that's my girl, living the antisocial life

Mariana slowly got out of bed, her movements followed by the groans of a somnolent Edward, wrapped in the dark bedsheets of his bedroom. His hands reached for her, but as usual, she fled through his fingers like a dream five minutes before waking up. A dream so good he wished he could hold onto and sleep forever with.

"Do you have to leave... ?"

He asked, as she stood in the mirror, bare for his walls to look at. Memorizing every detail of her skin as she brushed through her long, dark brown hair – the shade of it reminded him of a wilted tree in winter, and he couldn’t help but wonder if bringing her happiness would make her hair turn a more golden brown, like a tree reborn in spring.

His question was met with a heavy silence, before she opened the closet, reaching for some clothing items she had left in there ; grabbing her underwear.

"Yes. I do. I have that audition..."

Of course an actress like her wouldn’t escape the chance – Edward had put the stage days behind him, but she had not given up ; matter of fact, it was as if their separation motivated her to pursue this dream even more. A separation Edward regretted every day – the parting of Romeo and Juliet. He wished his limbs could extend to reach for her, maybe convince her to stay in bed – but he is only one man. And sometimes, one man is not enough.

And no man would ever be enough to contain Mariana Norfolk. That is the vow she had made herself.

"You’ve never changed, huh, Roxanne ?"

He smirked, but did not receive the reaction he’d hoped for – instead of smiling, she stiffened and stared at him. "I’ve told you not to call me that."

Edward was aware that her stage name, Mariana, meant more to her than a simple stage name, but –

"Roxanne is gone." She said, getting dressed. Looking at herself in the mirror as if to confirm her own words, green eyes shining with intent. Hands brushing through her own hair as she adjusted her costumey dress, the dark red sleeves swooshing around her elbows. The role of the witch is going to be hers. And no one will stop her.

"She isn’t." He spoke, causing her to turn around. If she could cast a spell to reduce him to silence, or feed him a potion to make him forget their past together, she would’ve without a single hesitation. Edward had, by now, gotten up, just as bare as she was earlier. Her eyes, of course, drifted down and smirked, though nothing in this situation called for her to make an attempt at humor. It’s almost as if she did it on purpose – not defusing the situation, but worsening it the best way she knew how.

Maybe if she destroyed enough situations, he wouldn’t want to see her again. Maybe, he would fall in her trap ; he would take her at face value, as a dumb, unserious woman who didn’t care about anything other than herself. That she was shallow, and selfish, and he would leave and focus on someone else.

"That girl is long gone."

Mariana said, reiterating her point, her voice lacking emotion. She wasn’t trying to convince him or herself – she knew Roxanne Montgomery was dead and buried, and all Edward’s insistence did was  annoy her ; and she angered quick.

"She died when she left the troupe."

"Mariana –" Edward began, but felt his own blood boil. This was why they went together so well ; and was also the source of their downfall. The two of them angered quick – wrath had always been their fatal flaw. Their sin, if you will.

"Why do you so insist in drowning yourself in this image ?"

"Interesting choice of words." She remarked, a cruel grin on her face. "I wonder what little ‘Felia would think." Going in for the kill. Use it as a weapon before he can, before he can try and hold it against her, over her head like a sword of Damocles.

Cruelty had always been her weapon— and now, it was her nature. She was cruel. It was who she was.

Her words worked in her favor — provoking Edward, so at least one of them was winning. He stared at her as she smugly put her headband on, smiling in the mirror.

"Who are you, Roxanne ?"

He said, his eyes feeling tears form in them. Yet Mariana didn't turn to look at him. She wasn't Roxanne anymore. Roxanne might have turned and looked— apologized— hell, Roxanne would never have said that.

But she wasn't Roxanne anymore.

"Try again."

"Roxanne—"

"And please don't paint yourself like the victim." She interrupted, her gaze moving to look at him, though she looked into his eyes through the mirror. Reducing him to silence, just as she thought.

"When your uncle accused me of provoking Ophelia's suicide, you didn't speak once. You let it happen. You let him have it." Now her tone had shifted, more accusatory.

Roxanne, unlike poor old 'Felia, had not killed herself. She was murdered— persecuted, driven to isolation and darkness.

And the dead can't come back. Nothing goes right when they do, anyway. It's better if what is dead stays dead.

"Don't pretend like you don't understand me, Romeo. You do. But Juliet has found new partners. Mariana prospers, and Roxanne is gone. That lost little girl you once knew died that night she ran from the troupe."

Silence reigned over the bedroom, as she made her way to the door, before Edward felt something within him ignite— an urge to make her stay. To not let her leave— to ask, to beg, to accuse, to blame, to cry, to laugh. Anything that would forbid her from leaving this room. It was as if closing the door would make her leave for good.

Unfortunately, he and her were cut from the same cloth. His tone replicating her accusations.

"And that new partner is Professor Dudley, huh ?" He bitterly spoke, Mariana turning to look at him— finally. At least he got part of what he wanted.

"I've seen the way he looks at you. The things his eyes say. You've given to him, haven't you ?"

But Mariana wasn't the woman he knew. She laughed, her green eyes shining with success. As if it had all been a game to her. He couldn't read her— and maybe, that was all she wanted.

"I need all the help I can get, in a world like this."

One more step.

"Goodbye, Edward."

And the door opened.

And she closed it, before he could do anything. She had slipped through his fingers— again. Just as she always had, and just as she always would. It was hopeless.

He sat and cried. Over what he had done— but moreso, over what he hadn't. Over what had never been, what could have been, what could have been different.