I sat on the sand, breaking off a piece of croissant I’d snagged from the kitchen to give him.
I called him my suicide swan. He—or she? How did you even tell?—was always there when I was fucked up. Swans were notorious assholes, but not this guy. This guy was always separate from the pack. I think it had something to do with its fucked-up wing.
The swan honked and took the offered piece of flaky pastry.
I pressed my cheek against my knee, watching the sun rise over the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing like shattered glass.
Nothing was ever in my control. Who I was, my personality, my likes and dislikes, were all chosen by the world.Love was controlled by my mother, and if I didn’t obey and act perfectly, I wasn’t loved.
Even my death wasn’t my choice. Grim inked my life on his chest, forcing me to live, stripping me of my last shred of control.
I stayed on the beach until the sun rose high into midmorning, then gave my swan the last piece of croissant. By the time I got back to the house, a flurry of people were hanging portraits and unwrapping antique china. Down the hall, more workers rushed in and out of my mother’s favorite room.
Shit.
The Sunroom Revival was today.
Not more than two seconds later, my mother appeared. “Where have you been?” She didn’t give me a chance to respond, dragging me off to the side. “We start in an hour. A prince who, by some miracle, expressed interest in you is coming.”
Princes stopped being cute when I was seven. Outside of Disney, they weren’t so charming. Pedophiles, rapists, fetishes that border on torture, all hidden by a shiny crown.
No, thanks.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I forgot.”
She looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “Sometimes I think you’re as bad as your sister. Do you even want this, Gemma?”
I paused.
Do I want this?
I’d never really been allowed to ask myself that question.
As if sensing my hesitation, my mother asked, “What could be more important?”
Wasn’t this what I wanted? To marry someone whowould put me back on the cover of magazines? To be Gemma Crowne, and have thatmeansomething again.
To havecontrol.
“To be a queen, you need a king, Gemma,” my mother said. “Otherwise you’re just a little girl playing dress-up.”
Hours later the sunset painted the sky in oranges and reds. I waited for my hair to set, makeup already done, and scrolled.
It didn’t take long to find someone talking shit about me. They loved to tag me. Someone had posted a zoomed-in version of two photos, side by side, for comparison. The second photo was a still from some video, distorted.Gemma: before and after, the caption read.
I glanced at the mirror.
Did I look like that?
I shook my head and read the comments.
She was hot before she started fucking with her face.
I saw Gemma Crowne in person and it made me realize she’s so empty. She’s just a character giving a performance.
Gemma was so much less annoying when she was engaged to Horace.
I used to stab safety pins in my leg to avoid scars. I stopped when even that started to blemish.
