Category: Short Stories

There was no movement in space they could see. The Earth and her twin Solstice appeared small and suspended in silence. In the far distance, in the opposite direction, an enemy colony awaited. The last hundreds of years had sucked any other life out of the interstellar space, ever since the war between the races had begun. It had exploded violently, so long ago that experts and admirals themselves didn’t know what the quarrel was about anymore. No one knew. All they knew were the sides. The humans and the reptiles. They killed each other on sight. No questions asked. It had all come down to that, and no one doubted it, no one gave it a second thought, no one questioned it anymore.

Captain Brier didn’t have time for much thought either. His shuttle boasted with the sounds of computerized music. Even during the most fiercely frightening and violent encounters, he always had his favorite pieces playing, as if to soothe his own soul and convince him life on Earth was still worth protecting.

His shuttle and the two accompanying it were flying in perfect formation, ready for any unexpected attack. His mission was as important as his person. His partner needed rescue from the reptile colony. They each held half of a great weapon which, when put together, would decimate the entire lizard race. They were the only two who had been entrusted with it. Their general, on his deathbed, had split the weapon in two, so that no one man would be tempted to use it for another purpose.

The Marauder was dangerous if used by one man. It had the power to twist one’s sense and one’s mind, it had the power to melt en entire planet if not used right. The general had been afraid to use it alone, no matter how desperately lost the war seemed to become with every hundred years. As so had been every general that came before him. They had passed it along, while futile attempts to kill the enemy had only made the war more violent and hopeless. Brier and his partner had sworn to put it back together, as a last resort, before the human race was forever shattered into darkness.

He had been given thirty six hours for his rescue mission. After that, the ally fleet would intervene and attempt to destroy the enemy. Brier didn’t believe they could do it, they weren’t strong enough, and they had always been outnumbered. No one could figure out why and how. No one knew how the lizards procreated so fast. His plan was brazen to say the least but, if accomplished, they could rid themselves of the monsters once and for all.

Brier’s head rested against the black leather of his pilot chair, as he waited for his destination, the colony, to appear on the radar humming quietly to his right. The shuttle practically flew itself, so he could afford to close his eyes for a minute or two. The soft music still filled the artificial air around him, when the radar let him know something was up. I didn’t realize we were so close, he thought as his eyes opened, his back straightened, and his hands began playing the various keys on the board in front of him. He immediately tried to contact his companions. There was no answer. Maybe they’re cloaked, he reasoned and then gave up trying when there was no answer through subspace either.

It wouldn’t have been the first time he needed to act alone. He made sure all the fire power was armed and ready, and tensely waited for an enemy sign. Minute after minute passed while his hands hugged the controllers so tight that he could barely breathe. The cussing in his head didn’t help anything. Ten minutes passed before a message reached him. He pushed a few buttons, and the familiar face of one of his companions popped up on the display to the left.

“You can lower your shield, captain, it was just a false alarm,” the friendly face assured him.

Captain Brier didn’t quite believe it, but when the second friendly face popped on the screen, he did. He lowered his shields without thinking about it anymore.

Without any warning, and before Brier could react, his shuttle was drawn into the tractor beams of a craft he couldn’t even see. The faces on his displayed smirked at each other.

“Hmm, we never thought it would be this easy,” Brier heard their voices.

Two enemy warriors materialized aboard his ship, and Brier knew he was lost. He didn’t have a choice but let himself be taken away, quietly and effortlessly transported to an unknown place. He knew what they wanted. He knew they would try to make him give up the locations of all the different Earth fleet vessels. But humans still had the advantage. They didn’t know about The Marauder. He was determined not to say a word, although he had heard the horror stories about how their enemies always extracted secrets from anyone who held them.

In a few hours, they reached the enemy colony. Without any ceremonial displays, he was thrown into one of their prison cells. The heavy door closed behind him amazingly fast, and he was left to the cold embrace of cement. Brier got up slowly, leaning against a wall, trying to make out anything he could in the darkness before him. From up above, cold tears dripped through the grated ceiling along with echoes of tortured souls screams.

He couldn’t count the time he spent leaning against that wall. Maybe he even drifted off for a while. He opened his eyes and thought the dark wasn’t as dark as before. He couldn’t see the height of his cell. A half wall parted the space in two. In a corner, small wells of cements rose as mole hills. He went closer and checked them out, and saw they were covered in some kind of an unknown reed species. Above him, he could now observe the grate with openings large enough for a body to get through. The distance was too much, he couldn’t climb so far.

He looked for a dry spot, without finding one. The floor was soaked with some kind of viscous matter that prevented him from sitting. He began pacing back and forth, cussing out loud, although he knew full well no one could understand, except for maybe other prisoners.

His body temperature was dropping at an alarming rate, and he couldn’t figure out how to prevent it other than by continuing to pace. He thought about doing push-ups, but the sight of the floor stopped that thought immediately.

“There’s no use trying to keep warm,” he heard a small voice from behind the parting wall.

Brier was shocked, and a little afraid, he admitted to himself. He walked over to the wall while asking “Who’s there?”

Almost immediately, the owner of the voice came into his line of sight. He was taken aback by her pleasantly symmetrical features right away. He couldn’t help but stare at her almond-shaped purple eyes and heavy, silky hair. He started wondering what the girl was doing there, as she approached him cautiously. They silently studied at each other for a few moments.

“I can only warm up with push-ups,” her voice was soft, riddled with a strange accent, as if she had not spoken in a very long time and now it was difficult to do.

The captain started a sentence, but the girl didn’t hear him, as a huge lamprey slid over his feet, out of nowhere, darting towards one of the mole hills in the corner. The girl screamed but dashed after it, threw her body into the air, and landed on its enormous tail just in time. With precise movements, she ripped its horny mouth off and started sucking on the wound, bringing out gelatinous, slimy looking entrails she swallowed without giving it a second thought. When she was done, she threw the leftover skin away, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then wiped that on the little bit of fabric that still remained of her former uniform. A uniform, like mine, he thought but didn’t mention it.

As she watched him wince and grimace, probably because of her meal, she reached out a hand to shake his.

“Parker Lewis,” she said. “Volunteer, I’m afraid.”

He shook her hand but chose to keep quiet. Too many questions were fighting in his head.

As if guessing it, the girl continued, “I’ve been here eight months. At least I think it’s been eight months, if I haven’t miscounted… which is possible… It’s hard to keep track when you can’t tell if it’s daylight or nighttime out there. I was on a shuttle with my father, Captain Lewis of the third Earth Fleet. He… well, he was hurt badly when they took us, and he…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the words, even after all that time of repeating them over and over in her head. “He… he’s no longer with us,” she managed as her voice choked up. “It didn’t take him long, only a couple of days after they brought us here… I just… I just couldn’t do anything…” Tears welled up and started sheening her face. She didn’t wipe them away, but her face did well at not betraying her feelings. She wished she could control her voice that way, too.

Brier continued watching her as if he were a mute. What is she doing here? This doesn’t make any sense! No good captain would take a volunteer along, even if she’s his daughter, he couldn’t quite understand. Her eyes are too purple, her hair too well preserved, other than the shredded uniform, she doesn’t look like she’s wanting for much. Maybe I’m dreaming, maybe she’s not even real, he thought. He raised his hand and gently touched her shoulder. The solid contact made him start, and he apologized quickly. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to make sure you’re real, that this is not a dream. This is…,” he didn’t really know how to go on.

“Definitely not a dream, unfortunately,” she finished his sentence as she stared at him with inquisitively. She wanted to ask questions, but the stripes on his uniform told her to wait. She was a volunteer, after all, the lowest on the military food chain. Under any other circumstances, she would have needed expressed permission to talk. She waited.

“Do you think there’s any way out of here?” He asked as he looked around the walls again, hoping for an affirmative answer.

“I’ve tried everything I could already. Obviously, with no good results,” she said and then added slowly, “Maybe we could try together?”

Brier didn’t answer. He’d only been there a few hours, but it felt like an eternity. Without a word, he began dissecting the cell with his eyes. Each wall, each mole hill, each protuberance larger than an egg, each fissure trickling water, the grated ceiling again, the viscous matter on the floor, the hinges of the heavy door, the empty iron sconces on a wall. The only idea he had was to try and reach one of the openings in the grate above. Maybe they could climb the wall somehow.

“We could get out through there,” he pointed up, “If we could climb the wall somehow.”

Parker reached in her shabby jacket and pulled out a rusted pocket knife. “It was my father’s,” she said, “Maybe we can use it to carve holes somehow, as a kind of ladder?”

Brier inspected the knife. It was dull, but it was worth trying. He started carving into stone right away, as Parker stood behind him, watching.

Six hours later, Brier was still carving the wall, with little progress to make a difference yet. Four holes started back at him, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Each movement jarred his forearms and wrists, and still he continued. He started letting himself hope. Parker had been there eight months, and she was still alive. How? He asked himself, not knowing how she had survived for so long. On lampreys? His hope shattered at the thought, as another lamprey slid by and Parker acted quickly, grabbing it just like she had the first one.

This time she saved him some. He looked at it and choked up. “It’s out of the question,” he said disgusted.

“Suit yourself, more for me,” Parker didn’t hesitate and swallowed what was left. “But it’s the only nourishment you’ll find around here. As you can see, the selection is rather… completely missing,” she smiled ironically. “We treat our own prisoners well. They don’t,” she added, still hoping to convince him. “Hunger will convince you eventually. I’ve already been through this, I’m just trying to save you time.”

As Brier ignored her and continued digging, sounds began approaching the heavy door of the cell. They both became still, with their eyes fixated on the door. It opened heavily, its hinges crying. The enemy guard came in, his spear ready to fire, he looked at both for a second, then grabbed Parker before Brier had time to react. In a second, they were gone.

Brier gasped for air in a panic. What is this? Why now? Damn it, damn it!! Soon, he thought the heard screaming from an adjacent cell. He forced himself to listen, and realized it was Parker. What are they doing to her? Torture? What could she possibly know? She’s just a volunteer. As much as he tried, he couldn’t make sense of it. He forgot about the carving, and began pacing the cell again, anxious to hear them come back. He paced for hours before the door opened again, and Parker’s body was thrown in. He dashed towards her, and tried to help her get up.

“Are you alright?” He couldn’t find anything else to ask.

“I am now, I’ll be okay,” she answered with half a voice.

“What did they do to you? Why you and not me? I don’t… What could you possibly know?” he was confused, he didn’t even know what question to ask first.

