His negligence had forced her hand, taught her that people would be of no help.

At first, when the detective uttered the grimy word, Lilia acted defensively. Daria would never ! He'd insisted she had, and that the years and years worth paraphernalia left behind was evidence of its opprobrium.

Her Dasha, dead and gone, an addict? There was so much more to her than that. The officers and bystanders would see her as nothing more than a junkie, but a rhapsody of events had to have lined up in just the wrong way for her to turn to such barbaric means of relief…because she was no negligent floozy. Daria was wildly intelligent, curious and optimistic, faithful and sacrosanct.

She remembered their promise, or at least recalled it as she traipsed into her coffin. For how long had she been a passenger in her own body? How excruciating must it have been when she came to and realized that nothing could ever go back to the way it was?

Lilia had been given time to adjust. Daria had likely been given short increments where she was left to push the puzzle pieces together, slipping back into her insanity as soon as they fit into one another.

No longer her darling, Daria's name was uttered next to the words 'best friend' in hours of darkness spent by her husband's side.

They drove past sticky streets and hobbling women in heels, yellowing apartments and dark duplexes. Lilia wept as Yakov steered them forward, impetuously wailing like an animal caught in a trap, clawing at her throat until bubblegum pink lines spoke the truth that her mouth refused to.

As soon as they pulled up, she switched it off like a lighter. Inside that derelict home was a little boy. The last of Daria, her swan song, crawling in parsimony and mourning his mother. A version of her Lilia would never get to meet.

Stepping from the vehicle, she nearly fell to her knees in worship. All of the surrounding apartments and homes had yellowed lawns, crunchy and ruinous, speckled with patches of dirt and cobble.

Not this one. Verdant and fragrant, daisies and grass formed a carefully manicured maze to the front door. Thousands upon thousands of them danced in the breeze, poking out and contrasting the rusted fence that lined the property.

Flashes of the little studio where they'd watered their own handful of flowers pulsed behind her eyelids, trailing down her throat and into her heart. She hadn't changed that much, after all. Poetic.

As sick as she was, as much as she'd suffered, her heart beat the same way it had back then. Purely, intangible in its pearlescent glow, a halo.

She walked, then danced, pointe without its basis, insane, but temporarily so. Yakov cast a pained glance as she galloped to the front door, cheeks stretched into a smile.

This little boy needed someone like his mother in his time of grief, so that's the role Lilia would assume until the storm had passed.

January 29th, 2020

Viktor had listened attentively, eating up every word like it was molten gold. More, more, he wanted to know more about mama.

When the stream of speech slowed to a trickle, then to a complete stop, he imprinted this version of Lilia into his soul. So serene, so innocent and childlike. The same way mama had been.

What was once invidious was now gentle, faint and soft like a moth's dusty wings.

Viktor felt it churn, the vitriolic curses and betrayed whimpers. How could she be so at peace? Would he have been at peace by now, knowing all that she had?

He shoved himself from the chair, watching as it clambered onto its side. If it broke, he'd replace it.

"What you did was horrible. To mama and to me. How could you have just watched her turn bluer and bluer? I don't care if you were a fucking child, you should have said something, done something! Why didn't you tell me!"

"I'm only human, Vitya. I cannot fix my mistakes now. Time cannot be bought back."

"No. You're no human, you're a devil."

He stormed from the room and into the yard, searching for Yura so he could make sure history wouldn't repeat itself once more.