Rating: R (the American system baffles me, so if I've got it wrong, let me know)
Summary: Margaret's life-long mourning for Elena manifests in interesting ways.
When Margaret was very young, she wanted to be Elena when she grew up, because her sister was pretty and smart and had lots of friends; she was everything a girl ought to be. After Elena died, Margaret wanted her back: every birthday candle wish, night-shrouded prayer, and darkling dream started with her name.
But as Margaret grew, so did her wishes. It was no longer enough to worship in the shrine of Elena's room, kept eerily intact thanks to the emotional sway she held over Aunt Judith. It was no longer enough to use of one Elena's pillows or blankets; now Margaret had to use her bed, or else she couldn't sleep. (Sleep, or other things: when she first explored sex—with herself, then with others—it was always in that bed, under those sheets, so she could imagine her fingers were Elena's.) It was no longer enough to reverently touch the clothes in Elena's closet; Margaret obsessively watched her weight so she could fit every outfit, right down to the lacy underwear and push-up bras. It was no longer enough to want to be Elena or have her back; Margaret just wanted her.
As soon as she left Fell's Church for college, Margaret sought Elena in every blonde beauty she could find: waitresses at the cafe where she studied, classmates, random hook-ups found in campus bars. All left her yearning until, during her annual visit to her sister's grave, she found her. The angelgirl was tracing Elena's name in the headstone, filling each letter with her own blood the way Margaret used to paint the etched surface with her tears when she was young.
Elena, Margaret sighed. You heard. You know. You came back for me.
The angelgirl's eyes were a shade or two off—so was her hair—but her lips felt the same against Margaret's cheek and she was wearing an ice blue dress just like Elena's—the one Elena always wore in Margaret's dreams, the lovely Renaissance gown that had been more trouble than it was worth. Her hands were small, just like Elena's, but they touched her where Elena's never had the chance to. And she looked the same in Elena's bed, her shadow-gold hair a corona on the pillow in the dim light. She kissed like Margaret imagined Elena would, feather-soft and teasing but intense. She spoke like Elena but more, darker, better, saying the words Margaret always wished had fallen from Elena's mouth. She was all the things Elena was to Margaret and everything Margaret had wanted Elena to be. But she was better somehow, because she was Margaret's in a way Elena never could have been.
Bodies twisted between sheets, sheets tangled between bodies, Margaret sighed as not-Elena parted her legs again. 'Elena,' Margaret whispered, tasting her sister on her lips, feeling her sweat on her skin.
Not-Elena's eyes flashed, but briefly. 'Yes, I'm your Elena.' She bit into Margaret's thigh, dug nails into her hips as she writhed beneath her. 'And you'll be mine. It's all she's left for us to be.'