I had my soul upon my lips; for it rose, poor wretch, as though to cross over. – Plato
“Let’s play a game,” she said, tugging on her brother’s arm. He nodded, and together, they ran off into the garden. She released him and twirled, letting her arms and skirt billow away from her. Then she closed her eyes. She fell back, going down and down and down…
And her brother reached out his arms and caught her. She opened her eyes and looked up at her brother. He smiled at her. She smiled back. He helped her up and they did it again and again; each time, she would fall down and down until he saved her.
As the game went on, the brother’s smiles were quicker, more tired. Sometimes he would not smile at all, simply push her back up and sigh. The daylight faded to darkness and the brother suggested they go inside for dinner. The girl swept back her hair with clumsy fingers and nodded. Taking his hand, she trotted along the darkened path to the house.
They passed by the dining room window and the boy paused, staring inside. The girl pressed her face to the glass. Silhouetted against the lamplight, their mother and father pressed close to one another, lips overlapping. Mother pulled away, her beautiful high laughter thrown to the ceiling as she tilted her head back. Father pushed his lips to her neck, and again to her lips.
“They’re so happy,” the girl said, glancing at her brother. But he only stared hungrily at the sight, mouth slightly agape. She looked back, watching the happiness inside and thinking.
When the night’s chill became intolerable, the children passed through the kitchen door, the boy stamping on the entrance mat. Mother swept in, straightening her apron. Breathless and flushed, she fretted over her children and scolded them lightly for staying out in the cold.
They washed their hands and went into the warm dining room. The boy bolted down dinner and begged to be excused. His sister watched him stride out of the room, heard him rush upstairs.
“What did you do today?” her mother asked over the tinkling of silverware. But the girl didn’t respond. She was busy thinking.
Once dinner was over and her parents had retired to the sitting room, she walked quietly to her brother’s room and knocked. When he didn’t respond, she turned the handle and pushed into the room. He sat on the edge of his bed, reading a magazine she did not recognize. He looked up at her.
“What do you want?” he asked, shoving the glossy book under the covers. She said nothing. Instead, she climbed on the bed, kneeling beside her brother. He watched her serious face as it came closer. Then their lips pressed together. Neither child closed their eyes; the brother pulled back.
“What was that for?” he demanded.
“It was supposed to make you happy.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Then show me.”
The brother leaned close and showed her.
The next day, they abandoned their game for this new diversion. She would peek as they kissed, to watch his eyelids flutter. He seemed happy now.
He enjoyed kissing her until she fought for breath, pushing away gently at first, then with more urgency as her lungs screamed for oxygen. But he would release her at last, always. She never suspected his cruelty.
And both children took great pleasure in their new game.
“Will we be happy for always?” the girl asked breathlessly.
“For always,” he would always reply.
Soon, those daylight games were not enough. She visited him at night, when their parents slept, and slipped beneath the covers to kiss him, be with him. It was always she who came to him. And those mornings their parents found them together, it was always she who spoke of nightmares or thunderstorms or monsters. The boy would stay silent.
But he would be the first to kiss, to touch; he would leave his hands above the covers until she came, then slip his icy fingers beneath her nightgown. He would lie on top of her until she complained he was too heavy, that she could not breathe. But he would always relent.
Their happiness would not last for always. The boy disappeared one day, leaving his sister to press her face to his pillow and pretend he was there. When he returned, hours later, he avoided her questions and looks. She waited until night, hoping he would explain his absence then, only to confront his locked door and silence.
She followed him the next day. He didn’t stray far. He walked to the next house and climbed the fence to the backyard. Too short to follow, the girl watched through a gap in the fence as her brother greeted a girl in the backyard, kissed her pale lips, slipped his hand under her dress. His sister screamed, kicking the fence and crying. He pulled away from the other girl and stared open-mouthed at his sister. She screamed his name and ran back home. She did not visit him that night.
The children avoided each other for three days, despite their proximity. Every night the girl would stand outside her door and watch her brother’s, in hopes that he would come out and console her.
On the fourth night, he came. She heard the click of the lock releasing, and watched in disbelief as his door opened. She stood, wiping her eyes.
“Please –” she started.
He shook his head and stepped out into the moonlit hall. He glided toward her and lifted her head with his icy fingers. Then he kissed her lightly. He released her and stood there, watching her watch him.
“This was our secret,” she accused him. “How could you share it with someone else?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” he said. He wrapped her in a deep kiss, and she believed him. Yet tears still leaked from her eyes into their mouths.
“Why are you crying?” he asked. “This is supposed to make you happy.”
“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you happy.” She pushed him away.
“Do you remember the game we used to play? I would twirl around and close my eyes, and fall back until you caught me. And we’d begin again.”
She turned her back to him.
“Let’s play a game,” she whispered. She closed her eyes. Then she fell back, going down and down and down…