“I don’t know, I don’t know anything… but…”

“But what? Why?”

“You don’t understand… They’re changing me, they’re turning me…”

“What?” his confusion grew exponentially with each word she said.

Parker became quiet. Instead of words, she showed him. As she unbuttoned the front of her jacket, he noticed she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Slowly, she turned around to show him her back. One look was enough. He knew they were turning her into one of them. They had started with the skin, working from the outside in. Once the skin was completely replaced, it would have taken over her internal organs and rearranged them one by one. Slowly, her organs would start producing their own lizard juice, which would eat her human blood until there were no more red cells left. And then the transformation would be complete.

“They do this to all the prisoners. Haven’t you ever wondered how we’re outnumbered all the time? They just have to take their time with the skin, it takes the longest because otherwise the epidermis wouldn’t resist and the body would crumble. Everything else happens quickly, I won’t even know it,” she started crying loudly this time, with no attempts to hide the pain. She did try to hide herself in a corner, with her face to the wall, her shoulders sunken into her body, as if that would have been enough to keep her from his sight.

Brier wanted to know more, but he could see her body shaking and left her alone. He went back to carving his holes, now more furiously than before. He couldn’t let this go on. They had to get out of there somehow, and there was no hope of outside help. In the back of his mind, the thought of his lost partner lurked. He still needed to find him.

He dug and dug, for hours on end, until more holes appeared. He used the holes he already had to support his weight against the wall, and keep digging upwards. The higher he got, the more difficult it became to keep balance, but still, he kept on. He finally reached the grate above, and was able to lift himself into a hollow space, maybe a vent.

“Parker, I made it up,” he had to yell to get her attention. “Your turn, you have to try, we may be able to get out through here, it’s gotta lead somewhere,” he urged her with the tone of his voice and the gestures of his arms.

“I can’t, I’m… I’m just too weak, I’ll never make it,” she answered from below. “Besides, I’ve always been afraid of heights,” added.

Afraid of heights, he thought, How can you be afraid if heights when you’re flying into the open space? He didn’t voice that. He only said, “Alright, wish me luck then.”

“Good luck, captain,” she said and then turned inwards again.

Brier started crawling to his right, into a narrow, toxic space with air he choked on at every move. He crawled through slimy mud until he reached a grated spot, like the one in the ceiling of his cell. He looked down and saw a gurney. On it, a human body was sprawled with limbs tightly cuffed. The man didn’t seem to be alive, but a sudden jerk of the head assured Brier he was. His hair color was familiar. It’s him, oh, it’s him. He knew he was looking at his partner, all helpless down there. Before he could even begin to think about a rescue, it was too late.

A burst of bright light blinded him for a second, and then he could see enemies around the table. They all wore outfits reminiscent of human lab coats. One was pushing a floating metal plank, on which strange tools were laid. As they gathered around the gurney, Brier’s line of sight became blurred. He heard a loud whooshing sound, and suddenly felt his body elongate beyond his control, as if a giant ventilator was trying to swallow him. He tried to hang on to the slime on the walls of the narrow space, and failed. A memory from his childhood flashed before his eyes, as he realized he was being drawn in the direction he had come from. The grate, I have to slide back in through the grate, he thought just as he fell through, into the grossness of his cell floor.

The sound of his body hitting the floor seemed to wake Parker up, as she had dozed off in her corner. The jarring impact with the floor broke one leg, and shooting pain took over his entire body. Parker was near in an instant, and tried to help. There was nothing she could do, but tell him to be still and quiet for a while.

“You have to rest, you have to…” Parker was crying again. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do with broken bones,” she almost whined as Brier attempted to get up. He couldn’t. He couldn’t bare the pain and now he didn’t have any choice but try to be still for a while. He clenched his teeth and his fists, as if trying to hold the pain inside. Losing his cool was not an option. He had been hurt before, he knew how to deal with it. He closed his eyes and started short and shallow breaths, and it helped for a while. Parker settled by him, and put his head in her lap.

“Hang in there, Parker, you gotta hang in there, I found him, he’s here, he’s close, we can still do it,” he managed to slip through his teeth as if she was the one that was hurt.

She started slowly caressing his face with the reluctance of a girl touching a man for the first time. His breathing slowed down as he whispered: “My fleet has orders to come looking for me if I’m not back in thirty six hours. I’ve been here twenty already, that leaves us sixteen hours. I can find a way to get to the other half of the weapon in sixteen hours… And they’ll come looking and we’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, I promise,” he could barely speak anymore, he knew he didn’t make sense to her. She probably thinks I’m delirious because of the pain, he thought. He missed the serenity in her eyes.

The soft touch of her hands lulled him to sleep for a while, but the shooting pain still reigned and he woke up nervously, to find her hands still. He looked up and saw her eyes were closed. He didn’t dare move at all for fear of waking her up, but that was useless as she soon did so on her own. Her soothing hand started moving again, and Brier remembered his home and the touch of his own mother. We don’t have time for this, what if they come for her again, he thought as he attempted to get up. I have to get to him, I have to get to him now.

He managed to stand up despite the pain, and started towards the wall. He wanted to try climbing again. Parker followed closely behind, but when they reached the wall, she took his hand and forced him to turn around. With her eyes fixated on his, and her hand touching his face again, she said softly: “I’m only 17. I’m the youngest volunteer in the entire fleet. I was on the shuttle only because my father pulled some strings. I never considered what I had to lose,” she continued using her hands as if on the face of a lover, from his face down his neck, and lower to his chest, her eyes now lingering on his lips. “I’ve never…,” she said as she stretched up to him, to reach his mouth with hers. Brier didn’t move, and let her, for one second. She tasted like salt, but her lips were just as soft as any others. It lasted but a few heartbeats, because the heavy door opened again and the same monster as before snatched Parker once again, as Brier was paralyzed.

“Are we completely alone? Why is no one helping us? You said they’d come!” She yelled as she was being dragged away, her voice more agonizing than anything he had ever heard before, piercing through him, and twisting his entrails.

Then silence wrapped around him again, as he shrank into a corner, his heart beating fast with the anticipation of her screams. The pain in his leg was nothing compared to Parker’s torture. Soon, her shrills reached him and all he could do was cover his ears in a futile attempt to keep them out of his mind. He only removed his hands after Parker was thrown back in.

She stayed on the floor, face down, her shoulders barely moving at the rhythm of her inaudible tears. Brier approached slowly, as if afraid to startle her. He leaned over her body and gently rolled her over. He almost fell backwards when Parker faced him. The skin on her face had been replaced, and now two human eyes appeared grotesque amid the shiny scales of foreign tissue. They’re so close, he thought and his strength dissipated instantly.

It took all the will he had left to touch her without betraying his repulsion. He pulled her into an embrace and held her, as if that was enough to help. He had considered her last words, and decided to take a risk.

“We’re not alone, Parker,” he started, and never noticed the satisfaction in her eyes. “What I said before, about our allies, it’s all true. They’re waiting for our signal, they’re all gathered in waiting in the shadow of the Solstice. But… even if they don’t come, I have a weapon. Well, I have half of it. The other half is with my partner. There’s still hope. You can help me find him, and then we can destroy them. We can still do it. We haven’t been defeated yet.”

Parker broke the embrace as the heavy door opened again. He didn’t want to let go. She pushed him and saw the confusion on his face, as he turned around at the sound of hinges creaking. She started moving towards the guard, quietly and steadily, as if she knew something he didn’t. Before she walked out of her own free will, she turned around and said:

“You never saw it, Brier. You human fool! They are changing me… but they are changing me back. To what I was. You are defeated now.”

The heavy door slammed shut, leaving Brier behind to rage and convulse at the thought of what he’d done. It took him but a moment to understand. He stood there, letting a river of bitter tears flood him. He couldn’t think. There was no point in thinking at all. He had just decided the fate of the war. One man, a few words, a pretty face, and all human race was lost. Forever.

Before you get too excited thinking that I finally finished this story, you should know I haven’t. It just seems to turn into something way more than just a short story. This is what I have so far. The problem is I don’t know if it’s worth continuing.

 

THE ARTIST AND THE FANCY GIRL

Mignon

“I will let you die before I let you go,” Mr. Sib hissed at her, gritting his teeth, veins visibly pumping on his temples, as he almost slipped on the dungeon floor wet with blood. In front of him, Mignon screamed at the horror of the boiling wax on her face as she felt blisters swelling on the delicate skin so savagely destroyed. She screamed again and again until her small frame gave up but her screams became shrills, piercing and penetrating the smothering air of the underground vaulted-ceiling room; on broken knees, with her fingers interlocked, she prayed to a God that had proven merciless since her birth fourteen years prior. Her body was weak with the pain, and she didn’t dare do anything else other than use her vocal chords. Acute burning sensations emanated into her whole body like a paralyzing poison, while blood mixed with coagulating wax crusted upon her face.

“Please, father, please, no more,” she cried and pleaded and begged to no avail, until her voice started to fade and she choked up on her own fear. She did not want to die, and now she was bound to him forever. Losing her sight meant her life was at an end. She would never dare try to escape again. She could only try to pay her father back, and once the idea of it was planted, the intent to find some way of passing her own suffering onto him grew like a weed, strong and willful, and undeniable.

She searched for ways every day, with every step she took in the company of her father, with every meal he forced down her throat because gentlemen liked “full-figured tarts, not bags of bones”, with every nightmare that inhabited her miserable sleep. She retreated within herself and the only sounds she made were those from pain inflicted by others. She stopped praying altogether, as the image of the heaven above mocking her took over her sight for a while, and that’s all she could see with her mind’s eye. And she submitted. Quietly, unflinching, she submitted until her father began to seemingly, only seemingly, afford her some of his trust again. One fine morning, Mr. Sib allowed her to climb the high stairs to the roof of their rented living quarters on her own, and spend time in the sun light which she could only feel warm and comforting on her skin. It was a reward for her compliance, for giving her fruitful vine to others in exchange for coin, for tolerating gentlemen’s whims along with their whips, for not lamenting any longer.

Nevertheless, she was seldom alone on the roof from then on. Mr. Sib accompanied her under the pretext that she might stumble and fall for lack of sight. She was his most precious possession, and even though he had been forced to apply such cruel punishment, he was comforted by the words of his customers, who preferred girls unable to see the stretching racks, the birch rods, and the silver corsets, and sometimes could even be persuaded to pay more for a blind toffer. She never said that she had started seeing vague shapes again, one morning in the sun; she kept that to herself and continued playing her part.

