The Prisoner Project

THIRTY FOUR

"We're not in Wonderland anymore, Alice. We're just  lost."

— Charles Manson

THIRTY FOUR

AS I WALKED INTO HER OFFICE, I realised that I had forgotten how to speak. I couldn't articulate any emotion that I felt inside of me — and Christ, did I want to yell. I was filled to the very brim with anger, frustration, sadness, despair, and the familiar feeling of fear. Yet, I could not spill over. My teeth acted as a lid that kept the tsunami from crashing against everything within Mirabels' office.

I wondered why for a moment. Then it hit me.

It was simple: In the moments after my family's death, the treacherous months that trickled into cess pools for grief to waltz in, I had spoken more to Banshee than any one else. I had touched the void, and it had consumed me. It was why it was so easy to trust him. So, in realising that he had completely thrown my trust away, my lungs and throat and lips remained catatonic in protest.

Mirabel circled her table and perched on its edge. The wonder in her eyes were colossal, and I knew that this was her moment. "Aria, have a seat."

I was an extra in the movie of my demise.

"Let me introduce myself to you." She began. "I'm Mirabel." Her fingers rummaged through her desk drawer for something. She pulled it out and stained the cigarette with her red lipstick. "Mirabel, but many call me M."

I heard the crack beneath my feet and I knew that in a few moments, my entire world would shift on its axis. I stared at my entwined fingers in disgust.

M, my fathers lover.

"But your father called me Belle just like all other superficial men who are madly in love do. Belle, for beauty." She had only taken two drags when she dulled the stick against an ash tray. "That man sent me the most outrageous letters, filled with longing and passion and desire and —God, that man was stuck in a depraved marriage. I always knew Amelia didn't understand the language of  love."

When my mothers name left her lips, the roof of Mirabels office flew off, the walls collapsed, the papers on her desk incinerated and I was certain every tree outside had been uprooted.

The venom in my voice overtook my despair. "How the fuck do you know my mother's name?"

Mirabel paused for a second. Our eyes connected and like an open book, she read my discomfort and confusion. She ate it up. "You baffle me, Aria."

"Wh—"

"I know her name because I loved your mother. I promise you I did." She shrugged. "You, of all the people, would understand what it's like to love your sister."

There was a moment before I had comprehended her words. In that moment, I had thought of every possible conclusion to her sentence and there was not a single moment in my life on this universe that prepared me for this.

"You're her sister...?"

"Your aunt." Her smirk was ungodly.

"I don't believe you." But I did. I just didn't believe that my mother could be related to the spawn of the devil. It dampened her light. It made her seem imperfect.

Mirabel leaned back on her chair and looked up at her white ceiling. Her office was white and woody. Unbelievably basic. "Frankly, my dear, I don't care what you believe."