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At
an Arm's Length
A Final Fantasy VIII Story
by
Aligator
Chapter 8 - The Ugly Truth
When I first agreed to this trip, it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. That’s what Selphie said. “Oh, Quistis, why don’t a gang of us” – translation: You, me and Irvine – “all spend part of our spring leave at the beach?”
That sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? Clue number one: Selphie’s involved.
And with Selphie involved, no gathering or outing is simple. Now it’s this big thing. With Edea and picking up Ellone in Esthar and the orphanage. Well, I guess it *is* the beach.
I don’t want to go back. I’m not ready to go back there. I –
“Quistis?”
I want to be alone.
“QUISTIS?! Have you even started to pack – Omigod!” Selphie yelped as she tapped the room’s door to reveal the blonde standing defeated in front of her open closet.
What greeted Selphie was a most unexpected sight: clothing. Lots of clothing. Everywhere. Very much NOT what she expected the closet of one Quistis Trepe to look like.
She burst into a small giggle, which soon became a belly laugh.
Quistis turned to her slowly – in shock – as if she were an alien. What’s so funny?
Tears were now streaming down the younger girl’s face, “Quistis Trepe: Child prodigy. Ace SeeD. Awesome friend. Über-clothes horse!”
As she broke into another fit of giggles, Quistis finally betrayed herself with a small smile. In a small, prim voice she replied, “I still don’t see what is so funny about my closet. . .” But then Selphie caught her gaze, and Quistis caught a more restrained version of her friend’s affliction. “Well, I probably don’t need to buy anything for our trip.”
“I’ll say!” Selphie caught her forearm and started to drag her out to the hallway. “Let’s go grab dinner, and then we’ll tackle Le Boutique de Trepe!”
****
After dinner in the cafeteria, Selphie and Quistis came back to pack, or more accurately, Quistis packed while Selphie proceeded to thoroughly reorganize the entire closet.
Quistis stared at the newly neat space, categorized by clothing type and color. Her peach battle suit. Yuck.
“So what do you think of my handiwork?” a bright voice asked.
She turned to face the green-eyed dynamo and tried to muster some enthusiasm. “It’s fabulous, Selph. Listen, I’m a little wiped. . .” she smiled, tiredly.
“Say no more. Seeya first thing tomorrow morning.”
She nodded, “Tomorrow morning.”
The door shut, and all traces of the forced, happy demeanor immediately disappeared from her face as she looked, again, at the closet’s double doors. One side was open, but the mirrored side was closed. She walked slowly toward the mirror, examining her reflection.
Cool. Calm. Collected. Put-together. Quistis Trepe.
She glared at herself. “I hate you.”
She moved to the open closet door, pulled out a cleanly pressed shirt, and, after pausing to regard it, tossed it – hanger and all – to the floor. She reached for another one. And another one.
“Why do I have so much stuff?” She threw another article of clothing onto the growing pile in the center of her room. Because around 15, you decided that something is better than nothing. And threw another skirt. Because you thought that if the outside was perfect, you could fake it until the inside became perfect, too.
And another jacket. And another pair of boots. Another pair of jeans. Another. Another.
“But nobody wants perfect.”
She looked at the now empty closet – empty – and walked across the room to her dresser. With a vacant look on her face and one swipe of her hand, everything was on the floor with a crash.
Glass crunching beneath her boots, she walked to the side of the dresser closest to her bed and bent to pick up her hand mirror, which had been thrown to the floor. It was now cracked, and a fractured version of her reflection stared back at her as she carried it, gingerly with both hands, to the center of the room and flopped down onto the massive pile of accumulated clothing and hangers.
“No one’s perfect,” she reproached her reflection in the mirror. “I may have fooled some people into thinking I’m close, but that’s not the truth.”
A choking sensation filled
her chest as she leaned back to lie in the mess of her own creation. She hadn’t
felt this way since Squall told her to talk to a wall. Since
Seifer. . .
The truth is that I failed you. YOU. . . Why do I still think about you? Why? Why? WHY?! Wasn’t that always one of my favorite words? Why?
She again raised the looking glass to face herself. You’re pathetic and weak. That’s why. You’ve become everything he always said you would be. Mediocre. An ice princess.
“That’s why,” she answered aloud in a dispassionate voice that belied the intense frustration she felt toward her situation and toward herself for getting to this place. The small mirror hit the floor with a satisfying crash, and tormented blue eyes stared at the ceiling as tears trailed unnoticed down Quistis Trepe’s face.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
*****
The next morning, she awoke with a start to the loud noise of her alarm going off. Quistis sat up, slightly disoriented. Then she remembered her previous night’s activities and fairly bolted out of bed.
She put on her glasses to survey the damage and looked about the room in wonder.
It was clean, as if she had never thrown her little – O.K., not so little – pity party/temper tantrum last night.
Did I clean up before I went to bed? Wait. I don’t remember actually going to bed.
Walking over to the closet, she stepped over her suitcases, still neatly packed for her trip. She paused slightly as her hand touched the doorknob and opened the storage space to reveal. . .
. . . her clothes, just as Selphie had left them. Organized, by type and color. That damn peach battle suit is still here.
She shut the door. Maybe I just imagined it. Her eyes drifted over to her desk – O.K. – and finally to her dresser.
Suspiciously, she moved closer. Everything was in its designated spot, but something was off, and then she saw it – the mirror. Its smooth face was cracked.
She stared at it wide-eyed. It happened. It happened, and someone cleaned it up.
A faraway noise – the phone – jolted Quistis from her thoughts, and she moved to her desk where she caught it on the third ring.
“H- hello?”
To be continued.
. .
Next week: Chapter 9 – Mirror Crack’d
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AN ARM'S LENGTH © 2002-2004 A.L. Roberts.
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