Charmilly Tart ;; D1

To be a Tart, you must embody all that it implies. You are a blank canvas culminated by selectivity, beaten bleeding souls, and ice water. Expertise hands compress and condense, shoving you into their desired shell, pricking and embedding you with their aspirations. Then, like magic, you’ll rise to the occasion, become sweetened, and palatable for whatever filling they made you for. That is what it means to be a tart, and a Tart I am.

For every tart bares a different filling, the flavor dictated by your name. It’s one of the family traditions we Tarts carry, funnily enough. Traditions hold our cracking crust together like yolk to flour, yet the word family is absent in our recipe. Perhaps it started when Chicouté and Boysen separated when I was three and divorced by seven, or maybe it’s because neither let me call them mom or dad in front of others. They would lean down, whispering in a scolding imperial tone while ghoul hands grasped at my puffed sleeves when gazes turned. Yet father or mother felt too stiff, rigid yet fragile to their candied sugar image. And so, just Boysen and Chicouté they are to me, and I just Charmilly to them. Yet, Sureau was more than just Sureau, he was their son; he was my brother. As the eldest, I dawned caked skin and buried my inner filling; not that mine was to ever be savored.

Chicouté started on me when I was young, correcting me whenever I cried. Instead, she told me to smile through it. “As a woman, never show others your weakness. Smile through it all, it isn’t pretty to cry.” If I were to cry, Chicouté would often stare onward, continuing whatever it is she was doing, paying no mind. Attention to the weeping is spoiling poor behavior, as she’d often parrot in poignant distaste to news of lesser district’s dismay. Whenever speaking, Chicouté’s palette sounded distant, foul words dripped off an airy falsetto, foreign to her deeper alto reserved behind shut doors. I learned the same, shedding my lemon dropped tears in the privacy of my own; after all, not all lemons are meant for lemonade. And no one likes a sour tart, those are the kind spat in napkins hidden in polite stuffed pockets. I grew to resent the pitted sour that contorted my face and squeezed my heart, it’s a flavor unsuitable for my tongue; one that makes me feel like tea streams that teeter off unstable cups. Even with no eyes around, I can feel Chicouté’s gaze waiting for the china to fall. Failure isn’t for a girl like me, if you’ve seen my brother you’d understand.

Sureau didn’t get the memo when he was born. All he did was cry, a habit that didn’t dissuade with age. We were only two years apart, but dear ripred was he annoying. The world treated Sureau as if his pale skin was made of sugar glass and insides of melted marshmallows. Back before when I lived on the Tart estate, we used to play a game called victors. The estate was healthily sized itself with sprawling sculpture gardens that grandmom Cerise tended to. It felt like our own little arena since the garden bushes were so high you couldn’t see over them or any of our neighbors. We had play-swords, play-knives, and play-arrows that we dawned just as the bravely fallen in games past. Except, bravery isn’t a trait you can teach the feeble-minded. I tried to make the game as easy as I could when facing a six year old, believe me; I was a generous older sister. I’d tie my licorice hair back into slicked pigtail braids, easy to grab and harder to hide, even jeering for him to come find me. There’s only a certain amount of bushes and space, how hard could it have been? Normally Sureau would just mindlessly kick the gravel whenever he’d walk, the sputtering of the quartz pebbles that clacked carelessly, announcing his presence to the delight of Chicouté and Boysen who watched like gamemakers leisurely from the wisteria crept patio. It made it easy to dash away from the clubbed foot idiot, like a fox evading a sluggish ill-trained basset hound. My favorite part was the hunt, yet all games lose their luster with a predictable end. Everything always ends the same between us Sureau.

Maybe it is madness for us to repeat this dance, for me to spin around the hedge and thwart you with a thrusted shove and a downward pierce of my nature-made blade. It’s a fun descent, one familiar for your spine to be pressed against the cobbled ground you once mocked. Why act so shocked every time? Don’t you have any pride? There is no pride to be had when you meekly grab onto the grain, none for when your shame spindles down your swollen cheeks while your mint chipped eyes stare up pleadingly. Especially none when our parents would rush to your side, every goddamn time. It was without fail, as if there were mockingjays that sounded off your cries blaring for all to hear. Chicouté’s harpy claws would shove me back, but I learned not to fall. It’s not my fault for trying to teach you the same Sureau. Don’t you know? In six years you could be reaped and believe me, they’ll be a lot worse than me. The lower districts won’t pity a career from District One who is an official’s son. If I go in four years time, who else would prepare you for the cruelty you’ll face? It certainly won’t be your mommy and daddy. They’ll be the ones to feed you to the lions so you can nourish their pride for the lack of your own. So why don’t you take your hilt and drive it into me already. At least make this interesting, give our audience what they want.