Lys

Lys was only nineteen and as naive as any at that age. His only ongoing thought was that someday something wonderful would happen, something that would change his life. He lived on art, books, and legends, although only the ones approved of in his home. He didn’t have friends and he didn’t attend the usual artistic hang-outs. He preferred to be alone and working. Never in his life had he doubted the talent he possessed. He did deeply regret that his parents had never understood his love for art. They wanted him to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a brilliant surgeon. They perceived art as a waste of time and wanted their son to occupy himself with something concrete that would enhance their family’s social status. They had tried, to no avail, to convince Lys his interests were not appropriate and befitting of a doctor’s only heir. To him, his mothers’ tears and his father’s threats were as worthless as the material possessions they offered him.

When the final ultimatum was given, he already knew how he would proceed. Nothing else but art was of any interest to him, not even the proper girls who attempted without shame to distract him from drawing his dreams. He found it was somewhat painful to break away from the place where he grew up, but his passion was stronger than anything else. He left the manor on a cold winter morning, carrying a small suitcase and his drawing tools. His parents watched him walk away, wondering why God had given them such an ungrateful son. When he was out of sight, they turned around and went inside to have their back bacon and black pudding.

Lys quickly found a small room to rent in the attic of an almost dilapidated building, whose only other renters where a father and daughter, according to his householder. The night he moved in, with his suitcase and drawing supplies in tow, he noticed a stairway leading to the roof. He smiled knowing that he would go up there many a night and day, to be alone with his thoughts, to enjoy the freedom he had left riches for, and most of all to draw the world.

It wasn’t long before he began hearing steps going up that stair. He had never seen his neighbors, but he could clearly hear two sets of shoes, one dull and heavy, the other more prominent, and reminiscent of small feet on a slender figure that can move easily. He quickly became intrigued by the unlikely pair, and began watching the hallway through the small peephole in his door, in an attempt to see who owned the two sets of steps.

His wish came true sooner than he expected. One morning, as he had just finished his shave and stood there staring at his own blue eyes in the cracked mirror above the basinet, he heard the steps again. He couldn’t resist and tiptoed to the door, holding his breath as if the wheezing of his feeble lungs could have slipped through the almost invisible cracks in the walls and make his presence behind them known. He put his eye in front of the peephole, as close to it as his long eyelashes allowed him, and waited patiently, although he could feel his pulse quicken and his palms sweat. He blamed that on the lack of air, and continued holding his position until the steps approached and then passed the door.

What he saw he didn’t think to be extraordinary. He had expected something mysterious, something to intrigue him and demand his exclusive attention, something new and vibrant and absolutely inspiring. Instead, he got an old man with fancy clothes were worn out and almost in disarray, with bulging eyes and stained skin, holding a young girl by the hand, as if guiding her steps. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen, he thought, although her long, dark hair was something to pay attention to. He couldn’t see much of her face, as ringlets covered most of her forehead and cheeks, but he did see her nose and thought he had never seen a prouder nose than that. The only thing he couldn’t quite understand was why the man was holding the girl’s hand so tightly, as if afraid to lose her behind. They must be father and daughter, Lys thought, and he must love her very much. Unacquainted as he was with the dark secrets of his world, he couldn’t fathom anything more or anything wrong.

Mignon

Mr. Sib walked with his head slightly tilted to the right. He looked tired and worn out, maybe from life not being nice to him, or maybe due to the inner monsters he had always fostered. He had red bags under his eyes and his cheeks were marked with burst blood vessels. Wrinkles had long taken over his face, now grim and bitter. His thinning, red hair could never be tamed, and neither could his sideburns. The frock coat and bowler he donned did nothing to improve his appearance.

He only smiled inside, and exclusively at the thought of the treasure he had with him. He glanced to his right, to the young girl who walked silently, with small steps, aided by a wooden cane he had made for her after in an attempt of cruel redemption. Mignon wore her eternal black dress and her hair was flowing heavy on her shoulders. Her face was expressionless, with the corners of the mouth pointing downward. She knew what was to come, and she shrank at the thought of it.

They reached their destination in spite of her prayers, a cold and uninviting stone mansion guarded by high iron fences, with ivy crawling on the walls to hide the small windows and prevent too much natural light from invading the rooms. They went through the gate and approached the house furtively and at a quicker pace. A valet appeared at the door so quickly as if he had been in hiding behind it, and led them to their host who waited impatiently in the music room.

The tall and skinny gentleman, clothed in a charcoal silk vest and matching trousers, smiled vaguely while placing his pendant watch in a small pocket hidden on the inside of his coat. He then admired the girl for a while. Only when he was completely satisfied that she was to his taste did he get up from his red leather chair and approached the visitors. He went closer to Mignon, closer than what the custom dictated, so close that she could sense the odor of brandy emanating from his breath, took her hand in his, and started touching her back with the other while longingly caressing her fingers. Mr. Sib grabbed his arm quickly, seemingly protective of her:

“I believe you owe me something,” Mr. Sib almost giggled with excitement.

“Oh, yes, that is so indeed,” the gentleman’s reply accompanied a gold-threaded pouch fat with coins.

When Mignon was left alone with her host, she finally started to cry, in a calculated attempt to impress him. He didn’t appear to be fooled. He had dealt with deceivingly shy girls before, and they had all turned out to be anything but. He led her to a bed hidden behind a velvet Coromandel screen at the other end of the room and made her lay down. He began kissing her face and mouth, and soon he aimed for her shoulders still hidden by the heavy fabric of her dress. As the girl became motionless, he ran his hands down her skirts, all the way to her ankles, and even further down, where silk ties decorated sturdy bed posts. Without any warning, he forcefully pulled her legs apart, and made a silky bowtie around both ankles. He laughed when she tried to pull. Attempts to escape when it was too late always sent burning sensations through his veins. He relished their faces when horror started to creep up the limbs, making them unresponsive. He knew they would respond to his gift, to the pain that came with his touch, to his teeth sunk into the skin with a hunger that he could never completely satiate. He envisioned purple stains around his bites, he shivered at the thought he would soon taste her, and he proceeded to remove the frail shield of her dress, until she was entirely exposed to his whims.

She couldn’t do anything to stop it, the man had paid for it, and the punishment would have been severe. She chose to dive into dreams of one more attempt to flee, although several had left her with deep scars on her back, and the latest with scars on her face. She had come up with so many scenarios, and discarded them immediately as they all required help. She didn’t have anyone to help her. She didn’t know anyone at all, other than her father and the gentlemen she was a toy for. She thought and thought and thought, while sharp teeth nibbled at her breasts and silky ties cut into her ankles’ delicate skin. And thinking didn’t help, as the fact remained, she was completely alone in this world, and to the mercy of her own father.

Lys

“Mrs. Bloom, what do you know of… the others?” Lys wasn’t exceptionally curious about other people, he hadn’t inherited that particular trait from his mother. However, he did sometimes find himself wondering about the father and daughter climbing up those stairs regularly, always with their hands linked together, as if the girl was… blind. The thought had finally occurred to him after watching them closer one morning, when he had noticed the girl held her chin high, appearing to look somewhere above the height of the man she followed, always as if into the empty space around.

“Well, darling, I don’t know much about them, I’m afraid. The girl is blind as a bat, although still pretty as she was before. I heard she slipped and fell face up right into a bowl of hot wax down in the cellar,” the householder murmured as she was mixing eggs for a nice, warm breakfast. “Hot wax, can you believe it? What could they be doing with hot wax down there is beyond my knowledge,” she shrugged her shoulders as if she really didn’t care to know more.

“Hot wax?” Lys shuddered at the thought as chills ran down his spine. “But that’s… that’s horrible!” He was unfamiliar with physical pain, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine how someone had lived through something like it, through the blistering touch of the burn, let alone through knowing you could never, ever see anything again. He thought about what that would mean for him. How could he survive without his eyes? How, when his eyes gave him the world to draw, when his eyes guided his imagination and his hands through the creation of what he thought to be excellent work? He shook the sensation off his shoulders, as Mrs. Bloom set a plate in front of him.

“Eat, you need it, lad,” she said as she measured him up and down. “You need some color in your cheeks,” she pushed the plate closer to him. “And you might do well not to worry about them, mind your own business, didn’t anyone ever tell you to stay out of what doesn’t concern you?”

“Yes, they did, my parents did,” Lys admitted and for a second, he felt ashamed. He couldn’t let go of the thought, though, he kept thinking he did want to learn more. You can’t give a man a taste of something, only to take the whole thing back. He needed to know their story. He already had a drawing in mind.

As they ate together, Lys pestered Mrs. Bloom with questions. After a while, she finally sighed and accepted that he wouldn’t quit asking, and told him everything she knew. Or so he thought.

The two had come practically out of nowhere a few years prior, when the girl could still see. They occupied the apartment on the ground floor of the building, and the cellar below. They were indeed father and daughter, although she could never learn any more details about the rest of the family, if there was any. The father was called Mr. Sib and the girl Mignon.

“The mother must have been some French whore,” Mrs. Bloom mused, “to give a name like that to a girl. Obviously, they’re not gentry… If they were, she would be called Elizabeth or Anne, a more proper name.” It was apparent she didn’t care for the girl much, not even for the fact that she had suffered so. Lys wondered about that for a fleeting moment, and then his train of thought was interrupted again.

“They pay their rent in gold coin, and that doesn’t happen around here. So I take it and mind my business. And so should you!” Mrs. Bloom appeared to have finished her story.

“Do you ever talk to them? Why are they going to the roof so often? And what do they do all day? Does anyone ever come to visit? Who takes care of her eyes? Is her skin badly burnt? What does her voice sound like? Do you think I can meet Mignon, and speak with her?” Lys flooded the woman with questions, one after the other, almost as if he was just asking himself aloud.

He never saw it coming, but when the wooden spoon banged on the table, heavy and loud, it made him start. He hadn’t even noticed how Mrs. Bloom’s face had turned sour, her eyes mean, and her jaws clenching. She was so close to him that he could smell the onion stew she had eaten the night before. No one, other than his own mother, had come so close to him in his life. The intrusion made his heart slow down, as Mrs. Bloom whispered:

“You’re a good lad, Lys. You best stay out of this. There will be no other warning,” even her voice was changed and she now reminded him of old horror tales his governess used to tell him at night, to make him close his eyes and go to sleep.

