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Ragatha stares deeply into her bedroom mirror, examining the perfect ragdoll hair stuck to her head. Perfectly coiled yarn ringlets, always looking bouncy and vibrant and voluminous. She tugs on a strand of it. The yarn pulls down, stretches and thins in appropriately cartoonish fashion, before she lets go. It springs back to form, bouncing up and down before finally settling.
It looks as if it was never pulled in the first place…
Her mother’s favorite holiday was Christmas. Ragatha recalls how her mom would order workers around their large, expensive house, having them put up the decorations just so. Wreaths and garlands and candles and tasteful wooden carvings of Santa and nativity scenes.
She recalls how her mom would coo at antique Christmas illustrations; the ones filled with painted, rosy cheeked children, rooms bathed in warm firelight, contrasting the snowy night sky out the window. Those illustrations were the perfect inspiration for her Christmas parties.
The parties they threw in the month of December were decadent. Decadent, and completely and utterly ostentatious. Expensive, intricate decorations on every surface; Christmas songs played delicately on the piano; heaps and heaps of good food; and adults Ragatha didn’t recognize, but who her parents told her were very, very important people.
Ragatha didn’t like Christmas very much when she was little. Maybe she even hated it.
Maybe she would have liked it, without all the strangers, and without… without all the fuss with her hair.
Every year, her mom would excitedly show her those painted postcards, pointing at the little girls with poofy dresses and ringlet hair tied in bows, asking her, “Aren’t they pretty? Don’t you want to dress up nice for the party? For mommy?”
The day of, she’d spend hours curling Ragatha’s hair to perfection. She might have let a professional do it, the way she let a professional do her own hair, but she couldn’t possibly trust a stranger with her daughter’s hair. The chances that they’d mess it up were too high.
Ragatha hates to remember the way her hair was pulled back so tightly it put pressure on her skull. She hates remembering the thick, overstimulating hair gel that pushed all her baby hairs back. She hates remembering how close her mother put the curling iron to her skin, how she would squirm from the heat, and how her mother would yell at her, “If you keep squirming like that, the iron is going to touch your skin! Do you want to get burned?”
She hates remembering the ungodly amount of hairspray it took to get all those picture perfectly curled ringlets to stay still for the rest of the night. She’d choke on the chemicals in the air, and she’d cough throughout the parties from how the smell clung to her hair.
She hates remembering the time when—
Ragatha turns from the mirror abruptly, walking out of her room with a smile on her face, smoothing a hand through her hair as she does.
She’s distracted from her trip down memory lane by the sound of another door opening. Pomni walks out of her room, sighing before she starts walking toward the main tent. Perfect.
“Pomni!” Ragatha cries as cheerfully as she can. She can't mess this up again. She won’t mess this up again.
“Oh! Um, hi, Ragatha. Did you just leave your room? Usually you’re in the uh, main… area thing? By now.”
“Yup, I was just tidying up in there. Things can get pretty cluttered pretty quick if you’re not careful, you know?” Ragatha points her thumb at her door, covering her mouth from the side with the back of her mitten hand, as if she’s telling Pomni a secret.
Ragatha knows she’s not exactly a comedian but she’s hoping maybe… maybe that would get a laugh?
Pomni does laugh, but it’s awkward and forced, her eyes darting to the floor quickly.
Ragatha feels her smile become a little more strained.
How did Jax do it? How’d he make Pomni feel comfortable around him? He’s mean, he’s cruel, he’s violent! Ragatha has been nice to Pomni ever since she first arrived! She guided her through! Why does she— Why can’t she—?
“Well, we should probably get going, Caine’s bound to show up soon with a new adventure.” Ragatha starts walking down the hall, her footsteps steady with more confidence than she feels.
“Oh yeah, we definitely wouldn’t want to miss that,” Pomni says, voice full of sarcasm.
Ragatha snorts, glancing to her side where Pomni has caught up to her. Pomni gives her a commiserating smirk, and Ragatha feels warmth spark in her chest.
They’re sharing something, and it’s not awkward! They’re acting like – like real friends!
There’s commotion from the couches, Jax chasing Gangle with — where the ($%#@) did he get that gun?! — and Zooble chasing Jax, arms held up like they’re prepared to strangle him. Ragatha doesn’t see Kinger anywhere, but if she had to guess, she’d probably say he’s in his pillow fort…
“Oh look, Pomni and Dollface finally decided to grace us with their presences!” Jax crows, smirk plastered wide on his face as he manages to side step Zooble, sticking his leg out to trip them. He waltzes over to where Ragatha and Pomni are standing, tossing his gun haphazardly over his shoulder on the way. The trigger goes off with a violent bang when it hits the floor, but Jax pays it no mind as he puts an arm around Pomni’s neck, giving her an aggressive noogie.
