Face of Three
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| xxx | The middle Winfield had always bore two faces: Charlotte and Lottie. The difference between these names was nearly indefinable at first glance. Some days she introduced herself as the former, often when she was strategically wandering a crowded dance floor or speaking to an adult. Other days she was Lottie, typically when she felt too vulnerable to be known by her whole. It was easiest that way, to be seen as only a piece of who she was really meant to be, an enigma of sorts. Charlotte went to parties and wore pearls. When she stepped into a crowd, Charlotte turned heads and prompted quiet, fascinated chatter. Charlotte stared unsmiling in a dozen family portraits set evenly on corridor walls and in classy picture frames in the foyer. People admired Charlotte, but they also feared her, enough that they would not bother her should she silently beckon their presence with her tantalizing gaze. Charlotte was Delphine's third child, and her most precious. Lottie, on the other hand, was peculiar. Lottie sat in strange locations like moss-covered groves and dusty libraries, legs curved in awkward, messy positions, as if she didn't know what to do with all her limbs and bones. People did not speak to Lottie, nor did she speak to them, and if they tried to approach her, she shut them down. Lottie flushed too easily and spoke too shortly, as if she had too many thoughts and not enough words. Lottie read books that didn't matter and played dead mans' songs and smiled to herself when she was sure no one could see. Lottie was odd, an overdone culmination of dramatic emotions and lengthy dreams. For so long, Lottie and Charlotte had existed in a strange balance, trading off like sun and moon. Charlotte stood out, and Lottie did not. It wasn't until recently that the middle Winfield had discovered a third face. This face did not have a name. It only appeared on occasion, following a schedule the girl could not discern. In moments when she was laying in her dorm, alone, or wandering the grounds, this face would rear its head. It would consume her, enrapture her mind and body in a sort of ungrounded dream-like state that floated upon thought and theory. She would feel it so suddenly and sharply that it ached. The sensation was a cobbled together collection of images and patterns: her older sister's smile, her baby brother's cry, the piercing screech of an owl, the crisp flap of an envelope, dandelions in a breeze, a childhood of grass and paper and tears so deep she could drown in them. No one had seen this face. It seemed that every time someone got close, Charlotte or Lottie would roll a die and appear accordingly, shutting down any suggestion of truth. The middle Winfield did not know why. She did not know many things. A day like today was a perfect recipe for this third face to appear. She had awoken to pale gray light and slowly pulled herself together for a short day. Breakfast had seemed unimportant, so she skipped it, and instead walked the grounds and kicked up dry leaves. She had flown a bit, laid by the waterside, then read in the library until her eyes hurt. All on her lonesome. It was three hours before dinner when she had returned to the grounds, a headache beating behind her eyes and a firm hand tugging at her heart. She had flopped down onto the grass beneath a secluded willow, feeling the softness capture her body and sink into her skin. The yellow leaves above were shadowed by a gentle evening light. She looked like a Sepia photograph, the sharp edges of her face dulled by soft gray and the line of her doe-like eyes turned fuzzy. This was when the shapeless form of her mysterious face had crept upon her, a hesitant cat examining its prey before pouncing. When she finally felt it, it came crashing down around her. She thought of her brother. In her mind, his fiancée Margaret was beautiful, curvy and dark with curls that hit her shoulders just right and cascaded down her back like a portrait of a waterfall. She was a Monet painting, brilliant and soft and soothing in all ways the Winfields were not. And there was Louis, a Sargent, an expression of regal judgement cast across his face. And when he looked at Margaret, his face danced with a hint of color, like the light of a firework cast upon the water. The middle Winfield did not know why this saddened her so, but she turned her head into grass at the thought and felt the prickly surface turn moist with warm tears. This elicited a second picture, an image of Anadil. She stood upon a stage, her face illuminated by a shocking spotlight. Her skin was as pale as snow, hair tied in thick braids that were laced with ribbon and drying flowers. She wore a peculiar gown, one that jutted out in strange places and revealed even more pale skin all along her sharp figure. Delphine would have hated it, but that was why Anadil loved it. Her dramatic expression melted into one of cool rebellion, the image of anti as she began to dance. The middle Winfield could not bear to stay in this thought for any longer, so she shifted onto her other sister. Ethel sat among a sea of color and texture, paint splatters that cut smoothly across canvas-like surfaces and patterned fabrics. Paper stars hung from above her, emanating warm light that pulsed and shivered as though it were alive. Ethel had a grin so big and wide it could shatter diamonds, and her fingers worked quickly on the world around her, building upon it and expanding it. Then, the vision shifted down further, below the color and the light and the warmth, and there was Francis. He sat at the stool of a dusty piano, his index finger stuck on a single note. He stared blankly at it, as though resigned to the fact that it could not do much more than stay glued to this spot. The world was a dark expanse of hollow blankness, entirely lonesome in its completeness. This was all there was. Nothing more, nothing less, forever. The middle Winfield could not take it. It all came crashing down around her. Margaret's elaborate warmth, Louis's fascinated stare, Anadil's rebellious smile, Ethel's excited grin, Francis's blank gaze. And then, with a gasp, there was Lottie. A dream. It had been a dream. Lottie would ponder this third face. She would think of it for days afterwards, and never manage to truly identify it. Maybe it was, in itself, a dream. But dream and truth lay in a precarious imbalance, and one day, the reality of it would be determined. Perhaps much, much later. | xxx |
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Face of Three |  |
| ✦"You better start walking. Love takes miles."✦ STA 8 │ EVA 8 │ STR 6 │ WIS 6 │ ARC 6 │ ACC 7 |