Indigo

In my dreams, I am whole. I run through grass as silver as my hair, quick as an arrow and just as capable. The sky above is indigo, deep and lovely, and the silver grasses are endless. I do not know what I am running from. Except I do.

I am running from the world. From time. From the end of my life that I so love living.

I look over my shoulder for it, a dress the colour of the sky streaming out behind me, silky against my legs. And then I fall forwards, and when I turn back all I see is darkness ahead of me, and behind me my hair is streaming like a silver ribbon.

I swallow a scream as I wake up, and Marc stretches beside me, yawning widely as he rolls onto his back. "You didn't squish me," I tell him, and he grins as he rolls out of bed.

"Another night of success." He raises his arms above his head, closes his eyes as he stretches, and I avert mine as the walkie talkie beside my bed screeches. Marc picks it up as his name is called through the speaker.

"I'm awake, mum. And alive," I call out. "Not particularly in that order."

Marc shakes his head but grins as dad speaks, this time. "No joking about mortality, Sylva," he says sternly, which only makes me look at Marc before we both laugh softly.

Dad sighs, and I think I hear the word 'teenagers' before mum takes back the small radio. "There're pancakes in the kitchen," she calls.

"And don't forget your pills," dad shouts.

Marc tosses down the radio with a smile, the word 'pancakes' on his lips. I roll my eyes. "Alright, food soon. Help me take my medicine, first."

Obligingly, he opens three bottles with a deft twist and gets a pill from each before closing them, setting the bottles back on my bedside table. He slips a careful arm beneath me and lifts me so that I'm sitting before he gives me the pills. I swallow them dry, and Marc shudders, but I just smile. "Help me up."

I can walk on most good days, but apparently Marcus doesn't want to take the chance.

"Put me down," I say, hitting his shoulder lightly as he scoops me into his arms as easily as a child.

He shakes his head as he carries me into the kitchen. "You need to save your strength for tonight." I sigh heavily.

"I don't want to go." I sound like a whining child. I don't care.

Marc rolls his eyes as he gently sets me in a chair at the table. "You're going. Olivia picked out a dress for you and everything. She hasn't stopped talking about it, you should hear her."

"No thanks,' I mutter.

Dad comes over from the stove and sets a plate of steaming pancakes between us, kissing the top of my head so softly that I hardly feel it. "Morning, sweetheart." I watch Marc try to grab a pancake before flinching away, holding his burnt fingers limply in front of him. When he reaches out and takes one anyway, tossing it between his hands, I smile and decide to wait for them to cool down.

Mum sits beside me and runs her hand over the top of my head. "How did you sleep?" she asks.

I shrug, pick up a pancake. "Well."

"Any dreams?" she asks.

"None," I say, and Marc looks at me sharply. My eyes tell him to leave it, and he looks down at his food. Every morning I regale mum and dad with the fantastic world of my dreams, which they say I should write a book about. But this morning I have no desire to tell them about my dream. Dying isn't something they want to hear me talking about.

Dad sits down beside mum and steals a pancake from the plate, tossing it between his hands like Marc did, and mum rolls her eyes. "What's happening tonight?" dad asks. Poor, oblivious dad.

"The formal dance at the school," mum says, managing to sound both anxious and excited.

"I finished school two years ago, mum," I complain. And I'm not going to live long enough to make use of what I learnt, a voice whispers in my head, but I push it away.

"Yeah, well, not all of us are geniuses," Marc says, taking a bite of his pancake. I judge them to be cool and take one for myself. "And I invited you. You can't leave me dateless." He wouldn't be dateless for long, if he showed up.

I sigh and bite my pancake. "Fine. But I'm not staying long. These old bones are frail."

Dad smiles sadly. Marc eats another pancake. We eat breakfast with Marc chattering to mum and dad, with the occasional interjection from me, and then dad is cleaning and mum is tossing Marc a shirt. He slips it on and picks me up carefully, despite my protests, and brings me back to my room.

"What do you want to do today?" he asks.

I shrug. "Olive probably has the day planned out."

"You're right," he says sheepishly. And then my door slams open, and Olivia comes in with two dress bags and a giant box filled with what I imagine to be makeup, a shoebox beneath her other arm.

"Dear god," I say, and Marc mumbles his assent beside me.

"Morning, lovely," Olivia sings. "And brother," she says, darting a bright glance at Marc. Olivia is his sister, like him in almost every way, only a year younger. But her hair is longer, a little past her shoulders, and she's a little shorter and decidedly less well muscled. She's gorgeous. Strong. Whole.

I sigh as she drops her load on the floor before hanging the dress bags. "Shower time!" she says, squealing.