Aggressive, but not… mean.
Because Pomni and Jax are friends now, sort of. Apparently. Which is weird, because they only started getting close yesterday. And Ragatha has known Jax a whole lot longer, has been nice to him for so, so long; has tried to get him to open up to her ever since he came to the circus—
But it’s fine! It’s fine, because Ragatha knows you can’t force someone to be friends with you. It’s just a little weird that it happened so quickly, and with so little effort. So little time. Why? Why? What is she doing so wrong?
She watches as Pomni smiles and playfully pushes Jax off of her. As Zooble dries Gangle’s tears, and as they explain the loud sound of the gun to Kinger, who has appeared from his fort looking frazzled.
Sometimes, Ragatha gets the strange feeling that none of them really… like her. Or, maybe they don’t trust her? She’s doing all the right things: being nice, accommodating, positive – and yet she can’t help but feel she’s failing some kind of test, every time she talks to any of them.
There aren’t ever any other kids at the Christmas parties. Ragatha swallows down her disappointment. She’s not very good at making friends, anyway, so she’s not sure how much good it would do if there even were other kids. But maybe she’d feel a little less lonely. Adults bustle around her, stopping occasionally to pinch her cheeks or ask about her grades at school, before leaving again. The room is filled with noise and people, and absolutely no one to talk to. Her head hurts where her hair is pulled back…
“So Pomni, wanna go see how high you can climb the tent wall? Promise not to catch you when you fall.”
Ragatha snaps back to the present at the sound of Jax’s voice.
“Oh, that… sounds kind of dangerous, Jax, I’m not sure if Pomni would be interested—”
“Actually,” Pomni interrupts, and she sounds a little… annoyed. Why is she annoyed? How did Ragatha screw up again? “Sure, that sounds fun Jax. Er, I guess.”
“Great! Let’s go.”
“Oh well uh–” Ragatha starts, desperate to fix whatever mistake she made. “I’ll also come. I mean, if you’re not going to catch Pomni, then someone should be there to.”
Jax rolls his eyes and scoffs, “See this, Pomni? Raggy’s always got to ruin the fun. You can come, but don’t try to harsh the vibe.”
Pomni fiddles her thumbs, looking between Jax and Ragatha, hesitating before saying, “Sure, Ragatha. That’s a good idea.”
But does she actually mean that? Ragatha wonders. Does she actually want me there? Or will I be making them uncomfortable?
Why do they always seem so uncomfortable?
As if reading her mind, Jax chooses that moment to taunt her, “You know, for a jester, you’re too nice Pomni. You can tell her to scram if you really want.”
He leans into Ragatha’s space and… and pulls on her hair.
Ragatha is six years old, and it’s her parents’ annual Christmas party. Her head hurts so, so bad. The chemical smell is nauseating, and no matter where she goes she can’t escape it. Her mommy gets sad whenever she complains about her hair, so she doesn’t. But this year is really, really awful. So awful, she can’t stand another moment with it.
Her mommy is talking to a burly man in a three piece suit. Ragatha is polite, so she waits. And waits. And waits and waits and waits. They’ve been talking for so long. Ragatha squirms where she stands, desperate to get her mommy’s help now. The man finally notices her, and he stoops down to her eye level.
He introduces himself, tells her how pretty she is in her dress. She thanks him, because Ragatha knows her manners. Her mother starts boasting about her grades at school, how she can count to 100 already, how high her reading level is.
Usually, Ragatha would be bursting with pride at her mother acknowledging her achievements, but right now, she wishes she’d stop talking. When Ragatha absolutely cannot possibly handle it any longer, she tugs at her mother’s form fitting dress.
“Mommy… mommy, my hair hurts,” she says it as nicely and politely as she can. She hopes that will make her mommy less upset.
“What?” her mom asks, bewildered as if Ragatha spoke a different language.
“My hair. It hurts really bad. The smell hurts my nose too.” Her voice gets smaller the more she talks. Her mother stares at her, and she regrets even bringing it up.
“Don’t cry mommy!” Ragatha exclaims, because her mommy usually cries after she goes silent.
