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Envious

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Envy: A feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.

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I was always envious of her. From the very first day I met her I wanted nothing more than to be Celia-Rose. Every little thing she had, I wanted. I wanted her looks, her possessions, her charm, her personality; I wanted her family, her life.

Her name and her nature matched to perfection. She too was soft and flowing, sweet and feminine. A stark contrast to myself. She was a real life Barbie. Golden hair, smooth features, delicate bone structure, which, it was clear, would give way to a tall and shapely goddess; so much like that abominable body ideal that she would almost be out of proportion.

My opinion of her, on our first encounter, was completely inverse to her judgment of me. Put simply she despised me. With every fibre of her being she pulsated loathing and disgust. In my excitement at the prospect of having a sister I accidentally dropped the porcelain doll she deigned to let me hold. She wasn’t truly ready to share. I doubt that she ever would have been willing to share.

I suppose she believed her life was perfect before I came bumbling along and destroyed it all.

My mother was young when I came into her life. She found herself alone with a child to look after and no way of supporting herself. She barely made ends meet for those first 9 years. I learnt how to economize and how to not expect presents at Christmas, before I learnt how to spell my own name. It was certainly not anything like those first nine years of Celia’s life. She learnt how to spend money vicariously before she learnt how to tie her shoelaces.

When my mum met her father she came home glowing. You could say love was in the air. She had been walking down the street and managed to drop her purse, he was the one to pick it up. It was a wild and swift love affair. I was introduced to a world I had never known before. A world of fairy floss and hot dogs street vendors. A world that smelt of apple blossom trees and soap that wasn’t home brand. A world of soft fabrics and clothes that fit, of Lindt chocolate and warm hugs. A world that encompassed a tinge of aftershave and a manly presence.

I loved Celia’s father from first sighting. He was cleanly shaven and cleanly dressed, but most importantly he had a smile that could charm any frozen heart. I loved him like any daughter would love any father; I guess I was so starved for a male figure that I grasped on to the first one that appeared. Good thing he was such a great guy, pity about the daughter though.

Before I even met Celia, she was built up as a supreme being. Everything I heard about her was praise, her father loved every inch of her cold, calculating heart. But he loved me too. Not as much, I’ll admit it, but he did care, he loved me like a father would love his second favourite daughter. Celia hated it. Hated it. Like I said, she wasn’t ready to share, probably never would be. I guess it all leads back to envy. She was envious of the tiny bit of love I had managed to receive, she wanted it all.

In the following year came a marriage. My mother wore a simple gown, Celia’s father wore a tux and we wore matching lavender dresses. We were the flower girls. Everyone thought we were the best of friends; they congratulated us on becoming sisters. It was all smiles and carnations. Underneath it all, Celia was seething, I had stolen part of her thunder and she couldn’t stand it.

Over the next 4 years I learnt how the other half lives. I changed schools; we could afford to be one of the snobs now. I changed my clothing and my attitude to life. I was still tentative about spending money, I still saved and scraped. I still loved the satisfaction of finding something unique in an op shop. But there was a definite change. I didn’t worry as much, as a young child I’d been a worrier. I had more time for fun things, I would play, and I could invite friends over without feeling any degree of shame. I learnt the subtle art of not only expecting presents at Christmas, but implying what they should be.

It wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops however. I discovered two things. Celia would never like me, and I could never be her, I began to doubt that I even wanted to be her. I was also introduced to the Celia I know now. She isn’t simply a spoilt selfish child; she has a vindictive side I could never have contemplated if I hadn’t seen it first hand. If I made any close friends she would manage to sidle them away from me, convince them to adore and worship her then dump me. I told myself that I didn’t want friends that could be taken away so easily, but that was a lie.

Every single thing I did, she did one step better. She set out to prove that she was superior and came out on top every time. Frustrating was an understatement. It was difficult, I couldn’t even scratch out. For who would believe me, while she stood there in all her perfection.

All this was trivial. It was nothing when compared with the next event in my life. It was unexpected. No one could have predicted it. It wasn’t even a heroic death, it was bland. Sudden and bland, and so very sad. The house fell into a spiral of mourning. My mother had lost the love of her life, and would never recover. The rooms filled with dust and misery; no longer would many of the heavy drapes be opened to the daylight.

White roses against the green grass, and the tombstone behind it, etched upon my mind.

