Her hand ran delicately against the racks of fine clothes. Thousands upon thousands of dollars in the closet.
She adjusted her glasses as she looked at one of the sleeves of a shirt, inspecting the quality of the fabric. Unimpressed, she let it drop. Her fingers traipsed across the items until they came to rest on a white shoulder. She bit her lip and blinked behind her black, elegant frames. Carefully she took the hanger and disentangled the garment from the others.
She took it and sized it up. It was a white, tuxedo style shirt-dress. High, pointed collar, black buttons running down the front cinched in at the waist with flared pleats out the back. It was a marvel of structure. It was impressive.
On the glass table near her was a black and white clutch with brass knuckles decorating the top. She set the clutch next to the dress.
They were Alexander McQueens and now, they were hers.
Mara's plane had crashed a few weeks ago. Rebeca hadn't been in the room until now. At first it was out of reverence, but no one else had gone in. Her clothes were so lovely. Not all of them were Rebeca's style and not all of them had the quality that was up to her standards, she could just make the cheap stuff herself. The McQueens were peerless though in their quality.
She took the two items to her room and changed. Rebeca took off her glasses to put on the dress. Normally she wore contacts, but she was more comfortable with the glasses. Mara said they made her look like an old librarian. The dress was beautiful on her.
How was she supposed to feel? Shocked, sad of course in the first few days. Her father was hardly ever home. When something terrible happened, he would just focus so hard on his work that he couldn't think about it. Mara did exactly the same thing. They were more alike than they realized.
Everyone praised her for how strong she was. She looked so good even though she had gone through such hardship. How tragic she was, the only survivor of a pair of beautiful, smart sisters. She was so gracious, so kind to everyone who offered sympathies. Much nicer than Mara had been.
Everyone thought she was a tragic angel. She smiled.
Now I'm the famous one. Everyone wants to talk to ME.
Her mother had sunk even deeper into her depression. That wasn't good. But she had run of the house. The chefs made whatever she wanted whenever. She hung her art wherever she wanted.
She was an expert at dealing with loss now. Other people who'd lost someone came to her to see how she dealt so gracefully.
Rebeca fell backwards onto her bed. She supposed she could take the bigger bedroom now. Was she sad? She supposed she was. Mara had looked after her many times. It was strange not being part of a pair. The lesser of a pair, she reminded herself.
Everything was hers now.
At school she wore the dress with her hair in a long braid. Someone came up to her, excited. It seemed Mara was actually still...alive?
"....what? No. No, she died in a plane crash. Everyone, we all saw it on the...the news" she sputtered.
"She's on survival of the fittest."
Rebeca rushed to her laptop to look it up. Mara was on a death game of some kind. She'd stolen back all the attention. Rebeca narrowed her eyes. If there was anyone who could kill her way to survival, it was certainly her sister. She sulked downstairs, waiting for dinner and for the first time since her sister had disappeared, her father was downstairs reading the paper and waiting for dinner as well.
Her fingers were tightly clasped in her lap. She sat at the edge of her bed. Her hands were resting on the fabric of a blue and white polka-doted dress. Her dark, nearly black colored eyes were fixated on nothing with fierce intensity.
A moment ago she had ripped the delicate canopy off her bed. Around her were strewn ripped up pages of sketches and artwork, so numerous that it looked like confetti. Broken glass from shattered picture frames glittered from the floor in the dim light like crystal. Wisps of her shiny black hair escaped her braid and were hanging limply and framing her face.
"It's not enough," she mumbled to herself.
"Why couldn't she just die in a plane crash like they said..." she wondered as she chucked a picture across the room and watching it smash satisfyingly. It wasn't fair. There was no way for her to win. Either Mara survived and then she would be the most loved, the most exalted in her parents eyes, she would have achieved something that was near super human that she could never compete with. Rebeca would be the shadow forever.
Even worse than that, if Mara died. Then she'd become preserved in memory. It would be impossible to compete with a memory that never grows old, something that never fails. Rebeca ripped down the canopy, her eyes brimming with tears. She picked up her perfume bottles and started lobbing them against the walls and mirrors. The colored glass rained down.
The novelty of being alone had worn off. Her father didn't pay her as much mind as he used to. He worked late, but he checked his phone more often. She knew what he was looking for. He was checking on Mara. Rebeca didn't have the patience for her mother's depression. She became a ghost in her house.
She didn't know what she wanted. Mara was certainly not the pretty one anymore, but that wasn't even a factor anymore in how people measured their worth, not anymore.
And so Rebeca sat still in her destroyed room, not moving or blinking. Finally she decided that it hadn't been enough.
"I don't feel better yet," she said, passing a hand over the side of her face, tracing a line on her cheek, moving down to her lips.
Slowly, Rebeca stood and in only her white stockings, she walked to the door. She didn't look down, paying no mind to the mess underfoot. With deliberate steps Rebeca walked to Mara's room, opened the door and closed it behind her.