Lys gave up asking questions. Mrs. Bloom’s words had somehow frightened him, although he could not have said why. All he had done was express his new-found curiosity about other people. Also, he felt sorry for the girl. Although it wasn’t like him at all to interfere, he now had the feeling that something was terribly wrong, something other than a young girl losing her sight. The thought that he might be right nagged at him for the following days until he couldn’t stand it anymore and he determined that he would try to speak with her on the first occasion she would climb up the stairs to the roof alone.

Lys and Mignon

He didn’t have to wait long, as it was the very next morning he heard Mignon’s steps, only hers, on the rackety stairs passing by his door. He opened it immediately, and forcefully on purpose, so that she would hear it and not be completely taken aback. The girl paused in her steps and waited for a voice, as she attempted to cover her face with the heavy ringlets of her hair. She wouldn’t turn around to face him, there was no point, so she just waited.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Lys started the conversation awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing it was not appropriate to talk to an unaccompanied young woman. “My name is Lys, I’m an artist, I live here…in this…building,” he continued as Mignon still faced the other way. Now that he was close to her, he found he wasn’t prepared for it, his words wouldn’t listen to him at all. He waited for her to speak.

“Please, you don’t know what you’re doing, my father will not allow this,” Mignon almost whispered. Unless you pay.

“I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted to… to see if I can help you up the stairs,” Lys thought he was smart to come up with such an excuse so quickly.

“I can manage,” she still hadn’t turned around. Besides, I know you’d probably scream and hide when you see my scarred face.

“Please, I really want to…”

“What?” Mignon quickly twirled, so fast that it took Lys by surprise. Her eyes aimed their emerald arrows somewhere above his head. The skin around her eyes, nose, and mouth still glowed pink and looked as if some invisible hands were holding it stretched and tight towards the back of her head. “You want to see my face? You want to tell me that you feel sorry for me? Or do you want to help? Can you give me my sight back? Stay away!” her voice roared, wounded and intense, as Lys gazed at her in horror. You poor fool, you have no idea who my father is, you don’t know what he does. You don’t know what I do.

Lys wasn’t used to such overt outbursts. In his family, women never voiced their feelings so openly as it was not permitted, and any woman was expected to know that. He didn’t even know there were women who did. He didn’t know anything at all, and he blamed himself for upsetting Mignon. That had never been his intention. Without speaking another word, he stepped back into his room and closed his door. He would never address her again, it was best if he didn’t.

Mignon finished climbing the stairs, and went up in the open space of the roof. Although completely alone and she could now see everything almost clearly again, she guided her movement with her cane and found the wooden box she used as a chair. It was good practice for when her father was close. She sat down, turned her face towards the sun, and for a second, she thought she might smile. He might be useful, after all. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. Let’s see, what can we do with him?

Mr. Sib and Mrs. Bloom

“I thought no one else would be living here!” Mr. Sib’s eyes were ice, but underneath, his blood was boiling.

“He’s been warned… besides, he pays his rent just as any other,” Mrs. Bloom replied, unimpressed. She had known Mr. Sib for such a long time that his manner of speaking through his teeth did not affect her anymore. She knew what he cared about, and what he cared about was gathering gold for his absinthe and opium and cock fights.

“We are both going to the gallows if he interferes too much… Mignon might… she might think to escape again… and then no more gold… is that what you want?” Mr. Sib’s attempt to reason did not go anywhere, as Mrs. Bloom leaned over the table, her face still, and whispered:

“She won’t. She’s blind. She’s been beaten, starved, and tortured by your customers. She doesn’t have any money of her own, she doesn’t know anyone else. What can she do, huh? What??”

“Oh, I don’t know, I just…” he paused quickly as Mrs. Bloom raised an eyebrow.

“And don’t forget who made you, either,” Mrs. Bloom added. She loathed having to remind him over and over that, without her, he would have been another beggar on the streets, another orphan raised in the gutters, sleeping with the fog and rain as blankets, and possibly dying of consumption before he knew what life was.

Mr. Sib became quiet. He remembered a time when he was young, when he had been brought to Mrs. Bloom’s orphan house after having been born in the gaol to a mother addicted to substances and men. He didn’t remember his mother. For all he knew, Mrs. Bloom was the only one who had ever said a kind word to him. She was the one who had taught him to steal and cheat, to make a living off unsuspecting decent people. She was also the one who had introduced him to the whore houses and their most special customers, who got their kicks from the pain and suffering of victims. In had been in her company that he had tasted absinthe for the first time, it had been her to acquaint him to the stretching racks.

It had been her who had said to use his offspring for something, when his favorite tart had become heavy with child. Just like him, Mrs. Bloom was becoming old and feeble from constant sickness. After years of using so many others for their purposes, she had found the appeal of specializing in one single kid of toffer. It had proven fruitful for a while, expect all the other girls had been… well, let’s just say they had been shown the way out of this world by customers who didn’t know when to stop, who didn’t know to recognize signs of souls abandoning flesh, or who knew and didn’t care in the least. After it had become increasingly difficult to find abandoned young girls and entice them into their customers’ arms with the promise of enough gold to start a decent life, the only one they had left was Mignon. And Mignon was blind. She couldn’t escape anymore. He had made sure of it with the hot wax. She was completely in their power, but even so, he was afraid. On the surface, he overpowered her, but on the inside, he was afraid.

“What if I talk to him?” Mr. Sib asked. “Feel him out a little bit, find out what he’s thinking… figure out how much of a threat he is,” he spoke in a low voice, as to not disturb the apparent peace in the room.

“No. That’ll only make him wonder. He’s already asked too many questions, and he will ask them of you. He may be an artist, but there’s no telling if he’s stupid too. If he’s this curious about Mignon now, he’ll be even more if you offer anything, even if it’s just a visit. But I can’t throw him out, I can’t…” Mrs. Bloom seemed to be talking to herself more than to her companion.

“What if we just… you know, send him to the other side,” Mr. Sib offered yet another suggestion. As afraid as he was of Mrs. Bloom, he was more afraid of losing his only source of income.

“No!!!” Mrs. Bloom’s fist smashing the bowl of soup on the table made the whole room shake. Or so it seemed to Mr. Sib, who instantly lowered his eyes and made himself smaller. “We can’t just do away with him, he’s not all alone in this world, his father is one of the best surgeons in town. They’ll know something is wrong soon enough! And then it really is the gallows for us! Just stop coming up with these stupid ideas, and concern yourself with finding more customers for Mignon. That should be your only thought for now, and I won’t hear any more of it!”

Mr. Sib knew when to desist. With his eyes still aiming at the dirty floor, he left the room quietly, leaving Mrs. Bloom to her own thoughts. He couldn’t figure out why she was against his suggestions, he thought they were so good. He wouldn’t dare ask, though, he knew better than that.

Mrs. Bloom wished she had never let Lys rent. She thought about the night Lys had come to her door, about the horror she felt thinking he was a ghost come back to haunt her, about her heart stopping when his blue eyes locked with hers. She put her head in her hands, and knew that what she was afraid most in life had come back to her a hundred fold.

Lys and Mignon

He somehow found himself drawing again. With her there, all he could think about was a way to put her beautiful face on think sketching paper, and so he drew every chance he got. Mignon was still asleep in their bed, her feet peeking out from under the blanket because that’s how she could balance her own body’s temperature. He thought about having made fun of her for it, but eventually found it endearing, and now he was drawing her feet, each toe with so much detail that they seemed to come alive. Her face had been done already, and all he was missing was the ragged blanket they used for covers. As he started on the folds of the fabric, Mignon started in her sleep, her arms stretched overhead and then she yawned as she was waking up.

“Hey, beautiful,” he smiled as he stopped drawing for a second.

She looked at him for a while, then she left the bed with the blanket wrapped around her, approached his window seat, leaned in to kiss him, and then her face turned red, her eyes disappeared and instead, two bloody holes stared at him. Her voice had turned raspy, as she reached out her hand to touch him. “What it is, love? You don’t like my eyes?”

Lys woke up sweaty and hot. It took him a second to understand he had dreamt about her, again. What is happening to me? Why am I dreaming of her this way? What could this mean? He didn’t have time to find any answers as he heard smooth breathing somewhere above his head. He gasped and turned over, and his eyes settled on the shape sitting on his pillow.

“Mignon? What..? How..?” Am I still dreaming? The warmth in the room, the sweat on his forehead, the pounding in his head, it all conspired against him and he didn’t know what was real and what not.

“It is I,” her voice was as smooth as her breathing. “I need your help,” Mignon whispered in his ear.

Lys took a few moments to come out of bed. This should not be happening, what about her father? I thought she didn’t want me to help… She shouldn’t be here, he kept trying to come up with reasons, although Mignon was clearly there and this was clearly not a dream.

“Please, a moment… I need a moment,” he said instead of anything else, hoping that a moment to grab his cotton shirt to cover himself would be enough to give him something more inspiring to say.

Mignon sat quietly on the bed, her chin up, as usual, her eyes aiming above his head and slightly to his right. She had a subdued smile on her face, as if she didn’t dare smile more. I don’t have time to waste, you fool, no one cares about you being undressed. I’ve seen more than you can imagine, she thought impatiently. Patience, Mignon, patience, this needs to be handled delicately. This boy knows nothing of the world.

TO BE CONTINUED

Trains were awfully noisy at night, especially when the ride was nine hours long and there were no other passengers around to mask the rickety progression with their voices. It was her first time alone on a trip, and she was still amazed she had convinced her mother to let her go. The pretext of visiting an old family friend, someone who was mature and responsible, who would not let her do anything ‘stupid’, was good enough for the overprotective parent. Secretly, she savored the thoughts of meeting him for the first time. Although she could not control the butterflies in her belly, the questions in her head, and the doubts, oh, the doubts, all forty three muscles of her face had conspired to not give any of that away to the outside world. This is gonna be the longest ride ever, why can’t I just sleep? While the train passed through desolate fields and eerie woodlands, on the way to the city where he waited, she tried to create an imaginary face for the person she already knew.

Her old friend was waiting at the station, and took her to a small apartment where coffee and breakfast had already been prepared. She couldn’t touch any of it as she was barely able to contain the excitement of being away from home for a little while, even if she was lying about the real reasons for being there. After she was given directions to get downtown, she was left alone to figure everything out. She took a shower to freshen up, chose a pair of light blue jeans and her favorite tank top, and put her long hair up, as summer days were hot and humid.