We could have been united by the loss, Celia and I, but I suppose that was not to be. She blamed me. Somehow in her warped logic, I was responsible for an old, nearly blind man mowing him down of the side of the street. It didn’t help that my mother and I each received a quarter of the assets. Apparently half was 50 too little for her. She had wanted proof that he loved her ten times more than he loved us, she felt we didn’t have a right to the money that was hers by birth.

I could tentatively mark this as the period of time in which the war truly began. But then there was another moment which could have marked the change from childhood enemies and subtle disagreements to real weapons and real wounds.

It was a boring beginning. The way we met. Nothing exciting happened; there was no stimulating conversation or instant attraction. I just sat next to him one day in art class. He didn’t really feature in the schools social triangle, and neither did I. He wasn’t stunningly handsome, but he most certainly wasn’t unattractive. He was friendly, nobody disliked him, and yet he didn’t seem to be extremely close to anyone. He just was. And I liked him for it.

I kept on sitting next to him and began to like him more by the minute. He wasn’t really all the skilled at art, but he loved it. He’d sit and stare at that canvass for hours. We started chatting and he was just so very kind. So kind. I guess it was another case of being famished for attention, very similar to when I first met Celia’s father, I’d cling to anything. And again, I was lucky with my choice. It wasn’t all that long before I was best friends with Axel, and after that came a crush the likes of which I had never known.

I fancied myself in love.

When I found Celia sitting on my bed, my first reaction was outrage, how dare she enter my room without asking? I never thought there was something to fear from her. If anything I felt that I was at an advantage. I was in my own territory and not only that but for once in my life my head was higher than hers, finally I could look down my nose at her. I was gloating that I had caught her out and she didn’t even notice. She seemed to pay no attention to me standing in the doorway, but she knew I was there. Swinging her slender legs over the ledge of my bed she crossed them and smiled at me.

That smile.

That was the moment I knew that I wasn’t going to win this round.

“Lena,” She sighed at me, “Lena, my child. When will you learn?”

I saw it then. The little cornflower blue book clasped in her hand. A leather bound notebook that I had turned into a place to collect my thoughts. Celia saw the direction of my gaze and could no longer keep a laugh down.

It was a bitter laugh, a mean laugh, a gloating laugh that proclaimed, “I win” to the world.

“I had quite an enjoyable read this afternoon, pity you didn’t get home earlier. You are a pathetic creature aren’t you? So very self pitying.” She stood up and walked towards me, her Jimmy Choo’s digging into the plush carpet and her clinging dress sliding up her thigh.

“And the boy,” here she let loose another hyena laugh, “What was his name?” She flipped open the book but didn’t bother reading, she knew the answer, “Axel? As if anyone could fall for you!”

She thrust the book into my chest and brushed past me in the doorway. I hadn’t said a word, not one word, I had just stood there in her wake. I listened to the clickity clack of her shoes as she walked down the marble staircase and the spurts of giggles as she laughed at her own ingenuity.

“Oh and Lena,” She had my full attention, “You’re going to thank me one day, for what I’m about to do. You’ll see it was for the best.”

It was less then a week before Axel was in her clutches. He was her pet, a puppy at her beck and call. I despised Celia just that little bit more. I was angry at Axel for not seeing through her, for falling like all the others, I was angry at myself for not stopping it, I was angry at her, I was always angry at her.

The lies began soon after. I didn’t hear anything myself, no one ever told me exactly what was said, but I wasn’t blind. I could see their glares, I could hear the whispers that broke loose, even if I couldn’t hear what was said. I let it slide off like water on a duck’s back. It wasn’t until Axel started ignoring me, joining in the glares that it began to hurt.

Courage has never been my speciality. I wasn’t willing to stick it out, so I left. I changed schools. Sure, I had to travel an extra 32 minutes every morning but I also had fresh peers and 6 hours a day that were Celia free. That was the manner in which I spent the last 2 years of my high school education. On the rare occasions that I did speak to Celia we were painfully civil, distant. I knew that she continued to see Axel after I had left, I saw him at the house, and simply ignored him, moved on. I saw boys at my new school but it didn’t feel right at the time.

I won’t say I still loved Axel, but I liked to pretend I did.

