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Curiosity is a word that Ib would probably struggle with, had it not been for her mother. Always quick to teach her something, every time she saw a child around Ib’s age get into trouble she’d point the offender out to Ib.
“Curiosity kills the cat.” She said to Ib, each time. Which means, Ib learned, that people who poke their noses where they shouldn’t often get hurt.
Which is good, actually, because Ib doesn’t like the idea of any cats dying.
Now, Ib looks up at the painting, grand and sweeping, clutching the cold metal lighter in her hand, trying to flick the thing on, but it sparks and splutters uselessly.
The last of the fuel must’ve been used up burning away the vines, Ib realizes dimly, before realizing that this now means that Ib is going to die.
Just like those cats.
She turns back for a split second, if only to meet Mary’s eye before she’s on top of Ib.
Will Mary use that palette knife to slice away at Ib’s rose or Ib herself? She doesn’t know.
The rose is still clutched tightly in her left hand, right gripping the empty lighter.
Mary’s still screaming, a “LeaveLEAVELEAVELEAVE-“ that runs into self in desperation.
And Ib shuts her eyes, preparing for impact.
Nothing.
And then, among the screaming, a clattering. Metal and wood colliding against the floor.
“LEAVELEAVELEAVELEAVE-“
Mary’s still screaming.
Ib peaks one eye open.
In front of her stands Garry, grimacing. In Garry’s arms, Mary.
She flails about, not ending her screeching, clawing at Gary’s arms and leaving nothing but paint stains against his coat.
Ib just watches, frozen in place.
“LEAVE-LEAVE-LEMME-LEMME GOOO-!”
Mary’s screams turn as she thrashes about.
“LEMME GO LEMME GO LEMME OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OOOHH- WAAHHHHHHH”
She’s screaming like a wounded animal, like she’s dying, and for a moment Ib wonders if she really has damaged the painting.
But the painting is unharmed behind her. The painting in front of her on the other hand…
Mary’s screaming has turned to sobs. Screaming, desperate sobs.
It’s painful, her eyes screwed up, tears streaming down her face.
Her canvas lungs are on the verge of tearing at the seams.
“Mary!”
Garry calls out, but even he sounds at a loss.
“AH-AHHH-AHHH”
Mary’s gasping for air, crying and screaming too hard to breathe.
Ib’s not sure if paintings need to breathe, but by the looks of things they do.
“Mary!”
Garry calls again.
Mary can’t hear him.
Slowly, legs going weak, Ib lets herself fall to the floor, back sliding against the wall.
She looks at the small metallic object in her hand for a moment, regards it, then takes a deep breath.
With all her strength, Ib chucks the lighter across the room. It collides against the wall and shatters to pieces, fragments sliding across the floor.
“Ib!” Garry yells, since yelling out Mary’s name wasn’t doing much, “Why did you do that?!”
“Sorry.” Is all Ib replies with, but she’s not sure she means it.
“AHH-Aah-ahhhhh- ah- waaaaaaaahh!”
Mary’s run out of room to scream, simply sobbing.
Energy perhaps expended, she goes slack in Garry’s arms.
“Mary?”
She doesn’t respond, lying limp. A rag doll, golden hair looking more and more like crayon scribbles.
Garry sinks to his knees, still holding Mary.
Ib’s breaths come shaky, but they’re steadier than Mary’s. They’re there, at least.
Slowly, Ib notices Mary’s tears slowing slightly, her jagged inhales forming to match Ib’s.
The girl is a copycat through and through, all imitation. It’s strange how she finds it doesn’t bother her as much as it should.
“Ib? Mary?”
Garry’s voice is low and steady, regarding each girl with a chance to speak.
Ib remains quiet.
Mary’s voice comes out croaking and torn.
“Why did you do that?”
Garry thinks for a moment, keeping his grip on Mary firm.
“Why did you?”
Is his response.
“If you didn’t want to stay with me… I wanted out. How come you get to leave? Why does Mary always have to be all on her own?”
Ib crawls forward, inching towards her two companions. Gently, she places a hand on Garry’s leg, and another on Mary’s arm. Mary turns to her, sniffing back more tears.
Ib opens her arms out, tilting her head in Mary’s direction. Mary nods, leaning forward as Ib wraps her arms around Mary, and vice versa.
It’s with a sickening stab to the stomach that Garry looks down at the two little girls in his arms.
“’t’s not fair…” Mary mumbles, burying her face in Ib’s shoulder.
When Mary cries like Ib, smiles like Ib, draws and sings and screams like Ib, it’s so hard for Garry to try and deny her freedom. To explain why he and Ib were different from her; he doubts she’d understand.
He doesn’t hate Mary, try as he might. Try as either might to deny it, he knows she feels the same.
Instead, for a moment, he tries to imagine what it’d be like if things didn’t have to be like this. If he could walk backwards out of this world carrying both girls so far away they’d never have to think about this place again.
“No.” Garry whispers, “It’s not fair at all.”