Marc looks at her, amused. "You're a little too excited for shower time."

"Shut up." She throws her shoe at him as she takes it off, and he catches it and sets it on the ground. "I am excited to dress our dear Sylva up."

She is like a whirlwind, sweeping through my room, babbling about hair and makeup and shoes shoes shoes.

"Marc, be helpful and carry Sylva to the bathroom." He sighs but does so, setting me lightly on my feet but keeping his hands around my waist to hold me up, as if I'm about to fall.

"I'm not about to topple over, Marc," I say, flushing a little.

He frowns. "Olivia, get in here."

He relinquishes me to Olive and closes the door behind him, going back into the bedroom.

Olivia helps me out of my pyjamas and undoes my hair with fingers not so gentle as her brother's, but I hide my winces and let her before I step into the shower. She chatters about hair and makeup and hair and makeup and someone named Mackenzie, who is horrible. I sit on my shower chair and wash my hair with careful fingers, watching Olivia's shadow dance across the shower curtain. When I'm done, she wraps me in my bath robe and slips an arm around my waist, supporting me as we walk out of the bathroom, a hairdryer in her free hand.

She tosses it to Marcus, who sits up and catches it before it hits his face, scowling. "Dry her hair, Marc. I need to sort out colours."

He plugs it into the wall and crooks his finger at me, and I slowly seat myself in front of him, on the edge of the bed. "Is this too much for you?" he asks, his voice low, worried, as he flicks on the hairdryer to mask our voices.

"No," I tell him, as he runs his fingers through my hair, combing it for me. I wonder how many times Olivia made him do this for her. He's only done it once or twice for me, but he had to learn somewhere. And I doubt he uses one on his hair.

"Don't be scared to tell me if you're tired, or in pain," he says, leaning close to be heard over the dryer. "You're more important than a dress and makeup and what Olivia wants."

I flush a little but nod, fold my robe more securely over my legs and let him dry my hair. Olivia is sorting through a horrifically large box of makeup, putting certain things in one pile, testing colours on the back of her hand.

My hair is dry after half an hour, and the thick waves fall halfway down my back. Marc runs his hand through my hair and then brushes it over my shoulder, smiling as he leans his chin on my opposite shoulder, though he's hardly leaning, more like hovering over me.

"All dry," he says, putting the dryer down and flicking off the switch before he wraps his arms around my waist.

"I need a shower," Olivia announces, her makeup strewn across the ground in piles I don't understand, and most likely never will.

She goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I can hear her voice as she sings, and Marc lies back slowly, bringing me with him so that I lie on his chest, my legs curling up beside me. We doze while we wait for Olivia to be done.

"Is this a nightmare for you?" he asks.

"The makeup, the dresses, the shoes. All very frightening for a girl," I say, and he laughs softly. "I actually want to do this, a little," I admit. Mostly because he's going to be there, but now is not the time for that particular admission. "Good. You should do everything you want to do," he says. Before you die, are the unspoken words, hovering between us.

We are quiet until Olivia flounces out of the bathroom in my spare robe, hair dripping wet.

"Dry my hair, brother," she demands, gently helping him to lift me up. I set myself on the floor beside the bed, legs stretched out in front of me as Marc sits up and Olivia takes my place.

Marcus does everything with a small smile on his face, speaking of long suffering and the fact that he's only doing this for the people he loves. I find it strange, that the same hands that braided my hair last night are just as adept at fixing a motor and building a car. But Marcus is Marcus. I'm grateful for him regardless.

When Olivia has dry hair, she shoos Marc from the room. "Come back at six," she tells him. He kisses my cheek as he passes, with a look that says I am allowed to call him if I need him.

He leaves, and Olivia squeals as she shuts the door behind him. I can't help it; her enthusiasm is catching. I smile as she grabs handfuls of makeup and comes over to me.

"This is so exciting, Syl. You're going to look gorgeous." She sits in front of me on the carpet, and examines my face pensively. "Hmmm. Let's go with an ethereal, fairy-type look." She takes out some powder and a brush and sweeps it along my cheekbones and face. I close my eyes and let her do her magic. "I mean, who else has silver hair? It's otherworldly."

"If you want it, all you need is a rare pigmentation disorder," I joke, and she snorts as I open my eyes.

"Because those are easy to get a hold of." Somehow, joking about my various inadequacies is easy with Olivia. She's just so easy to talk to, to listen to.

"And your eyes," she continues, leaning close to look at them before taking a long stick of something and holding it like a pen. "They're like- don't blink, that's it- they're like ice." Cold, hard, dead, I think. "They're beautiful. Oh, and your mum is doing your hair. I hope you don't mind."