The overwhelming envy over the fact that she had him was enough to drive me mad. I was like a child, I probably would have forgotten about him had she dumped him. But she didn’t, so I mourned the loss and imagined stealing him away. There were all sorts of scenarios I envisioned, him professing his everlasting love for me and his solid loathing of Celia on television or some other national medium, or perhaps simply dumping her, in front of all her friends, for me. I was passive aggressive, I planned and dreamed and sometimes didn’t say thankyou when Celia passed the gravy. None of my dreams, however, were anything like how it all panned out in the end.

When I found Axel sitting on my bed, I was more than surprised. He was not lying contently on the bed, as Celia had so long ago, but rather perched precariously on the edge, waiting for me. His eyes met mine in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” I couldn’t bring myself to put any anger into my voice.

“I.. uh,” He replied, standing up, “I wanted to speak to you?” It should have been a statement.

Pulling him down, I sat next to him on the blue bedspread. I raised my eyebrows as if to say, ‘what?’

“I’m sorry. For everything. I really liked you, you know. But Celia, she was so… Well it doesn’t matter now. She lied to me, made me believe all these things…Things that I now know are untrue.”

My hand was clasped in his, he leant forward, presumably for a kiss and, without knowing why, I withdrew. It just wasn’t right. This is what I had always wanted, wasn’t it? He was perfect, wasn’t he? I was getting revenge, wasn’t I? I could finally throw away all the envy, couldn’t I?

I knew it wasn’t so.

He lifted his hand and trailed it across my jaw, all the time muttering, asking for forgiveness. I couldn’t help leaning into his touch. It was tempting, so very tempting. But I couldn’t. One question surfaced from the train wreck of my mind.

“What happened with you and Celia?”

Way to kill the mood. He stood up and crossed the room.

“She dumped me!” His voice was bitter, horrified. “Told me the only reason she had dated me in the first place was because you liked me. Told me the truth about all those lies.”

His face was distressed, angry, and yet still so appealing. The years had been nice to him, he was much more attractive than I could have ever predicted. I walked towards him in much the same manner that Celia had sashayed towards me during our encounter in this very room. My Manolo Blahnik shoes, sinking deep into the baby blue wool of the carpet, and the soft silk of my skirt sliding around my knees.

I reached up and placed a soft kiss on his lips. He tasted of vanilla ice cream and something warm and safe. I wanted nothing more than to stay there forever. But I couldn’t.

Breaking away from his prone form I told him, “Just had to see what it tasted like.”

I was out the door before he had a chance to let it register. It had become clear, before I even pressed my lips to his, that he didn’t really want me. He was still pining after Celia, and I was simply a ploy to make her jealous. Boy, could I never leave envy behind?!

Without even knowing why, I found myself standing in Celia’s doorway, her room was bigger then mine, and more pink as well. I was slightly stunned at the way I found her. She lay on her bed, more vulnerable than I would have thought possible. Her eyes were rimmed with red, much like a martini glass with salt. Snail tracks covered her face, the tell tale sign that she had been crying. She swiped at her cheeks and breathed deeply, regaining composure.

‘I..I..I really liked him.” A sob escaped her mouth. “But there were so many lies… all the lies. I couldn’t just let it be!”

She had stopped trying to hide how distraught she was. The tears just kept on streaming. Never before had I seen her look so defenceless, so miserable, and so hysterical. It didn’t suit her.

“I’m going! I’m having a holiday in Paris.” I noticed the half packed suitcase on the floor. All her best clothes, all those designers, hand tailored clothes shoved into a one of a kind vintage Louis Vuitton trunk.

“He’s sitting in my room.” I told her matter-of-factly. “I don’t want him, but you do, and he wants you too.”

She met my eyes for the first time since the moment I met her. “He’s all I ever wanted.” She told me.

I didn’t need to tell her to go.

So now I sit out on the terrace of the Café de Flore, watching the people go past. The sun sinks into the glass of Moët in front of me, it glimmers brilliantly. I listen to the sound of people speaking in fluid French, I flirt with the waiter. Celia-Rose had stolen something from me years ago, and I stole a plane ticket and an old suitcase. Yet with all this, with the Eiffel Tower, and handsome men at every turn; I would always envy her.

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Authors Comments.

I haven’t edited this yet. It feels so amateurish to me, but I thought I’d shove it in here anyways. I hope you enjoyed reading! Make my day and review