The sun setting over Carthage is bloodshed. You can see it in the way it drowns the city, in the glow washing over every tree and every stone. Burnt orange, blood red, a touch of cadmium. Squint your eyes a little, dear; allow the details in the picture to merge into a haze of colour. Forget about the wars, the histories, the philosophy of it all. Forget about the classroom, their expectations, the never-ending drone of your professor's voice. Try not to jump as your sister's elbow finds a crook between your ribs. Take a deep breath instead; offer a smile that matches the warning in her tone.
She always had a way with words, and the way she says your name now turns every syllable into something positively acidic. If you didn't know better, you'd blame her for daddy's disapproval of you. But you could never think that of your dear, dear sister. It wouldn't be right.
Father's suits are not right either; they are too big, especially around the shoulders. He frowns as he looks at you, as if unable to understand why his quite, quite perfect son cannot fit into his clothes. Perhaps, he thinks, he ought to feed you better: politics for breakfast, public speaking for lunch, personal deception for dinner. That's bound to get some meat on your bones. But you have other ideas.
The same blazer, tailored to fit Violet using binder clips, seems to sit naturally on her body. It's a matter of attitude over build. The chin, raised just so; the shoulders, squared; the air of superiority cemented into her expression. She's a natural at this and she knows it. When daddy finds you pinning the hem of your sister's newly-acquired trousers, something in his face lights up.
Sunlight through a tent's canvas gives everything a sickly glow. It's a matter of build over attitude. There is nothing wrong with the tents - except for an appalling lack of character - but you'd rather be elsewhere. It's quite simple, but your sister doesn't see it that way. Job requirements, Maximillian; I'm sure you understand. Besides, she thinks a few months living at the commune will knock some sense into you.
That morning, you fail to see the swish of a robe as a man hurries round a corner, and by the time you realise, it's too late for you to stop.
'No, no, it was my fault. Are you...all right? Ah, here. Let me just - there. There you are. Hmh.'
'Fine. I'm - fine, thank you. Are you - ?'
'I'm just delightful, dear. Delightful. All my flowers have come into bloom, you know. The hyacinths, the primroses, even the violets. And you know with violets, how they can be a little temperamental sometimes, but - hmh. Forgive me, dear. Where are my manners? Friedrich Vogel. Enchanté.'
'Oh. Maximillian. Maximillian Strome. The pleasure is all mine.'
Friedrich's hands are equally gentle when tending to plants as they are when tending to people. This is something you learn through experience. The whole affair is meant to be fleeting: a one-time dalliance, a game, free love. Even as you curl up against him that night, you know it won't last. The moment he surprises you with breakfast the next morning is the moment you change your mind.
You think of the Classics as you lie down next to him, racking your brain for words to capture these moments. Lines from Virgil and Homer return like an echo from your college days, but they mean nothing to you now. Then again, you never had a memory for poetry; for you, it was always about shapes and colours, motion and flow. Violet would remember if you asked her, but you can't do that. It would be like admitting defeat. Instead, you press your forehead against his neck and purr a gentle darling!, hoping it will do.
Morning breaks over the camp with indistinct voices shouting indistinct names. Though Birchwood is not Carthage, it is bloodshed all the same. Burnt orange, blood red, a touch of cadmium. You blink repeatedly, trying to force the details into focus.
People screaming, people running, shadows that flicker in your peripheral vision. A shadow coming closer and closer. A shadow that is not a shadow but a man with wild eyes and unruly hair.
'Strome? Please tell me you're Strome. You gotta be, right? They said it was this tent, but then I looked round and -'
'Marlowe? What...happened?'
'Well, I had a bit too much, y'know - a bit too much. And then they came and someone screamed and then Lavinia and - holy shit, man. I didn't sign up for this!'
'Lavinia? What do you mean?'
'She's gone, man. Dead. Hands off and all. What's with that? What's with that?'
'Yeah, man. He threw her in the river. Saw it with my own eyes. Couldn't believe -'
'Delacroix. Been giving me bad vibes ever since he got with your sis-'
The rest of his words are drowned by the sound of hurried footsteps.
There is a stream at the edge of the camp, which Friedrich frequents to visit the irises. Poor little darlings - they must get terribly lonely, you know, out here on their own? But your attention is not on the flowers today; it's on the pale face framed by murky waters, and the halo of red hair that catches the light just so.
'Maximillian. You will return to your -'
The hand at your arm, tugging you away from the scene, is all it takes. Before you know it, you've lunged at Delacroix, hands clawing at his face like a rabid animal. He pins you down instantly, his forearm pressed against your neck.
'How could you? How could you - ?'
'You will return to your -'
Though this earns you a backhand slap that makes you cry out in pain, you find you cannot stop yourself.
'You sad, little pervert. Did you really think I wouldn't know? That I wouldn't see what you've been doing with my sister? Because, darling, there's desperate and then there's desperate, and to be quite honest with you -'
You're not entirely sure of what happens next. You're on the ground, and Delacroix is the rabid animal now: kicking, clawing, pushing against your windpipe. You're on the ground, while someone who sounds like you yells desperate accusations. You're on the ground, where twigs snap and bones snap, and where you can no longer hurl insults at him, because you're too busy whimpering a single name with whatever breath you've got left: Friedrich, Friedrich, my Friedrich.
Then the water drowns out your words, until you're as still as the petals clinging to the shore.
