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<span class="mu-s">----------------------Recoleta-------------------
—--------Imeredala’s Household—-------</span>
Five minutes ago, like every other day she cares to remember, Emma Imeredala was having breakfast with her family. The hulking russian mother, secret chieftain of the Imeredalas, was sitting at the head of the table, while Pedro the Boy, as usual, took the seat by Clara’s side so he could tease her and she could pretend to be annoyed. Then there was Pedro the Uncle, sitting next to Aunt Marta, and then four years old Lautaro by the side of Romina, who was stuck awkwardly in a corner. Finally, for whatever reason, Emma faced her stern mother from the other side of the table. As usual.
Too much can change in five minutes.
It’s as if a clown had killed them with a pie to the face. Stiff in her entirety, not even daring to be astonished, Emma stares as both Lautaro and Romina lay each with their face on their dishes like ostriches playing hide and seek. When even Pedro the Boy falls to the side like a boulder and her aunt screams bloody murder, Emma is still staring, as the Green Jester still stubbornly pours sugar into the orange juice...
And Emma thinks it knows.
That the presence knows she deliberately did nothing to stop this.
That she wasted golden time to keep the illusion that everything was alright.
She feels it crawling in the skin, the peace, as Aunt Marta and Uncle Pedro go crazy and scream and call the ambulance and everyone else. Which is convenient, at least now. Because right now, right behind Emma, looms the white and pink Toy, the cape that is most of its body weaving as if creeping through the air. As if judging her.
There can be peace in defeat; when we give up completely. When there is no more reason to struggle, when we are overpowered beyond our limits. More often than not, it’s only when it’s over that we discover freedom. If this is the freedom Lucinda treasures, Emma thinks as it grows into her back like roots, then maybe they have something in common.
Shaking, Emma starts standing. Like the hands of a clock, her slightly skinny body sways side by side. As she stands, the Magical Girl grasps for the dish, her trembling claw almost flipping it over
then, in a single, fluid motion
Emma turns around and hits the Toy with it so hard that the dish shatters into a rain of ceramic splinters. Both pink and white spiral erratically in the air, but then the Toy straightens up and darts away like a wise man. Left behind, the blue little cricket ‘screams’ and isn't late to follow suit.