She started her search at the top of the wide avenue, with tall buildings and espresso bars lining the sidewalks. He had given her one hint, ‘internet café’, and the name of the boulevard. When she had asked how she would recognize him, he had only said You’ll know me, just like I’ll know you. She passed one café, and could see everyone inside through tall, glass windows. He wasn’t there. She kept walking and reached a second one, up a circular stairway hanging on the side of another building. She started to walk up, and then remembered he hadn’t mentioned anything about any stairs, so she kept walking. He wasn’t at the third one, or fourth, or fifth.

As dusk set in, she grew weary and started to wonder if it had all been just a cruel joke. It wouldn’t have been the first time she was fooled by words, as she believed people were basically good and would have no reasons to not tell the truth. She had hoped that her beliefs were more accurate this time. Besides, her guts told her that this man was honest, genuine, and truly interested in her as a person, without even knowing what she looked like. Their chat-room conversations, and the topics he was interested in, the way he used language, the jokes he made, all of it had touched her in a way she had yearned for her entire life. She had been attracted to the way he flirted with her, even before they knew each other’s gender.

They had been talking online for almost five months when she had mentioned she had an old friend in the same town where he lived and that she could visit. They both laughed when they realized they really didn’t know if the other was male or female; they had agreed from the beginning to not exchange pictures, as each was initially looking for a friend more than anything else. They both laughed even harder when they realized it didn’t matter. They were attracted to each other as human beings, and that’s all there was to it. Their gender didn’t make a difference. She had never met anyone similar to him, and that was more enthralling to her than anything else.

She sat down on a bench on the sidewalk, in the shade, to rest for a minute and decide what to do. She could keep going, the vast avenue was nowhere near its end, and there must have been more places she could check. At the same time, her doubts surfaced and she felt moisture in her tear ducts. She was determined not to cry right there, on the street. She would keep it all in, as she had done many times before when she was disappointed in people, and she would weep with her face buried in her pillow, late at night. She finally decided to try one more place, before completely giving up.

She found the next internet café a few blocks down. There was yet another espresso bar on the sidewalk, where people took coffees and lemonades while reading the paper, or chatting up old friends. The tables were all occupied and she had to walk around some of them to reach the door leading inside. She walked into a small hallway that lead upstairs. As she was walking up, she saw the tinted windows of the place and realized she would really have to walk in to see who was there. She paused for a second and caught her breath. Her heart was beating just a little bit faster for a reason she couldn’t figure out. She felt an energy pushing her from behind, as if she wasn’t in control of her own motor coordination anymore. She took a deep breath, ran her fingers through her pony tail, by now almost disheveled from the wind and humidity outside, and then she opened the door.

It took a second or two for her pupils to adjust to the dim, smoke-filled atmosphere inside. When she started perceiving human shapes again, it was apparent most patrons had stopped what they were doing to turn around and look at her. She obviously didn’t belong there. Video-gamers, still awake after an all-nighter online, sucking on cigarettes and drinking cokes, paused their games and snickered at each other. She felt like she had walked into a nightmare populated with pale faces, goth hair-dos, and wanna-be vampires.

She felt her cheeks burning as she looked around and tried to make out faces, and then her eyes stopped on him. He was skinnier than she had imagined, about her same height, with dark hair, exquisite green eyes, and enticing lips. The connection was undeniable when their eyes met. He did not hesitate. He walked over to her and hugged her with a huge smile on his face. You made it, he whispered in her ear as people around watched. How did he know? Her heart wasn’t listening to her anymore, and was beating insanely fast, irregular, as if she was hyperventilating. Her whole body was shaking and her knees seemed unable to support her weight anymore. She couldn’t find words, so she just held him close, as if she wanted to crawl under his skin and become one with him. She felt safe and loved, and she had no idea where it was coming from. How many times had she dreamed about this moment, and now she couldn’t even bring herself to look him in the eyes. She thought that would cause him to see her real self, and hate it. She didn’t want to let go when he loosened his embrace, just enough for their eyes to meet again. They both smiled and they knew, they knew this was meant to be. It was as if they could communicate without speech, as if a magic thread had connected them since birth and had just now been reeled in, bringing them together.

They spent that night together on the floor of the internet café, after he had chased all the customers away. They drank vodka, and watched movies. They made out and she played with his tongue ring until she finally bit him and could taste his blood. They listened to his favorite band, and she cried at lyrics that made her wonder how she had lived without knowing about this band until then. When the sun came up, they went out to walk around the quiet, still sleeping city. They passed an art gallery, and he showed her stained-glass pieces he loved. They had coffee at one of his friends’ place, and then they walked again, hand in hand, whispering silly things to each other, while the serious ones were still kept inside. She prayed that the day would never end, and she dreaded the thought that she would have to leave him soon.

They parted with the promise that he would come see her off at the station. After she found her seat and placed her bag in the overhead compartment, they spent a few minutes on the platform before the train started moving. When the train’s departure was announced, he climbed the few steps of the wagon with her, and before they parted forever, he gave her his ring. He promised himself to her with his eyes and with his words, and she would keep the ring to remind her of that every day of her life. She cried when she realized that her heart was breaking. She cried knowing that she would probably never see him again. She cried even more when she finally understood that, with absolutely no control over it, she had to let the love of her life go.

The body had been washed and clothed in his best suit, and placed upon a wooden table in the first room of the house. Death had cursed the household, it seemed, as Adrasteia’s grandfather was the third member of the family to be found dead in his bed in the past year. She had a thorough knowledge of the funeral rites by now. She knew his hair and beard would be combed by the grieving widow, she knew she would have to bring the candles out again so that they would light the way for the soul reaching to heaven. She knew she would knead the dough for the knot-shaped bread to be placed on her grandfather’s chest, as he laid there, dead and rotting. I should have stopped, she scolded herself in silence. Oh, I do hope they blame the count. I should have known better. Three is too many, I’ve been too greedy, they’ll know, they’ll know!

But they didn’t know. And they did blame the count. Without any proof, they had no choice but to go about the preparations quietly and subdued, while praying for forgiveness of their sins. They put the food and drinks out for visitors, and they all reminisced together. They wailed when it was time to put him in the ground. They named the people who would check for snake holes around the grave three days after the burial. Then they went home, and resumed their lives, exhausted, drained of energy, and still praying that the dead would not turn. No one said one word to the 13-year-old girl with eyes dark as the darkest night and skin so white it seemed to always glow.

Three days passed quicker than Adrasteia thought. She had almost forgotten about the snake holes when an uncle came by for a visit on his way to the grave. She heard the family talk, and while they ate together around the same table in the first room of the house, she sneaked out through the back door and flew across the field, to make holes in the ground and to move the body, so that they would all think the dead walked again.

She did not say a word when her uncle came back from the cemetery, pale looking and gasping for air from having run so fast to ring the church bells and let the family know. There were holes in the ground. There were holes in the ground, and things needed to be done. The elders gathered within the hour, and before the church bells rang again, a small group of terrified men headed for the field of the dead, armed with wooden stakes and holy water.

Fools, they’re all fools, Adrasteia mused as she followed them, unseen. From the shadows she watched them dig up the grave, and she watched the horror on their faces when they saw it hollow. She heard the warning shrills and bellows, and she hoped again they would blame the count who lived atop the hill, right behind the cemetery. Why else would you live in a place like that? Why else would you never be seen in daylight? And why only use copper coins when silver was more precious? They shouted questions at each other, and some wanted to make the count pay.

On their way they went, and Adrasteia followed again. She was curious about the house herself. She wanted to know who lived there. She needed new blood too, and her family was getting smaller by the month. As men walked through the gates, a small, winged creature entered the house through a window and started a tour of her own.

She flew from room to room, until she heard commotion somewhere off a narrow hallway. She listened at the door and soon discerned sounds of going to bed. Blankets were ruffled, a chamber pot sliding out of sight, finally a body falling heavy upon dove feather pillows. She waited patiently until the smallest sounds went away, and then she waited some more. She would take her time, there was no hurry. The household was occupied with other matters, those of a small group of terrified men demanding to know who was killing their loved ones.

She finally entered the room when she was sure she could. Upon the canopy bed, a boy about her age, with curly hair and barely any hair on his face, had settled into peaceful slumber. She looked at his face and found herself drawn to it in a way she had never known before. She leaned over him, and then she hovered for a while just high enough above where her hair wouldn’t touch and disturb him. She couldn’t make up her mind at all. She found herself torn again with painful desire to have someone as herself to share her bed and meals. She yearned for someone’s touch in the night, and who better than this young boy, so unaware, so easy to mold?

She traced the slight smile on his face, and he started but stayed asleep. She took her time removing his undergarment and followed the throat veins to his heart until she reached the place right above it, where she could find the freshest blood. The skin broke under the pressure of her teeth. The taste of iron, the taste of his life sliding into her system was exhilarating. It was a difficult sensation to give up, when she didn’t have that much of it in the first place, but she stopped at the edge between life and death. She licked her lips and swallowed the lost drop before she passed her fingers over the corners of the mouth, as if to make sure she hadn’t missed any of it.

The boy opened his eyes in wonder. She watched him turn and remembered all the things that would have to be explained again. His eyes became a clearer tone of green, and his skin began to glimmer in the shadow of the canopy, while his muscles tensed and were instantly more defined. She could feel them through the silk, just as she could feel the hunger in him.

Don’t worry, my love, we’ll feed soon, she whispered, and then sealed it all with her lips, still tasting of iron.

When I opened my eyes for the first time, I didn’t know where I was. It was cold all around me, and white everywhere. I closed them, wondering if I was dreaming, wondering what had happened to me. No answers came. I didn’t even know my own name. The last thing I could remember was myself, crying, driving on a deserted highway. I couldn’t remember what I was thinking at the time. But I could still feel the pain and the betrayal. And I knew that laying there was not doing me any good.

I forced myself to open my eyes again, to try to get up. My limbs felt numb for a few minutes, but then I was able to stand up. I looked around and didn’t recognize anything. The ceiling was very high, there were no windows or a lamp anywhere, but still there was light. I was sitting on what appeared to be a gurney. As soon as I felt physically able to stand up, I did so and started walking around the room, staggering, as if bumping into invisible objects.

I was wondering where the door was when I noticed a mirror in one of the corners. I could swear it wasn’t there before, but now that I was looking at it, I couldn’t be so sure anymore. I walked to it, afraid of what I was going to see. The image in the mirror couldn’t be me. I was wrapped in a white sheet with red stains all over it, my skin was unnaturally white, I noticed an open wound across my scalp, and my hair looked like I hadn’t combed it in a month. I was a total disaster, and I knew that something terrible must have happened for me to look like that. Besides, the ugly wound on my head had no logical explanation that I could think of.