It consumed you in small doses, through truffled bites of praise. By the time you’ve had your fill, you don’t remember the boy once before. The empty discarded chocolate box houses him and his aspirations. My Sureau didn’t like to fight, no matter how hard I tried, but you did. At least, that’s what Chicouté told me. She would dote on you, even if you weren’t here; even when you weren’t in our lives. It came to a head when in the career academy. The flail was too barbaric, javelins too masculine, whips too flashy, swords too expected and what you used. The bow was just right for her and for me. She called it feminine and poetic, but for me I liked the hunt. I loved the wind that pressed back and the whipping of the bow, so much that I was known throughout the academy. But then one day near my fifteenth birthday, Chicouté pulled me out. She said, “there’s no need to delusion yourself with preparing for the games. Sureau was made for that, but you were made for other things.”

Other things meant what I was banished to do. The afternoons I spent piping cakes that went uneaten, made for decor for only a fraction to adore. So then became now, my bow went unused, and the few friends I made stopped waiting for me after school. But someone else would come to wait; an older man I didn’t recognize. He wore officials’ clothes, and sometimes it wasn’t he who arrived but another person he sent. At first, it was something simple. “Make me your best blackberry macaroon, but you must make it with this.” In a manila envelope sat a curious vial, with a viscous indigo liquid. I tried to question what it was, but Chicouté came from round back and shushed me away. “The customer is always right.” I didn’t think much of it, deducing it to perhaps a secret family ingredient. If anything, it annoyed me; how dare he question if our food wasn’t good on its own? Perfection never needs alterations. After I had made the box and he left the first time, I tried to taste a remaining drop from the vial’s rim. Perhaps if I tasted it, I would understand. Chicouté caught me however from the doorway. Her heels clicked rapidly across the tiles as she snatched it from my hands, throwing it so quickly in the trash that the glass had smashed. Wiping her fingers dismissively on my chest covered apron, her fingers then latched onto my skin.

Her sharpened nails dug into my chin, tight enough to feel the painful pinching of forming indents. Instead of wincing, I unflinchingly matched her gaze, staring into her nearly black eyes. “Your palette isn’t refined enough to comprehend such flavors. Those concentrates are more expensive than you are alive, they’re rumored to be from the president’s private gardens after all. Don’t waste one drop.” Her hand retracted, causing me to subconsciously rub my jaw. Turning away, she started shoving the dirtied utensils into the sink. Speaking with her back turned towards me, using the same false octave that only Capitolites use, she continued, “besides, you’re allergic to it, Charmilly. One taste and your throat will swell as if you’ve been stung by a tracker jacker. You’ll be dead before you can call for help.” I wanted to ask how she knew, but before I could her heels clacked away. That’s how conversations always were between us, her walking away before we got anywhere.

That strange visit turned into a routine. The flavors would change, and at times the color of the concentrate, but there was always a special dash of a mysterious ingredient. Typically, it was always that odd deep liquid. Perhaps it was an official’s ritual that those of the districts couldn’t fathom. Perhaps Boysen knew of it, after all, he worked alongside these men. But I couldn’t ask him, since I didn’t know him. The last I saw Boysen was when I was eight when I had departed those gates. Sometimes I’d think I would catch glimpses of him within our city, but what good would it do to search for one who doesn’t want to be found. Like Sureau, he subsided into those garden walls. I was too old to hunt through mazes with play swords or arrows. If I’m to hunt, I do it with metal and purpose. And once I’ve found you, I wouldn’t let either of you go. Not as easy as you did me.

It would only take three years for you both to show up at our door, well not exactly that is. It was more of a regal envelope, one that faintly smelled of sandalwood, and one Chicouté wouldn’t allow me to open, but I knew what it was for. There was no introduction needed, since your birthday was the most important holiday. It always was and has been. But this was a spectacle beyond belief. Chicouté and I had to dress up in our most lavish dresses, her spending hours preening and even shopping for something for you. But if she knew you, it wouldn’t take half a second to consider what you’d want. Something sweet, for the sweet sixteen, to satiate the taste you’ve always had for simple sugar made with care. I didn’t know you anymore; I didn’t know what you liked to eat, what you’d wear, or even how you styled your hair. I would hear of you in passing, of how they’ve made you into a beast renown at your academy. One who didn’t spare people, not even his allies, because that’s what we’re supposed to do as careers; we’re supposed to win at all costs, even if it is with our life. So I made the only thing I knew held well against the crowd you hung around, one perhaps Boysen would enjoy too, but this was just for you. With my hair and makeup done, I wonder if you’d recognize me. I didn’t mirror the girl you once knew, I’ve evolved from that, I’ve evolved past you. Instead of chocolate, my hair laid in an inky hue, with hazelnut eyes masked in ice blue. I didn’t resemble you, or mom, not in the slightest, because none of you deserved me. Wrapping my familiar red velvet apron around the back of my dress, my hands worked in clockwork of sifting flour, separating egg whites, dosing it with sugar and tatar, but I couldn’t forget the most important ingredient of all.