"That's fine," I say, fighting a smile as she puts something on my lips. Mum is probably just as excited as Olivia is. I haven't been out of the house for two years, after all, and I definitely haven't been to a formal dance.

Olivia spends some more time on my face, and, when I glance at the clock, I see that we only have three hours. How did the time go so quickly?

Mum comes in and, when Olivia moves and she sees me, there are tears in her eyes. She smiles and wipes them away. "What?" I ask, trying to stand and look in the mirror. She shakes her head and Olivia helps me up, but won't let me near a mirror. "No looking til we're done," she says, leading me slowly to a chair in front of my now covered mirror. Mum stands behind me and runs her fingers through my hair.

"You look gorgeous, darling," she say. Olivia goes into the bathroom to do her own makeup while mum does my hair. At one point, dad comes in and starts taking photos of me, his smile so wide it must hurt. I watch as mum takes deep blue flowers from a box dad gives her and threads them through my hair with loops and pins and all manner of things. The flowers release a heady scent, sweet and soft.

Olivia pokes her head out of the bathroom and gives the camera a saucy wink before coming out, her hair and makeup lovely, her eyes bright and blue. Dad laughs and compliments her, and she smiles and pats him on the cheek before coming to stand next to mum as she fixes the last flower in place. She reaches out and grabs the cloth over the mirror, pulling it free. "You look gorgeous, Syl," she murmurs.

I look at my face. It doesn't look like mine. My face is pale, as it always is, with a slight glittery sheen that makes my skin glimmer when I move. My eyes are ringed in a thin line of black, making them more noticeable then they ever were, and almost blue on my pale face.

My hair is pinned into an artful bun at the back of my head, silvery waves and curls falling down at the sides and framing my face, deep blue flowers interspersed throughout the silver. My eyelashes are long and silver, like my hair, but they've never looked this long before.

I look ethereal. Not like myself at all.

Dad takes a photo of me. "You look lovely, Sylvie," he murmurs, and I smile, unsure.

"Alright, time to put on dresses!" Olivia shatters the moment and ushers dad and his camera out of the room, closing the door with a wicked smile on her face: she's clearly enjoying this. Mum slips the dress from the bag as Olivia gets her own, and I step into it wordlessly, one hand on my dresser to steady myself as she zips me up. I look in the mirror.

It is the indigo dress of my dream: floor length silk that clings to me up to my waist and then falls like a gathering of elegant petals to the floor. I feel like a stranger in my own skin.

Olivia is in a knee length dress, bright red like her lipstick. She's so beautiful she takes my breath away.

"You look amazing, Olive," I say, and mum murmurs agreement.

She smiles at me. "Oh, not as good as you, I don't think." I doubt that. I could never be as lovely as her.

I let them help me into blue silk flats and then dad carries me into the other room, where about a million photos are taken of me and Olivia.

And then the doorbell rings, and I freeze. Olivia looks at me knowingly and leaves, taking mum and dad with her to meet her date.

When Marc steps into the room, alone, my heart skips a beat. He's wearing a black suit with a tie the colour of my dress. His hair is a dark, adorable rumple. He is tall and sharp and handsome, and I suddenly feel small and weak and hideous.

But then he takes a step closer, and I see the way he is looking at me. He swallows, his eyes dark. "Sylva," he says, his voice low.

"Marcus," I respond evenly.

And then he grins and walks to me, puts his hands on my waist to steady me and studies my face. "You look like a dream," he says, his eyes tracing my face.

"A bad one," I joke, and he just shakes his head. The way he is looking at me makes me feel like I am, for a moment, beautiful.

"Come on. They'll want to take photos," he says softly. And he takes my hand and helps me walk to the door with infinite patience, a small smile on his lips the entire time.

When we get to the front, we take photos individually, in couples, and all together. Olivia and her partner are stunning together, both dark-haired and tall and slim.

"A silly one, kids," dad says as we pose for the last photo.

"One sec," Marc calls out. Gently, he puts an arm behind my shoulders and another at the bend of my knees, and I wrap my arms around his neck.

"Don't ruin her hair," mum calls anxiously.

Marcus laughs. "Her hair is fine, Evelyn," dad says. Olivia puts an arm around her date, Tom, and she makes a face. Tom grins. I just look at Marc. And then the flash goes off and I close my eyes, and everyone is climbing into the limo mum called for us. Marc sets me down gently and climbs in beside me, winding his fingers through mine.

Mum and dad, when I look at them, are crying and waving. And I smile and Marc waves for me. And then we are going going gone.