I felt my knees getting weak so I let myself fall down on the tile floor and I started crying. Not knowing who I was, where I was, but most of all, what had happened to me, was starting to frighten me more than my own image. I had to find a way to get some answers. I imagined I felt just like the people I had always been trying to help, all alone, confused, hopeless.

I turned around, looking for a door again, thinking that maybe one would appear, just like the mirror. No door anywhere. Instead, in the opposite corner of the room, on a beautiful red leather armchair, there was this…lady. She looked somehow familiar, but I couldn’t place her. I started walking towards her, I tried opening my mouth to ask her who she was, who I was, but I realized no sounds were coming out. I could feel my lips moving, but no sounds, just like in a nightmare when you try to scream, but you can’t hear your own voice.

She was wearing a white dress, her hair looked soft, perfect make-up, an ironic smile on her face. She was smiling bigger and bigger, with each step I took. I finally stopped in front of her and, when I could look closely at her face, I realized she was…me.

Again I opened my mouth to speak and again, no sounds. I was starting to think I was insane, when she spoke: “Sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

I sat down on the floor in front of her, feeling big, cold tears rolling down my face.

“I suppose you don’t know where you are, who you are, or what happened to you,” she said in a chilling voice.

I shook my head, wondering how come I couldn’t speak, and she could.

“You’re dead. You died about 30 minutes ago. The doctors tried their best, but the accident was pretty bad. Horrible, in fact. No one could have survived something like that.”

I was looking at her, wondering why she was so cruel. I didn’t care anymore about who I was, I just wanted to know why she was doing that. Was this a sick joke?

“What nobody knows is that it wasn’t an accident. You crashed your car in the first big tree you could find. Of course, no one could blame you. I understand there was no way for you to go on living after what you did….” She looked at her watch and then added: “I think you can speak now, if you want to. It takes a while for your voice to come back after you get over the shock of being suddenly dead.”

“I’m not dead. I can’t be dead,” were my first words.

“Yes, you are, darling. You’re very dead. You can take my word for it or just check your pulse. You won’t feel anything, because there’s nothing there.”

I tried to find a pulse, like I had seen people do in the movies, but I couldn’t. I started crying again and this time there were no tears rolling down on my face. At the same time, no matter how sadistic this whole thing seemed, I realized it wouldn’t do any good trying to bitch about it.

“Why do you say I killed myself? How do you know that?”

“Because I was there, with you, darling, that’s why. I watched you die. It’s beautiful. I’ll take you to see someone die one day.“

“Ok, let’s say I did kill myself. Why did I do it? I’m not the kind of person to do something like that. I would never…”

“You’re also not the kind of person who cheats on people, but you did, and it wasn’t the first time. It almost seems that you don’t have that little voice inside that usually says ‘Don’t do it, how are you going to live with the guilt? Don’t do it, no one deserves that, especially someone who didn’t do anything to you,’ she interrupted me and the more she spoke, the more I realized how much she relished hurting me. “Or if you do have that voice inside, you never listened to it.”

“You’re lying. Why are you lying to me? Who are you, anyway? What do you want from me?” I thought that if I lashed out at her, I would scare her enough to tell me it was all a joke. But she didn’t look impressed. On the contrary, the ironic smile on her face was even scarier than before.

“Too many questions, darling. But I’m not lying. Why would I lie to you? I died with you. Which is too bad, cause I was rather enjoying myself. I would have never believed you would be able to sleep around like you did, but it was fun. And she was not bad…not bad at all.”

“Stop it! Stop it!” I started screaming. It couldn’t be true. I couldn’t have done something like that. I was walking and thinking in circles, trying to convince myself it was all a bad dream. Split seconds of memories were going through my mind. I stopped in front of the mirror, looking at myself in wonder. Suddenly, images started to appear. It looked like I was watching a movie, and I was the star.

I saw her the first time we had ever talked, when she had invited me to dinner. I had told her why I couldn’t go, even though I had hesitated for a few seconds. She was disappointed, she had said her timing was always really bad, and then she had promised to be my friend, the only true friend I would ever have. In time, I had realized it was harder and harder to look at her and not wonder what it would be like to feel her hands on my body, what it would be like to have her arms all around me. And then I heard myself finally confessing that I was attracted to her, that all I could think about was being with her even for a little while. Seated in a chair in her office, I imagined how it would all start, by mistake, like when she had hugged me after not seeing me for a long time. She had held me in her arms a little more than it was necessary, and then she had kissed the corner of my mouth, not even realizing what she was doing to me. I saw the scene when we had finally talked about it and agreed it would be the biggest mistake of our lives, even if it was getting harder and harder to meet and not touch each other. I remembered all the sleepless nights, when I was afraid to close my eyes because she would appear in my dreams; when I lay in bed next to the man I had promised myself to for the rest of my life and who didn’t deserve to be betrayed like that; when I was ashamed of myself, of my desires and my thoughts; when I wished she would go away and never come back, because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to continue to say ‘no’.

Next, I saw myself arriving at the house. College students were already drinking and dancing, two girls were kissing on the front porch. I looked at them and smiled, they smiled back and kept on kissing. I went inside, into the chaos of loud music and voices. There were a lot of people I didn’t know, a few familiar faces, someone handed me a beer, and as I was talking to someone else, I saw her. She was with a girl I knew, a girl who was supposed to be my friend, a girl who had told me they were sleeping together, a girl I hated even though I had no right to. They were both laughing, they looked so comfortable together, so intimate. I watched her raise her hand to gently touch a lock of hair on the girl’s forehead. I closed my eyes for a minute, imagining her hand on my face. When I opened them, they were almost kissing. And then she saw me. I turned around. I knew immediately it had been a bad idea. I was making my way to the door when I felt someone grabbing my hand. Without saying a word, she took me into a room upstairs. She closed the door and just held me in her arms for a while. My heart was beating like crazy, I could barely breathe. I took a step back and somehow found the strength to say:

“I thought we had agreed not to let anything happen. We can’t do this. I can’t….”

She reached out her hand and touched my face. “I know. I know,” and then she just kissed me. Her lips were soft and warm, and all of a sudden I felt like there was nothing around us anymore. The room was gone, the whole house was gone, all the people around us were gone. It was just the two of us, in a mixture of pleasure and guilt, of lust and despair…

I was looking at the two characters in the mirror. I watched them slowly taking their clothes off, kissing and touching each other, I watched the tears on their lips, and I heard the sounds they were making discovering each other. As I was watching myself going down on her, I felt that desire deep inside of me again, just as I had felt it that night, just as I had felt it every time I saw her. At the same time, I couldn’t believe I had let someone else take over me like that, I couldn’t believe I had let her go inside me, wiping away the last traces of strength I had. As I was standing there, I was beginning to remember the way she tasted, and the way her skin felt against mine. I was feeling her hands all over my body, her fingers looking for that spot she knew so well. It was all coming back so fast, so overwhelming that I fell to the floor, not daring to look back up.

“Keep looking, darling. It ain’t over yet,” my other self said.

When I looked up, I saw myself on that bed again. I was alone. The sun seemed to be almost up, and there were no sounds anymore. I looked around the room, waiting for her to appear. She didn’t. There was a note on the pillow next to me. “It’s been a lovely night. I was wondering how long it would take me to have you. You see, I love challenging myself, and you were a tough one. I hope you don’t regret it, because I sure don’t.”
And then I understood why I had crashed my car. I had been stupid enough to believe her, to give up everything for a few hours of…nothing. I knew that no good deed of mine could make up for that… I knew no truth would make up for the lie, I knew my word couldn’t be trusted anymore. And I knew that I couldn’t have kept the secret either, that somehow I would have confessed and then it would have been all over anyway. What was done was done, and the only way to avoid more pain was to die. That, and the guilt, had left me no other choice. I had to punish myself and spare everyone else.

I started laughing hysterically, while I was remembering more and more details. I knew it was all so true, just as I knew it was too late to take it back or to even feel sorry. I was glad I had not lived long enough for anyone to find out about it. Because sooner or later someone was bound to discover the part of me I didn’t want known. So, in a way, it was better. I began to realize the guilt, the love, the desires were all fading away, flowing out of my body, out of my mind. I did not feel them anymore, I did not feel anything anymore. And I liked it.

At his mother’s request, Christian Cass was on his way to visit his friend, Caley, in the hospital. It wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do, but that is exactly why his mother had promised him his favorite dinner dishes if he agreed to it. Her reasoning – that it was impolite not to visit Caley – didn’t make much sense to Christian, who sometimes experienced a mild case of blood phobia when he was anywhere around doctors. Also, it was a well-known fact in their high society circle that Christian and Caley, having been friends for so many years, had always forgiven each other such minor discourtesies. Nevertheless, Christian had agreed to go because he did care about his friend, and also because he wanted to make Mrs. Cass happy. The promise of his favorite food for dinner had played a big role in his decision, too.

He pulled up his Porsche in one of the vacant spots in the huge parking lot in front of the hospital, grabbed the wooden that had been casually thrown in the passenger seat by his steward, activated the car’s alarm, and started walking toward the visitors’ entrance. He wondered if Caley would be caught smoking the Cuban cigars that had been carefully placed in the box he carried so openly in one hand. And if he was caught, then what? He laughed to himself. They were not the people to worry about the consequences of their actions.

He got to the elevators and waited patiently, while people gathered around him, getting so close that he could hear their uninteresting and annoying conversations. When an elevator finally arrived, Christian allowed everyone else to get on first, as he always did. He loathed being boxed in by doctors and nurses carrying cups of hot coffee that could be easily spilled. He actually loathed being so close to people that he could feel their breaths on his neck. The elevator ride could not be over soon enough for him. As the doors were closing, he saw a young woman running toward him. He realized she wanted to get on too, and decided to hold the elevator for her. As soon as she was standing beside him, Christian could smell her perfume, and since it reminded him of one of his old girlfriends, he quickly glanced to his left to take a look.

She was wearing an ugly yellow uniform, but he could still notice the jeans underneath and the slender figure in them. Her short brown hair was barely covering her ears, but was disheveled enough to cover her face. As if feeling his eyes on her, the woman turned around. She looked right into his blue eyes, noticed the little scar on his left eyebrow and the dimple in his chin, and then gave him the biggest smile he had ever seen. He felt compelled to smile back, but just then the elevator doors were opening again and the woman was walking out of it and out of his life.

Christian forgot all about her by the time he got to his friend’s private room. He knocked and went in without waiting for an invitation. Caley, in his blue silk pajamas, was browsing dog magazines while lying comfortably on his bed.