Instead of crying, though, Ragather’s mother forces a laugh, looking at the three piece suit man with a tight smile.
“Girls, huh? Always a handful. You’re blessed with three little boys, aren’t you Senator Baronski?”
Ragatha feels her eyes well up when she realizes her mother isn’t helping her.
“Mommy!” She says louder. “Mommy please, please it hurts really really bad! Please?”
Some of the conversations around them quiet down, people near them glancing in concern. Her mother looks at her sharply.
“Excuse me for just one moment, Senator. I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back.”
She takes Ragatha’s little hand in her own, guiding her through the house and up the stairs to Ragatha’s bedroom. Ragatha feels relief that she managed to get her mommy’s help without upsetting her. That is, until she’s sat in front of her vanity, and her mommy starts yanking at her hair.
She rips out the giant bow holding her hair back, grabs a brush and starts forcefully running it through Ragatha’s curls, tugging and ripping at them painfully.
Ragatha cries out in pain, but her mother shushes her.
It goes on for a long time, and her mommy is silent all the while. Ragatha’s head is pulled in all directions as her mommy brushes out her hair, and Ragatha’s neck is starting to strain from the movements. Her vision is blurry with tears she’s not allowed to shed.
When it’s over, Ragatha’s head hurts even more. Her hair is still sticky with the bad smelling gel and spray. She sees her mommy move to sit on the edge of Ragatha’s bed in the mirror. Ragatha is shocked when her mother starts to quietly cry into her hands.
Usually, her mommy cries loudly…
She feels guilt bubble up in her stomach. She didn’t mean to make her mommy cry. She ignores the throbbing on her skull, and goes to hug her mother.
“I’m sorry mommy,” she whispers.
Her mother hugs her back, “It’s okay baby,” she responds tearfully. “I forgive you. But you should stay in your room the rest of the night. I’ll have someone bring you up a plate of food later.”
She fans her eyes, which are rimmed with running mascara, takes a big sniff, and leaves the room.
Ragatha is alone. Her head hurts.
Jax lets go of her hair right as it’s starting to feel painful. She feels it spring back into place, as if nothing happened at all.
Her hands (her stupid, awful, terrible, digital mitten doll hands) start to quiver.
It’s quiet. Ragatha waits. She waits for Pomni to tell Jax to lay off. To tell him to apologize to her. To tell him that now’s not the time to be a jerk.
Ragatha waits. She waits for anyone to stand up for her.
Kinger is staring off at nothing. Gangle looks down at her ribbon hands, sniffling. Zooble looks bored. And Jax has that stupid. ($%#@ing). Smirk.
Pomni hesitates before coughing awkwardly. “Don’t… don’t listen to him, Ragatha. It’s definitely cool if you wanna join.”
Ragatha’s eye twitches. The shaking in her hands is uncontrollable now. So uncontrollable that it… it hurts. Sharp, stinging pain through both her arms.
When the pain finally dissipates, she’s greeted with the sight of her fellow cast, staring at her with eyes wide with horror.
“Ragatha…” Kinger says her name quietly, with sympathy bordering on pity. He sounds so unexpectedly lucid.
She feels another flash of pain, this time in her abdomen, and looks down in time to see her stomach corrupting, blackening and glitching into sharp points that jut out at strange angles.
She feels her own eyes widen. The glitching stops as quickly as it started, and Ragatha tentatively puts a hand to her stomach. Fear grips her, cold and sharp. She feels like she can’t breathe.
“Hello my little milky discord kittens!” Caine exclaims, appearing with a pop of funfetti above them. “So some of you enjoyed doing adventures from the suggestion box for some reason yesterday! But oh boy, do I have something whipped up for you today that’s going to fix that!”
Ragatha stares at the floor. She feels like she’s lifting out of her body.
Ragatha is seven years old, and it’s her parents’ annual Christmas party. Her head hurts. She feels like she’s going to throw up from the chemical smell. There’s a burn on the back of her neck. A woman with a pearl necklace tells her she looks “just adorable with your dress and curls!” The woman pinches her cheek, and Ragatha thanks her before she leaves again.
Her mom smiles at her from across the room, and Ragatha smiles back.
Ragatha looks to Caine with a smile that hurts her cheeks.
“Sounds wonderful, Caine. We can’t wait to see what you have planned for today.”
Caine glows with pride at the unexpected praise, and Ragatha ignores her castmates’ shocked expressions and attempts to talk to her. She smoothes a hand through her hair.