We kept the tray in the walk-in fridge so no one could see. It was kept all the way in the back, hidden so no one could steal. Reaching behind some boxes, my hand grasped a vial of indigo. Chicouté said it was too refined for my palette, that my tongue couldn’t handle the flavor because it was poison for me. But you’ve always been different, Sureau; Chicouté and Boysen made it clear. You were the one who had lavish birthdays on the ballroom floors, with a view overlooking the city. Fairy lights were strewn, and anyone would think it was a wedding. Officials littered the room, some peacekeepers perhaps out of uniform even, but if anyone knew what the occasion was, they’d be just as perplexed. Because this wasn’t a governmental meeting, this wasn’t a marriage between two elites, nor was it for a graduation or even an academy’s dance. This was for a boy, an ungrateful boy. One who has been handed everything to him in life without strife. And when we arrived, I box in hand, there you stood on the platform.

Chicouté made her way over to you, instantly wrapping you in a hug and kissing your cheek. She started jovially laughing with the officials while using that weird faux accent and teasing you. Yet you seemed confused, almost startled by her warmth. Maybe mine was more suited since I never bothered to go hug over you. Instead, our eyes briefly met and I left to go steal a drink from the bar. I didn’t have to wait long till you found your way towards me by the back of the room. You were always a lost puppy, needing someone to lead your leash. If it were to be dropped on the floor, you’d simply look around and sit rather than moving where you choose. However although today marked the eve of your sixteenth, you didn’t look like a puppy. Your stature matched mine, both of us standing at an even six feet, although in heels I still towered you. No matter how you grew I always would, because you’ll always be the boy with his back against the gravel.

“You seem lost” his voice approached in a depth that I wouldn’t be able to pick from a crowd. “I’m never lost, just waiting for the perfect time.” The whisky swirled as my wrist did, soothing the tension that rubbed at my temples. It could have been from the liquor since I was never one to hold it well, or it could have been from your presence. You always confused me, Sureau, and maybe that’s what you had over me. I watched the amber liquid before bringing the glass to my ruby stained lips, swallowing it while I looked into your brown eyes. “You’re taller,” I remarked, the glass hitting with a disgruntled thud on the table behind.

Your bangs fell across your face, covering the stray mole on the corner of your eye as it looked towards the glass. You offered a halfhearted chuckle that quickly died out. “Are you surprised?” Hand finding the back of your neck, your actions reminded me of when we were young. How on days we played you always rubbed that spot, as if it were a sore I left on you. Yet you didn’t rub the marks I left behind, it was always your damn neck. Was it a way to seem small? To feign meekness in times when it wasn’t needed? I just wish you’d finally have the decency to-

“Charmilly.” My name sounded like an airy breath, one that would be let out after a heart jog. Your hand by now clasped onto my shoulder, causing my breathing to hitch slightly. Eyes fluttering in confusion at the sight, my mouth opened and closed. There wasn’t sweat like before on your palms, even if it wasn’t hot out you always had clammy hands. Maybe it was from Chicouté always holding you and your hands, or maybe it’s because you weren’t sure what to do once alone. But something happened, something I never expected. Your hand slid down my bicep, before escaping past onto my shoulder blades, where it pressed me forth against you. Although my body stiffened as you breathed, my dew drops lined my lids, threatening to spill. It was only until one stray tear escaped my cheek that I realized something.

This was the first time I’ve ever been held. Not one from a stranger, or one from an over-friendly classmate, but one from my family. Although you were a stranger, I wondered if this warmth is what home felt like.

Body pulling away, your thumb rubbed my stray tear causing me to shake my head out of your grasp. Although your nails weren’t as sharp, the feeling of her talons in my skin never evaded me. “Why would you do that? What has gotten into you?” My voice came out in a disgusted stammer, eyebrows knitting at the bemused boy with the boxy grin. “Today is a special day Charmy.” Grip threatening to crinkle the midnight box in my hand that was wrapped delicately with silver ribbon, your gaze wandered towards the slight sound of the box creaking.

“You know, I hated you for a while. And I think you hate me too.” I don’t hate you, but I don’t like you either. Neutrality, isn’t that what we’re taught to have? Nothing gives more power than resentment or affection, so you need to use them sparingly as Boysen would say. It is one of the few memories I had of him. “But I realized something Charm.”

I can’t hate you, Sureau.

“We don’t have to be what they made us be. And I think you know that too, don’t you?”

I can’t hate you, because I don’t know you.

My breath escaped from me and any words I had as your hand found the box in mine, loosening my grasp. “Was this from her?”

