#monisla

Our Love's the Only War Worth Fighting For

Maybe it’s stupid to cling to him so tightly, my knuckles white where my fingers hold onto the fabric of his suit jacket. It’s definitely foolish but I know what happens when you don’t reach out and grab hold of the person you love, I watched Monica slip away through Isla’s fingertips, crimson dripping down a lovely amber face. I can’t get the image out of my mind, no matter how much I try to wash away the bloodstains, the way she smiled in her last moments, the way that Isla panicked and reached out in an aborted motion before the gun fired. It was so unceremonious, Monica crumpling to the floor like a marionette with her strings cut, Isla’s choked back sobs as she hugged me afterwards.

I still have scratches on my back from her nails, tearing away at my skin, grounding me and reminding me of the consequences of my choice. I begged Joujou to enter me into this competition, I could have escaped, I could have lived out the rest of my life as another toy up on the shelf, taken down for special occasions, rented out for playdates. Maybe it would

“Why are you here?” Isla demanded through her tears, emerald eyes awash with salt. “Why didn’t you just stay home? Don’t you know what this means? That I’m going to have to lose you, too?” She sounded both agonized and furious, her voice breaking just slightly as her face flickered between heartbroken and terrified. I’ve never seen her like this before, so bereft and afraid. When we were separated as children, we were both scared, but Isla mustered up her courage and put on a brave face, undoubtedly for my sake. I know now, in retrospect, that her smile and reassurances had been fake, her hands trembling as she kissed my forehead and told me everything would be alright. She was just as frightened as I was, she was just better at hiding it, so used to wearing a mask that sometimes she forgot to take it off.

Vulnerability has never been something Isla is good at. In fact, it’s something she actively avoids. That’s why, I can’t help but wonder if Monica ever knew, that she was the sun at the center of Isla’s universe, the warmth in the cold of her nights, a reason to get up in the mornings, a way for her to keep her heart beating. Isla is my sister by blood, my anchor in the dark, tumultuous seas of my own patchy memory. Hers is one voice I can always remember, singing lullabies to me in the shadowy recesses of our childhood, running her hands through my hair. But Monica, Monica was my sister in every way save for blood, she was the warm fireplace that I could always come back to, she would hold out her hand and smile at me, pull me into her arms and make me feel at home in a second. In her embrace, it was as if I wasn’t a freak, an oddity to put on display, but I was simply someone who was precious, loved, cherished. Her kindness never felt condescending.

With Leto, it isn’t exactly the same. I love him, yes, I love him with whatever wretched heart I can muster up, I love him the best that a damaged, horrible creature such as me can. He doesn’t love me in spite of my flaws, though, as everyone else does. He’s seen me at my worst, down on my knees, broken and lost. He didn’t help me up but instead, kneeled down himself and grabbed me by the chin. Our eyes met and my breath caught in my throat, startled by how intoxicated I was by just his gaze, whisky and absinthe in a deadly cocktail. He gave me a once-over before getting up and leaving, telling me that I could follow him if I wanted to, but that he wouldn’t force me. When I told Lala that was how we met, that he didn’t ask if I was okay or try to help, she was frustrated with me. She told me I needed better standards and I just rolled my eyes. She couldn’t understand, she wouldn’t understand and I would never ask her to, never want her to but it did make it a bit difficult to explain why he’d caught my attention so handily.

That incident taught me not to tell her about what exactly Leto and I got up to by ourselves. We took turns giving chase and running, catching each other and tangling our limbs together in knots I prayed would never come undone. Once, he found me out in the gardens, a crazed look in his eyes, and he pinned me against one of the trees. I didn’t put up a fight, even when he put his hands around my neck and choked me. He cracked after a minute or two, my spotty vision returning in hazy blinks, and he looked as though he was crying, even though no tears fell. He kissed me, barely more than a brush of lips, and I put my shaking arms around him, pulling him closer.

In a way, objectively, I know that we’re not good for each other. Lala has told me time and time again this very truth. We relish in the taste of blood, we fight with our hands and teeth but we kiss at the end of every argument, curling up in each other’s arms. We do not want to be apart from one another, my abandonment issues and his obsession muddling together into codependency. To be ripped apart, it would be as if you cut off of one of our limbs. We cannot survive apart, anymore.

All we’re really doing is delaying the inevitable, though. This collision, this horrible spectacle of us crashing into each other, that will happen no matter how far we run away.

Now, turns around to look at me as we stand hallways behind the stage, waiting for the signal from the producers to face the music. He pushes up my veil and presses our noses together, brushing his lips to mine. I have to restrain myself from gripping onto his lapels and tugging him closer, I can’t afford to wrinkle his suit, but I do lean into the kiss, the rush of adrenaline better than any drug. The producer’s voice rings through the backstage and we break out of our embrace.

“Are you ready?” He asks me.

“As long as you’re with me,” I tell him and he rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath as though I’ve told a joke. I wonder if he knows I’m telling the truth. I hope he knows. He has to know. “I love you.” He blinks, eyes widening ever so slightly.

“You too,” he replies, nodding to me before turning and disappearing down the hallway to his end of the stage. I put my hands together, pressing my fingers to my lips as I pray to the Great Anakt that we come out of this alive, unscathed, whole.

It’s a wonder no one has ever told me how truly naive I can be.

❦

pre round 16 log for asuka hahah. hahaha im in danger. goddamn. . . hopefully I can get out a follow-up log for tomorrow :3c