“Anything interesting in there?” Christian asked while putting the wooden box on the TV table.

“Hey, buddy, you finally made it,” Caley smiled at him. “Sorry I can’t get up, my operation still hurts. You know how much I hate pain,” he said while shaking Christian’s hand.

“So how bad was it?”

Even though he didn’t like hospitals, Christian was genuinely interested in his friend’s health. Unlike everyone else in their circle, Caley could actually keep a secret, a little something Christian had always appreciated. The secret – the fact that Christian had accidentally burnt down his mother’s winter lodge – was what had made them become really close after quite a few years of partying together. At the time, Caley had provided an alibi for Christian, and so the matter had remained unresolved. Their friendship had grown and, among other things, accounted for Christian’s genuine interest.

“Oh, it was fine. I’m glad they caught it in time. They’re saying it could have killed me,” he started laughing.

“I really doubt appendicitis could kill a man like you,” Christian said, all the while hoping that he wouldn’t have to see blood anywhere.

Their conversation continued like that for another hour or so, and when Christian got home that night his mother was waiting for him with his favorite dishes on the dinner table.

#

A few weeks later, on a warm spring morning, Mona was walking fast toward the café. She was already 30 minutes late, and she knew the manager wouldn’t let it slide this time. She knew she had to time her activities better, but it was just too hard when she had such a beautiful thing to think about. She walked in, looked around to see how busy the place was, then went behind the counter where Jeanne, her friend and co-worker, was counting money.

“Hey, you’re late again, he’s not very happy about it,” she whispered.

“I know, I know. I’ll make it up, I just had something I really needed to do today, that’s all,” Mona answered, not really worried about her work. “When did he get here?” she asked while putting on the ugly yellow uniform that was an absolute requirement for the job.

“Oh, about fifteen minutes ago. He’s in the back now but he’ll be out any minute, so just keep your mouth shut if he says something,” Jeanne was now pouring a fresh cup of coffee for the guy who had been in there every day for the past two weeks, just to see her.

Mona knew it was a good idea to just apologize. What she didn’t know was if she could do it while holding back her anger over being scolded every time she was a few minutes late. As if he ever was there on time, or ever did anything that could fit his own job description. Eventually, the manager came out from his small room in the back, but he didn’t say anything. Apparently, he was on his way to the bank to file papers for a new loan. In view of that, the fact that Mona had been late again was no biggie. Relieved, she went about her usual tasks.

When she got home that night, she took her place on the roof of the two-story house she had recently rented with the money she had made selling all her father’s sculptures. Although she had promised not to, she hadn’t hesitated for one moment, as it was imperative to be as close to her love as possible. She had everything she needed up there, even a bed for those nights when Christian was coming home late. She wanted to make sure she didn’t miss anything. She imagined that the situation in his house must be very strained – because he was about to give up everything to be with her – so she just felt she needed to be there for him, even if he wasn’t aware of it.

She sat down on the couch, took out a pen and notepad, and started writing him another letter. He hadn’t replied to her previous ones, but she knew his mother was probably reading his mail. She had to keep trying. Until they could be together, that was the only way to communicate with him, to assure him of her undying love and devotion, to offer her support in his future attempt to break away from his domineering mother.

From time to time, she would look up to see if anything was going on. It was almost time for him to come back from his late rehearsal, and she was growing restless. Suddenly, she saw his car pull up in the driveway. She stood up and took the binoculars from the table next to the couch, happy at the thought she was going to see him, even if it was for just one moment. She watched him getting out of the car, taking his things from the back seat, and going in. That was enough to fill her with heavenly joy. A few minutes later, as it started to rain, she wondered what Christian would think when getting her present the next day. She uttered a few curse words, while thinking that even nature was against them. Unwillingly, she went inside, changed her clothes, and went to bed.

#

Mrs. Cass went into her son’s room and pulled back the heavy blue velvet curtains. It was time for him to get up, and get ready for the meeting with the lawyer. They were going to donate money for the building of a new library in town, and Christian needed to be there.

“Rise and shine, pumpkin,” she almost yelled, while Christian was already opening his eyes, obviously bothered by the light flooding his otherwise very dark room.

“Mom, how many times have I told you not to call me that? I’m not a kid anymore…” Obviously frustrated, he was wondering when his mother was going to realize he was a grown-up, a 23-year-old who could very well do without such blatant displays of affection.

“You’ll always be my little baby, and you know that. Besides, I’m your mother and I have the right to call you anything I want. Be glad I’m not doing it in public, like dear Carol does,” Mrs. Cass said as she sat on his bed, marveling again at what a handsome young man she had produced.

“You’re right, I have to admit,” he said, suddenly remembering the embarrassment his friend Caley went through every time his mother called him “my little tuna fish” in front of everyone who had ears to hear. But then again, “pumpkin” was not that flattering, either.

“Ok, mom, you can go now, I’m wide awake. We can have breakfast in 20 minutes,” he said, and after kissing her good-morning, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, as promised, he took his place at the table, opposite his mother, hoping she wouldn’t lecture him again about his choice of career. All he wanted was to be a great musician, to play on the greatest stages in Europe, where he believed people still appreciated classical music. Ever since Mrs. Cass had found out about his decision, she had tried everything possible to make him give up; bribery, threats, nothing had worked with her stubborn son. However, he knew Mrs. Cass wouldn’t give up and so he had to be prepared for an argument all the time.

They started eating, and he was enjoying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice when the butler came in, carrying what seemed to be a very big frame. Mother and son looked at each other, wondering what that was about.

“Well, John, are you going to tell us what this is?” Mrs. Cass asked, obviously as frustrated as she ever was when a meal was intruded upon.

“I don’t know what it is, ma’am. It was by the door this morning. I think there’s a card,” John said, and left after having received the usual cue from his employer.

Christian stood up, took the present and started tearing the common brown wrapping paper into small pieces. When he was done, he looked shocked. From the big frame, his own face was staring back at him. It looked like one of those photos private detectives take when they are on a case and have to catch someone doing something they’re not supposed to. In black and white, his head turned a little to the right, it was obvious he didn’t know he was being photographed. The picture had been taken the day before, when he was leaving the Conservatory after a morning class. He turned the frame for his mother to see, and she was as shocked as him.

“What do you think is the meaning of this?” he asked her.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I’m calling the police.”

“Mom, don’t do that. It’s just a …big photo of me. And there’s a card. Let me see what it says first, ok?”

He opened the card and read out loud: My life started when we fell in love. They can’t do anything to keep us apart. Our love will conquer all. Until then, you’re always on my mind, always in my dreams, always…Love, M.

They were both stunned. The mother because she immediately suspected her son had a girlfriend she wasn’t supposed to know about; the son because he had no idea where that was coming from or who had sent it.

“Is there something I should know about?” she said inquisitively, looking at him as if trying to read his mind.

“No, mom, I have no idea what this is supposed to mean. My friend Michael is the only one I know with the initial M. I doubt he’s in love with me. I really don’t know anything about this,” he answered immediately, and she knew he was telling the truth. She had always been able to tell.

Satisfied that it was a complete mystery, they finished breakfast in silence for once, and left the comfort of their house for another one of those days when they had to decide how many millions went where.

#

Mona’s day had started very well. She had woken up at five in the morning, to make sure she saw when John found her present by the front door. She watched him coming outside, picking up the big frame, looking around as if he expected to see a trace of whoever had left it there, and then going back inside.

For the first time in a month she got to work in time. Still, Jeanne had been the first to arrive this time, too. They smiled at each other while preparing the cappuccino machines for that day.

“So, how’s it going with Christian?” Jeanne suddenly asked, really curious, and very happy that her friend was finally experiencing love. Something she was experiencing herself every week, but still, something beautiful.

“It’s going great. It’s the first time I’ve been happy since my dad died last year,” Mona admitted in a sad voice, but still smiling. “You know, I don’t think his mother likes me, though,” she said, becoming even sadder.

“Why do you say that?” Jeanne inquired. From her point of view, Mona was the kind of girlfriend any man would have been proud to bring home to his mother. She couldn’t believe that someone didn’t like her.

“Well, I think…actually, I’m pretty sure she’s reading his mail, and…I think she doesn’t give him my letters when she can get away with it.”

“How do you know? What makes you think that?” Jeanne could not believe her ears.

“He didn’t answer any of my letters so far. What other explanation could there be? “

“Well, when did you last see him?” Jeanne asked.

“Oh,last night. I would have brought it up, but I was too happy to see him.”

Jeanne thought to herself that it certainly made sense, and still she couldn’t imagine someone not liking her friend. She was very pretty, in an odd sort of way, and she could have used a hair stylist once in a while. But she was sweet, and giving, and wouldn’t have hurt a fly if her life depended on it. Every time she thought she had this puzzle solved, she realized it never was. Weren’t mothers supposed to just be grateful for their sons’ happiness? What more did this mother want? She decided to focus on her job and forget all about men and their mothers for a while.

The morning passed faster than usual, probably because of how many clients they had. When they sat down to have lunch, they were both already tired, and wondering how they were going to last through the after-noon.

“So, tell me again how you two met,” Jeanne said while flooding her salad with Italian white sauce.

“Oh, come on, Jeanne…I’ve told you the story a hundred times,” Mona replied, fully aware that she would tell the story again.

“Just this time, and I promise to leave you alone…for the rest of the day,” Jeanne laughed, showing her beautiful white teeth.

“Well, you know I volunteer at the hospital every Monday afternoon. It was on one of those days…as usual, I was running to catch the elevator, and this unbelievably handsome young man held it for me. As soon as I got in, he started staring at me. I didn’t know why, but I could feel his eyes all over me. I turned around and…there he was, the man of my dreams. I was gonna tell him not to look at me like that, but I changed my mind. He was so…I can’t even explain it, Jeanne…you know, I just felt he was meant to be there just so we could meet. Anyway, by the time I got to my floor, he was smiling so big… I knew he wanted to say something, but I had to get off. When I left, he was waiting for me downstairs, and he gave me a ride home. We talked and we talked, and I knew we were in love. Simple as that…”

#

A week later, after a long day at work, Mona couldn’t wait to get home and spend at least an hour in her huge bathtub, surrounded by millions of sparkling bubbles. She was wondering when she would see Christian again. She was going to get up on the roof, but still, it wasn’t the same thing.

