Playing With Fire

The Beginning

I'd spent the last several years in New York studying Ballet at the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School. I hadn't been back home to or talked to my parents in almost ten months. It had been even longer than that since I had talked with any of my siblings.

I stared remorsefully out at the Louisiana countryside as the driver shakily pulled back onto the road, and we drove back to my childhood home. Part of me wanted to feel guilty for not talking to them for as long as I did, but I couldn't forget that they never made an effort to talk to me either. As soon as they had an opportunity, they'd sent me as far away as possible and didn't bother to keep in touch. And now they were dead, and no one would remember that I was the unwanted, imperfect child. To everyone, I would just be the ungrateful child who ignored her parents.

I groaned as we pulled onto the long driveway that led up to my gleaming white childhood home. It was an old plantation style house with a porch on both levels of the house wrapping around and columns outside that. I glared at the elegant old house; There might have been a time where this house stirred feelings of warmth, but now all it reminded me of was the loneliness and neglect I had faced at the hands of those who were supposed to love you the most.

Today the house was overflowing with staff, caterers, and florists presumably preparing the house for the wake after the funeral. I spotted Carver standing on the porch looking stately in a white suit. He smiled and waved as he spotted the escalade, and I had to fight the urge to tell the driver to turn around and floor it. It had been so long since I'd seen my twin I'd almost forgotten what feeling completely inadequate was like. While Carver and I were twins, he'd always been the perfect golden child and our parents' favorite. It hadn't mattered what I'd done; Carver always managed to do it better.

The car rolled to a slow stop, and I saw my two other siblings exit the house. Charlotte managed to look elegant even while trying to wrangle her two children with her husband's help.

Charlotte and Channing both took after our mother, tall with thick brown hair and delicate features. Channing was ruffling Carver's hair affectionately, and I suddenly felt like an outsider who was about to intrude on a tight-knit family during their time of grief. They looked so much like her that I couldn't see any resemblance to our father. 

I reluctantly got out of the car as the driver fetched my bag. The hot, muggy Louisiana air enveloped me, and I was suddenly glad that my parents had insisted people wear white to their funeral rather than the traditional black.

"Cordelia, it's good to see you," Charlotte said warmly, giving me an awkward hug. At the same time, her children took advantage of the momentary distraction and ran off. Charlotte gave an apologetic smile before chasing after them laughing.

Channing laughed and cheered on the kids before giving me a hug and a kiss on my cheek. "Cordie, it's been too long," he said pointedly. I gave him a weak smile, unsure of how to respond. Growing up, I'd actually gotten along really well with Charlotte and Channing despite the age difference. They'd been the ones who had comforted me when I was ignored by our parents or shown up by Carver.

Since I'd been away, though, we hadn't talked much. For me, any reminder of home was too painful, and Charlotte and Channing had their own busy lives that didn't leave much time for their discarded sister.

Finally, I faced my twin. There had been so much history and bad blood between us that I wasn't quite sure what to do. On the one hand, the rift between us had been caused by our parents, so perhaps their death meant that we might be able to repair our relationship, also; as much as it killed me, I missed my brother. On the other hand, there was so much built-up resentment between us. I wasn't sure if we would ever be able to overcome it.