“No.” Lifting my head up as she taught me, I continued on while my eyes dried. “I’d never do that to you.” In that moment I was surrounded by confectioner’s sugar mixed with floured dust, not in a crowded luxurious ballroom towards the back where presents sat, but perched on a stool. And there I was, the fairy, creating desserts that would go uneaten. Yet I always set aside a platter just for you, even if you never realized it.

As the mercury ribbon decorated the floor, your small dimples puckered at the macarons laid below. “Purple, you remembered my favorite color.” And for once, I finally smiled at you, even letting out a small excited laugh. “Of course I would, how could I ever forget?” But then it struck, your blade had finally swung, gashing me and puncturing my chest. “At least I’ll finally be able to try one of your desserts before I die.”

What was death like Sureau? Was it something to look forward to? “That’s why you came, after all, to say goodbye.”

“No, you daft idiot. It’s your sixteenth birthday.”

“No,” he corrected, letting out a weary sigh. Hand plucking out an elder macaron, you brought it towards your lips. “This is my going away party Charm.”

Had you known before I? Did you know once your bit into the macaron what would happen?

“But this Charm,” you muttered between crunches, doing the thing Chicouté would always snap at us to not do, “this is the best gift yet.”

I wanted to tell you, to rub in your face about how expensive it cost to make those six beautiful macarons. Although I wasn’t there for ten years, I tried to make it up with six tarts. Yet I knew it would cause you joy, to know you were better than I in at least one thing. One thing as simple as being able to taste something I never could. But you weren’t able to do that.

A first, you set the box down with the discarded half atop the table near my glass. You reached for it while your hand closed into a fist, punching steadily at your lower chest as if a drummer boy. Drinking the rest of my whiskey, your face soured as you shook. “Water Charm, water.” Well, shit.

Heels asynchronously hurriedly against tile, the noise alerted some guests who had been laughing against the sound of violins. “Water, I need water” I demanded to the bartender who seemed preoccupied. A curly-haired brunette leaned against the granite, pressing her chest towards the distracted barman. “Just a second, let me service her first.” Then the first trumpet rang out of the night. My palm slammed against the stone, ordering the gaze of my target and a few around me. Although I didn’t need to turn around, I felt Chicouté’s eyes slicing into my side. “You pig-headed shit, I said water.” A few shaky hand movements later and the useless man finally handed me a glass with water coating the outside. As I ran over, careful not to spill, I felt more eyes trail behind me. 

Next the second trumpet sounded, of your body hitting the floor as it pulled the emptied glass and box with you. The glass shattered now, my hard work splintering into oblivion around you.

“Sureau!” Your name had been the third trumpet, by now any music and chatter had died down, my knee caps skinning as I stumbled down next to you. Heaving your torso onto my lap, my hand cupped the mass of your head, coaxing your coughing frame towards salvation. “Just shut up and drink, damn it.” Yet you kept coughing like a sputtering pufferfish away from water. It was right there, silly. Don’t you see?

The fourth trumpet was the rushing of several feet, with Boysen ordering paramedics and Chicouté rushing forth, shoving those who neared aside. And the fifth was when your face started turning blue, when Chicouté pulled me up from my bicep and to my feet. Your head had fallen against the icy floor, clanging as I wrestled the wraith off me. “Let go, you useless bat! He needs help!” You looked so small for a boy over six feet tall. Your eyes bulged in fear while your hands clawed at your throat, your gaze unwavering as Chicouté’s palm connected to my cheek. Scarlet scratches welded on my flesh while your lips shifted to blue, announcing the sixth trumpet. “You stupid girl, what did you do? Why must you always ruin everything?!”

Then the seventh trumpet sounded. The ambulance wailed from outside, paramedics rushing towards you and dragging your unmoving body away. Your eyes were open still. You should be fine. No, no. Why are they wrapping you in that black bag? Why won’t this stupid bitch just let me go?

And for once, for once, Chicouté’s arms wrapped around my waist. Although my back now faced her, it was the closest thing I could call a hug. Even if it lasted all of three seconds. With a twist of her torso, I was flung into your place, yet no one looked my way. All eyes were on you. They always had been Sureau. “He wasn’t supposed to go out like this, it should have been you!” It was the first time I had seen her cry, yet my eyes were still dry remembering your arms around me. That warmth doesn’t escape so quickly. “You killed him, you killed the only thing I ever loved! He was supposed to volunteer, yet you robbed him of that. You robbed him of at least an honorable death!”

Was it wrong of me to smile then? For euphoria to spread throughout my body? Maybe it’s because this was the first time she spoke with her lower alto in public, the first time she ever regarded me in front of others, or maybe it was because this was the first time she ever held me. “You’re wrong” I grinned, the corner of my lip tinging of iron. “I didn’t rob you of anything.” Although my knees stung against my dress fabric as I stood, with my ankle swelling in protest, I did as you always told me to do. Shoulder blades straightening, lifting my chin, I mirrored you as I always have. “Because I’ll make you more proud than he ever could.”