The Legend of Zelda

Kate Maraschino
Sep 3, 2018 · 6 min read

She was turbulent and chaotic — a terrible whirlwind wreaking havoc on every room she entered. She was fiercely beautiful, and kind and loving and destructive. Miss had always been like this but Sir had always been by her side, as they made love in the bedroom, the kitchen, the parlour, on the pretty carpet. They kept the door open, as Miss didn’t care who saw.

But today Sir was talking differently, and Miss was crying and screaming. But she was different too; kicking and wringing her hands, and Miss ignored my soft calls and purrs. I perched myself on the couch and watched on with curiosity.

Something was wrong on this grey morning.

Ghosts of the past lurked in every corner of this large empty house, where one thinks they hear a song, or a laugh, or the chinking of champagne glasses from roaring parties long ago. But the past was now silent, and only the shrieks of Miss echoed through the halls while Sir swapped between yells and angry self-muttering. He said she needed help but Miss, didn’t ever need help, Miss was strong, and fierce, and beautiful. Yet she looked so sad lying in a crumpled heap on the floor as she sobbed and begged him to let her stay.

Suddenly two more people — two Sirs — stood looming in the kitchen and they were alien and cold and I was worried. Miss was no longer crying. She was still and silent and her chest rose up softly as she breathed in the silence.

🌸

“Francis has been kicked out of school!” Sir had stormed into the parlour room, wildly brandishing some papers, his eyes sparkling with hot rage.

Miss ignored him, drawing on a cigar and reaching for the almost empty champagne bottle. “You didn’t read my story, did you!” Her cool voice blew across the room like a soft breeze whipped from the sea.

“Our son has been thrown out of his school for delinquent behaviour, no doubt because he has a train wreck for a mother, and you want me to read your goddamn, third-rate story instead?”

“Ernest said it has a lot of potential.” She kept her gaze at the window. The hot June summer air was wafting around and she breathed in heavily, the scent of jasmine perfuming the room, intertwining with the scent of tobacco. “You’re a fool. My dear, dear man, you. You would be nothing without me, you… you… and you know this is true and you… YOU are threatened…” Miss was struggling out of her lazy, champagne haze and soon became irate. “You are a wretched man!”

A champagne bottle smashed against the wall, and there were angry shrieks and yells, and then silence.

🌸

Miss was lying still. She was beautiful, gosh she was beautiful, but she was lying so still. This was not alarming. I’d often find Miss lying lifeless in the house after some outrageous and fun party, or when she had one of her particularly bad headaches and had to take pills from the locked cabinet under the sink. Yes, she was so pretty when she was still, but the two strangers hovered over her like aggressive wasps, picking up her limp limbs and removing her from the kitchen floor. She dangled in their arms like a darling little doll and I watched as her gold curls fell about her face as they carried her out of the room. I heard the front door click and immediately leapt up to the window sill; the weak rays of late evening sunshine fought their way through the window pane. The strangers bundled Miss into a white car, spoke to Sir briefly, and then drove away. I watched the strange car until it turned into a tiny speck down the long driveway.

Miss was obviously going away for a while — perhaps to France. She had always said America was dull and depressing and never any fun. Yes, she loved croissants and caviar and the Riviera; oh, she loved the Riviera! Miss had sworn she would leave this place one day and would take me with her to a quaint cottage by the sea where she could write her stories free from criticism and I would listen; we could live out our days with only the company of each other.

She was going away, and I hoped that she would have a delightful time. I dearly longed to be with her though.

🌸

“Darling, darling, my dear, this party is positively delightful!”

“And you, my cherub, are ravishing and every part the perfect hostess. Let me light that cigarette for you.”

“And then, my dear, we shall dance in the moonlight to this beautiful music and drink this gorgeous champagne. You’ll hold me in your arms and never let me go. Oh, how I love this song, darling; it’s so perfectly romantic. Isn’t this the most perfectly romantic evening?”

Miss was a beautiful dancer. She was elegant and graceful and was much better than all the other silly flappers combined. Her laughter shattered into sparkling pieces and flit about the dance floor. Her laugh was magical and her golden hair shimmered as the moonlight gleamed through it in the tender night.

Everybody thought Miss and Sir were divine; the perfect partnership of charm and sophistication, of wild fun and grace. They were adored by all, and friends travelled from all over the country to celebrate the art of living and loving.

But when the champagne was finished and everybody went home, I was the only one who tended to Miss as she cried in the parlour room. She was so pretty when she cried.

🌸

Days stretched on into lonely weeks, and I dearly wished Miss was having a marvellous time away. This was not the first time she had gone. Sometimes when her and Sir had had a particularly bad fight, he suggested she spend some time away for her own good. Sir seemed to enjoy her absence, and I scowled in the corner as he entertained guests in the huge, lovely house. Yet no matter how many people filled the patio and the ballroom, the house felt empty without her. I missed her so.

And just as swiftly as she had disappeared, she returned home one morning, this time in Sir’s lovely dark blue car. She was escorted into the house, and there were mumbles of “much better” and “no more trouble” and “done her good” from the kitchen. I brushed up against Miss, and she was just as pretty as ever, but her gaze lingered past me as she sat down at the oak table. I knew she would come back. She always did. But as her sad eyes drifted aimlessly around the kitchen, I couldn’t help but feel that somewhere, a fire had gone from roaring flames to flickering embers. There was no whirlwind, no chaos, no fire. Just empty sadness that seemed to fill up the room like a noxious gas.

She was back, and yet, she wasn’t.

Sir glided across the room, his face beaming as he picked up his notebook and the delicate crystal decanter filled with amber whiskey. It smelled foul. He poured a glass and stared at her, as though she were some sort of new plaything.

“Things will be easier now, darling,” he smiled. “Yes, I think we’ll find this much better.” There was ice in his voice as he inhaled his whiskey, draining it slowly from his glass. His eyes darted to me as I slunk under the kitchen table. “Yes, she’s going to be much better now,” he told me condescendingly.

He poured another drink and offered one to Miss. She continued to stare blankly. “Yes, this is a much better arrangement, darling. You’re so lovely when you’re quiet. I imagine I might actually get some writing done now.”

There was a stillness that was suffocating. Something was terribly wrong.

“Amazing what a little shock will do.” He winked at me. He picked up a pen and began to write.

“Yes. Much better.”

Kate Maraschino

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You know, like the cherry.