Pretty, Pretty Princess

*Warnings: Mentions of blood, deadnaming*

I run the knife under hot water. It slices clean through the heart of the strawberry-coated cheesecake. Toxic red kisses drop on my fingers as I cut halves in half. One slice to Maize. The next, to Mom. I decline, saying I'm full. Mom twitters about how responsible I am.

Scatted between the dessert plates are plastic, pearl necklaces, chunky, false gemstones glued to the game pieces, board waiting for its pretty, pretty princesses to play. On the box is off-brand Ariel, with orange hair. Cinderella in yellow ball gown, Belle in blue. They are rosy-cheeked, smiling, interchangeable. I slip into my seat, slip back on the ridiculous rings, slip back into the haughty voice that makes little Mazie laugh.

I was born a month ago. Two weeks after Amanda ran away. A fight Mom started, but couldn't finish. Mom sat on her side of the bed, the other corpse cold, and listed to her eldest jimmy the bathroom window open. Watched her, in the darkened window, run across the front lawn, through he flower patch, backpack bursting. Hope, from a look back, shot down with two one-fingered salutes. Mom watched the rain fill in the foot steps in the dirt, the sun laze over the neighboring roofs, the same pink Amanda's room was, is, under all the posters.

She sobbed this into my shoulder as I admired the attic. So full of love, of memories. It was not dirty. There was a clean, copper couch with a dust-free throw. The silver was polished, set ablaze by the flickering of the candles. Photos on fine furniture, knickknacks neatly stacked. Christmas lights in constellations on the ceiling. Halloween haunted the floor with black cats and gravestones. The circled pentagram fitted right in. Only then, when I knew I would have more than enough to eat, did I hug her back, nip her neck, and seal the deal.

Mom is a good mother. Breakfast on the table, lunches with written reminders on the counter. Never missed a one of my swim meets. Not a word against Maize's attempts at playing the recorder. Take out and dessert on game night, every Saturday evening, if grades are good and homework is in order.

I am a good daughter. I don't just take. Not like Amanda did. Watching after Maize, keeping perfect attendance. I weed the posters from the wall so the pink comes blooming back. Decline dessert. My hair is long and shiny, like in the photos in the attic, before Amanda cut it off, before she left the her room vacant, a stomach to be filled.

The game goes on. Mom rolls the dice. She asks me if I know what Amanda knew. She lets another earing bite red into her skin, just above the fresh bandage on her neck. Maize prances around with the prize tiara, as I take my time with my turn, tasting the response in my mouth. I ask what she wants Amanda to remember. Her eyes flicker to the attic. Where little handprints are preserved in paint, well-done papers peppered with stickers. It is a curated garden of the good times.

A noise at the front door. A screen door rebelling against it's hinges. A key struggling to remember how to turn the lock. Thick boots, the jingle of metal on the ears, dangling from the waist. Where I am soft, Amanda is loud. Where I was born, Amanda returns.

Cut hair, cut clothes. Dirty shoes on the entry rug. Her eyes are dark with stress and blue eye shadow. She startles at the mirror of her face, a few weeks younger, a few inches thinner, in her place at the table. Princess perfect, a small drop of strawberry sauce on the lips.

"Mazie. Go to bed, sweetie."

Mom does not look away from her crumb coated plate. Mazie shuffles, looking from Amanda to Amanda to Amanda. The questions in her mind make her fingers clench her pony pajama shirt. The girl almost guilty as she gets closer, than goes past the stranger sister to the stairs. She stares and stares between the bars on the railing, portraying her as jailhouse guilty. Amanda's shock turns to a sneering glare. Mazie runs the rest of the way, door slamming upstairs.

"What the fuck, Mom—."

"Amanda, I—."

"My name is Prince, fucking use it."

Prince drops their bag to the floor. Advances to the table in their heavy boots. They hate everything in the room. Their favorite cake on the table. The game they hate in it's third act. Mom. Me, Amanda, I suppose. The Amanda their Mom gave birth to, from film and memory and demonic spite. Melting wax under the waning moon. Blood of blood.

"Leave," they spit at me, smite me with my own eyes. "I don't know who you are, or what she's paying you to do this sick joke, but get out of my house—."

"This isn't your house!"

The slam of palms on the heirloom table. The clatter of plastic on the kitchen tile. Prince's neck snaps to the side. Mom has tears in her eyes. They glaze her glare over with static.

I am too full for dessert these days. My skin is clear with Amanda's tears over the locker room. My hair is lush with the times she asked Mom if she could cut it. I lap it all up, the loud music, the lashing of harsh words. I am energized by all the arguments, all the fear, all the hate from Mom's mind. All the things she could not finish, left to rot. Compost, for a field of just pink flowers.

Amanda is a good daughter. Amanda has only blessed her Mom with happy tears, reminiscing on the good times. Amanda drinks them down, but she doesn't just take. Gracious Amanda gives. She tells her mom how she loved her sunrise walls, the dresses in her closet. The diets, the dirt on her hands as they tilled the garden together. A life saving purpose Amanda performs, filtering Mom's mind of the tragedy that burdened her, that weighed on her head like a full attic.

Prince wobbles, uncrowned, unstable, unseated. They look at the woman at the end of the table anew. They feel the pressure of intrusion, it curls their arms around their chest, hugging themselves as the kitchen warmth does not reach them. Their lip curls. They stumble back to the bag on the ground. Into the living room covered wall to wall to wall to wall in photos of Amanda.

Rosy cheeked, smiling, Amanda.