notes: ew what is this.
inspired by: Ella Enchanted, Peter Pan, and all the lovely fairy tales of my childhood.
disclaimer: disclaimed.

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(never say goodbye
because goodbye means going away
and going away means forgetting)

/don't ask me i'll never tell

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0

I am seven, and my world changes.

(Maybe for the better—or, maybe not.

Who knows?)

But it happens anyway.

And I'm sure Mavis doesn't mean any harm. Or any hurt. She only means to give me a gift.

It's supposed to be a gift. Perhaps for my birthday. Because today is my birthday.

It doesn't feel like a gift.

It's more like a curse. A curse to be unconditionally obedient. To listen and to do. To never not do.

I am seven, and I am cursed.

This is a curse.

(never say goodbye)

"Lucy, come, sit down."

I sit.

(because goodbye means going away)

"Lucy, smile, dear."

I smile.

(and going away means forgetting)

"Lucy, eat some cake."

I eat.

And eat.

And eat.

And I don't stop.

Because no one tells me to stop.

Each bite is harder, heavier, but I can't stop.

I am crying and eating, and I've never hated cake more in my life.

This is a curse.

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1

It had never occurred to me that things could go awry so quickly.

I am twelve, and it is spring. The flowers are blooming, the skies are singing, and everything is just so alive.

I feel alive.

Me and Mama. Mama and me.

We are laughing and playing and laughing some more. And maybe one day, we'll go searching for four-leaf clovers, or perhaps we'll be skipping stones at the lake. Then we'll read a good book and maybe watch the stars in the sky, without a care for the wet grass soaking our backs.

(Papa's usually never there. All he ever does is work.

Work.

Work.

Work.

Because he is Papa, and that's what he does.)

But then it's fall. And Mama is sick. We don't go out much anymore.

Because Mama is sick.

(What happened to summer?)

And I'm so sure—so certain that Porlyusica can heal her. Because Porlyusica can heal anything.

Always.

She gives Mama a soup, a magical soup, and tells her to eat it. All of it.

It has carrots and vegetables, and smells vaguely like chicken noodle, but there are... other ingredients as well. I don't recognize most of them, but I know that one of them is the hair of a mermaid and another, the scales of a wyvern. And how Mama is supposed to eat all of that is a mystery to me.

But she eats it. Not all of it, I notice.

(She leaves the hair and the scales.)

It looks good.

It smells good.

I hope it's good.

I'm worried, and it shows on my face as I sit beside her bed, and she just lies there. The soup is gone, with the exception of the rejected ingredients—which she has me slip into the trash, and it bothers me because Porlyusica said: "all of it."

But Mama just smiles.

And smiles.

And smiles.

And holds a finger to her lips, so palepalepale: "Don't let Porylusica know."

An order.

I don't tell Porlyusica. I can't tell Porlyusica.

I am powerless before an order, a command, any demand.

My eyes are downcast. I look at the ground.

"Lucy."

They flicker up. Eyes so brown.

"Promise me."

I bite my lip.

"..."

"Lucy."

"... I promise, Mama."

"Good girl."

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Seven days later, I am twelve, it is fall, and Mama is dead.

(What happened to summer?)

I watch Mama lie in that box. Her casket is pretty, like she, but still, she doesn't look like Mama to me. The woman in the box is too pale, too stern, too cold to be Mama.

I don't like it.

The speeches end, and the lid of the casket is gently lowered. It closes with a dull click. With Mama inside.

I begin to cry.

And cry.

And cry.

I'm sobbing—perhaps too loudly, because Papa holds me close, muffling my screams.

It doesn't really work.

"Lucy, stop disturbing the ceremony and go somewhere else until you can be quiet," he orders.

I don't hesitate to obey.

And so I'm running.

Running.

Running.

Running.

I'm not sure where I'm going, but I recognize the places where Mama and I used to pass the time. The flower fields. The greengreen hills. And finally, the lake.

I stop running then, slowing down. The satin, black dress I am wearing is ripped and covered in mud and tears.

My feet feel heavy. My heart feels heavier.

Vision blurry. Lips so salty.

I cry some more against that talltall tree.

(never say goodbye)

There is a boy at the lake.

I don't recognize him.

He sits at the edge, with his feet in the water. Wind blowing through his dusty pink hair. He turns around, startled: "Who are you?"

I blink.

"Who are you?" I reply.

He's standing now, fists up, cocked and ready.

"I ain't tellin' you."

"Well, then I'm not telling you."

Silence.

"So... You live 'round here?"

"Yes, in the mansion past the hills."

I begin to wonder why I'm even talking to this odd boy.

Mama never told me not to speak to strangers.

But Mama is dead now.

"H—Hey, why are you cryin' all of a sudden?"

I look at him through blurryblurry vision. Pink hair. Dark, black eyes.

"Y'know, you were pretty loud earlier. I was tryin' to nap."

So he heard me.

He wipes my face dry with his soft, white scarf. It looks like a sheet of scales. Almost.

"What's your name?" He asks.

I shake my head.

"C'mon, tell me!"

Sigh. That was an order.

"Lucy."

"Weird name. I'm Natsu. Remember it!"

I do.

We sit at the edge of the lake together. Feet in the water. It's cold.

"Now tell me—why are you cryin'?"

"Mama... Mama is dead."

"Oh."

More silence.

(It is now that I contemplate becoming friends with Natsu. I had a friend once. She was my very first friend—or my second, if you can count Porlyusica as one—and we used to play a lot in the garden behind my home. I was young—well, younger—and naïve. It was a great mistake telling her about my curse. She completely took advantage of me, and for an hour, I became her personal servant.

I ended up punching her in the throat.

She screamed.

I laughed.

Then Mama made me promise never to tell anyone else.

I didn't need a command for me to know that.)

Natsu finally speaks, throwing pebbles and grass into the murky water of the lake.

"I don't know my mom."

I quirk an eyebrow.

"Like, at all?"

"Nope."

"And your father?"

He shakes his head.

"Where are you from?"

"I don't really remember."

The smile lighting his face is so genuine. So blissful.

I want to smile like that.

"How—How did you get here?"

Shrug.

"Why don't you come stay at my place then? Just for now."

He shakes his head again.

"Nah, mansions are too stuffy."

And it baffles me that he would describe something so spacious and wide as a mansion to be stuffy.

My concern shows through my face.

"I'll be fine. You should head back now. They'll be worried an' all."

"Okay... Um, see you sometime then,

... Natsu."

He smiles.

And I don't see him again for a long, long time.

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(because goodbye means going away)

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It is spring, and I am eighteen when I meet him again.

He's older, and taller, and his voice is much deeper.

But he has the same flamingo pink hair, scarf of scales as well.

And that same brightbright smile.

It is spring, and I am eighteen when I see him again, the prince of Fiore.

He is the the prince of Fiore, and has forgotten who I am.

(He's very forgetful, isn't he?)

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(and going away means forgetting)

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notes: i would reallyreallyreally appreciate feedback this time 'round. thank you.