As she passed by his house, she couldn’t help looking through the bars of the heavy iron gate, expecting to see, as always, the seven stone steps leading to the main entrance. Instead, she saw a car, one that she had never seen before. A two-door convertible BMW was parked in front of the house, obstructing half of her view of the door.

She started to panic. Who could that be? she wondered, while trying hard to think back. Maybe she had seen it before, and she just couldn’t recall. She closed her eyes, thinking about the cars she did know. Christian had a Porsche, Mrs. Cass a Mercedes, the family lawyer drove a Cadillac, and so on. By the time she got inside her house, she remembered the photos the private investigator had taken for her and forgot all about her bath.

She went straight upstairs, to the roof. She took the pictures from the file labeled “C.C.” and frantically started looking for one, just one, of the mysterious car. If she had one photo, it meant there was nothing to worry about, because she had information on everyone who had been at the Cass residence since she had moved in next door.

She didn’t find anything in her file, so she threw it down, grabbed her binoculars and started spying. She had to find out whose car that was, because a very bad feeling was slowly taking over her, and she didn’t like it one bit.

She couldn’t see anything at first. The curtains in the living room were drawn, Christian’s room and the library were both in the dark. She kept looking, and suddenly she thought she saw a light right above the library. She directed the binoculars towards it, while trying to think if she had ever noticed anything up there.

She zoomed in, looked carefully for a moment, and then found herself gasping for air. Christian was there and he wasn’t alone. He was very busy hugging and kissing a tall blonde girl, with nice long legs, who was responding with a great deal of affection.

Mona was devastated. She started crying and when she couldn’t watch anymore, she fell to the floor. Her whole world was destroyed, her hopes and dreams were shattered, her faith in love had just taken an unbelievable blow. She tried to tell herself that maybe her eyes were lying to her. She got up and looked again. Christian and the girl were now on the sofa, half naked.

She knew what that meant. She went inside, then down the stairs to the ground floor, and opened the door to her bedroom. She had chosen the biggest room in the house, one with blank white walls that were now covered with photographs of Christian. In all sizes, the photos taken by the PI were offering a view that was pure heaven to her. The bed, rather small, was in the middle of the room, surrounded by countless candles, one for every thought of Christian she had.

Crying silently, she sat down on the bed, grabbed a heart-shaped pillow and held it to her chest. Her mind was confused again, it seemed like hundreds of thoughts were trying to surface, but none made any sense. Broken fragments of ideas reminded her of all the nights she had spent on that roof, and of all the letters she had written. She remembered flashes of her therapy sessions at the hospital, every Monday, when her psychiatrist was trying to put her on medication because talk therapy had never been enough to bring her back from the fantasy world she lived in. She remembered endless conversations about the men before Christian, about how none of them even knew her.

This time she couldn’t take it anymore. Nothing anyone said was true. What was true was her love for Christian, a love so deep, so intense, and so real that she believed nothing could destroy it. It didn’t matter that he was up there, in that attic, making love to a beautiful blonde. She knew she could make him be sorry. He was going to be sorry when he found out she had died for him.

Suddenly, she got up from the bed and went to the kitchen. She found one of the notepads scattered all over the house, and wrote a note for Christian: I don’t want to die before telling you how much I love you. I forgive you for everything you did and I will be waiting for you. In eternity, we will be together. Love, M.

She left the note on the table – where it could be easily seen – turned on the gas, lay down on the floor and placed her head inside the oven. It didn’t take long for her to lose consciousness, not even long enough for her to think about Christian one more time.

#

The next morning, while Mrs. Cass was trying to enjoy her breakfast, her good disposition was suddenly disturbed by loud sounds of ambulance sirens and police cars. She stood up from the table and approached the window, while her son was entering the room, accompanied by his new girlfriend.

“Mom, what’s going on?” he asked, while walking over to where his mother was.

“I don’t know. It looks like something happened next door. I didn’t even know someone was living there. I’ll send John to see. I don’t think I’ve ever seen police cars in this neighborhood before.”

She left the room, and came back two minutes later. “Let’s have breakfast, my darlings,” she said, as if nothing had happened.

John went outside and talked at length with anyone who was willing to volunteer any information. When he was satisfied with the answers, he picked up the mail, removed all the blank envelopes – as he had always been instructed to do – and went back to report and deliver the rest of the correspondence.

“John, did you find out what happened next door?” Mrs. Cass asked in a neutral voice, when he came in.

“Yes, it seems a young lady took her own life last night. She just turned on the gas, and…” he didn’t continue.

“Dear God, the house could have exploded,” Mrs. Cass said, obviously more worried about that than about the death of a human being. “Well, I guess some people are just like that,” she added and continued her breakfast, accompanied by her son and a tall blonde girl.

The warm sounds of “The Moonlight Sonata” fill the cold atmosphere of my room. I just stand here, looking through the window at the same lame scenery I have been looking at for 19 years. Leaving this room means leaving the past and everything that has something to do with it. As if to prevent it, the memories of my childhood hold hands and dance around me in circles, urging me to take them back in my mind. But I already forgot them, I have pressured myself to do it and I have succeeded. They don’t impress me anymore. Nostalgia makes me cry but it is time to leave the past behind.

The room is almost empty. The only thing left is a tape recorder that I always carry around with me. I can’t decide to leave yet. Even though I have been waiting for this moment for so long, I find it hard. So many things have happened in this room that it’s impossible to leave it just like that. It has become a part of me; it holds all my secrets, same as the diary hidden under the floor, where my favorite lamp has been. I feel tears coming to my eyes when I think that even the furniture has been given away. Another rebel teenager probably sleeps in my bed now, dreaming my own dreams. If I close my eyes, I can see her laying on white, ordinary sheets still keeping the heavy smell of starch, near some good-looking boyfriend who fell asleep face down, with his head on her thighs, after having offered her a few hours of pleasure.

But what am I saying? I was less than seventeen when all this happened to me for the first time. I still remember how happy I was, so full of life, so… It’s too bad I’m not able to feel like that anymore. Too bad I have to leave this place, even though it would be so hard to say how many happy moments I’ve had here. But maybe I should start with the beginning…

I can’t go beyond the age of five. Through some kind of strange phenomenon, it seems that my life began with that fifth birthday. The house was full of a bunch of annoying and noisy kids who put my mother through hell, even though I was too young to understand that back then. Yes, my father was there too, but he was too busy playing clown. I can’t say he was very good at it, but it looked like some of my little friends found him funny enough to watch him for hours. He had rented a silly suit and a horse and, on the back lawn, he tried his best to make the show worthy of me.

The home movie my mother made then and the photos in the family albums help me remember the entire day. Even though the cake was usually brought out after lunch, my parents had decided to surprise me. They managed to postpone the moment until nightfall. They had decorated the trees in the garden with the Christmas decorations we kept in a box. When night came, they plugged them in and suddenly the garden became a fairy-tale place. Everything was covered in light. The kids were fascinated. They had never seen something as beautiful. They were all quiet and they weren’t even asked to be. My parents brought out the cake, a huge chocolate heart with a hundred candles on top of it. Five of them, indicating my age, were higher. I remember being so happy! While I blew out the candles, I wished that nothing would ever change. Ever. I wished I were forever five, with my mom and dad who loved each other so much. With my five-year-old mind I couldn’t conceive something else. It was obvious that my tale would last forever. I was a little princess whose every wish was fulfilled by the Good Fairy. I guess my Good Fairy probably didn’t hear me that day, because things soon started to change.

After a year or two, I was definitely able to say that the atmosphere in the house wasn’t the same. I wasn’t always sure of it. Sometimes I even talked to my dolls, telling them I had had a bad dream. The fact that my father had stopped coming to pick me up from school was a real tragedy to me. I couldn’t understand what my mother kept trying to explain to me, that my father had to work a lot, but that he did it for his little princess, so that I would have everything I wanted. Even if I wasn’t convinced of that, I started believing it. The beauty of my childhood faded away a little by little, but somehow I always found other things to occupy my mind with.

Then I started seeing my mother crying and trying to hide it. I wanted to pretend I didn’t notice anything, but my childish curiosity couldn’t be detained. I had to find out the reason behind my mom’s tears. I would climb up on her knees when I saw her like that: “Mommy, why are you crying? Mommy, don’t cry…” I would beg. She would hold me tight in her arms and start crying even heavier than before. I couldn’t see her face when I sat like that on her knees, my head resting on her shoulder, but I felt her warm tears on the back of my neck. I would always get cold chills when I felt that, but I wouldn’t leave her until she asked me to. I knew that my hugs made her happy and so I used to hug her all the time, with no reason at all. When she was not upset, she would kiss me on my forehead and ask in a low voice: “What do you want now?” as if I did that only to get something in return. We both knew that wasn’t true.

I was eight when I heard my mother screaming for the first time. I thought it was just the TV at first, but I listened carefully and I realized that it was coming from their bedroom. I went quickly up the stairs and I opened the door. I could barely see anything for the next twenty seconds because of the tears. But what I had glanced at was enough. I hid in my room, in the darkest corner of my closet, holding Mr. Teddy tight to my chest, and I started properly crying. I couldn’t chase away the image of my mother lying in a pool of blood on the immaculate white of the bed, while my father hit her with one of those huge bats he was sometimes playing around with.

My innocent and limited imagination conceived no explanation for the horrible thing I had just seen. I refused the reality of the scene because my charmed inner world allowed me to. I prayed that I would wake up and enjoy a beautiful spring morning. Of course, that didn’t happen. Two hours later I dared get out of the closet and when I went to the window, I saw the ambulance in front of the house. I had seen one on TV so many times, but I couldn’t react at first. When I saw they were taking my mother away, I started down the stairs as fast as possible, because I wanted to go with her. It was too late, though. The ambulance had just left – I could still see it – and my father sat on the porch.

He probably heard me coming, because he turned around immediately. He came to me and reached his arms out, as he used to do when he wanted me to hug him. I refused because his face looked strange to me. I was afraid of him. I held my teddy bear tight in my weak arms and I told him I wanted to see my mother. Maybe I was expecting him to pick me up and say I could see her that very moment. He came towards me staggering and hit me. I fell on the living room floor and then noticed the blood that came out of my nose. I watched him going up the stairs, barely being able to stand. I got Mr. Teddy back from the corner where he had landed in a position that, under different circumstances, would have seemed hilarious to me. I went outside, trying to avoid the heavy smell of alcohol my father had left behind.

At that moment – the first from the many I would be the witness of in the next five years – I knew I would hate him for the rest of my life. Maybe if he tried to make it better, or change in any way, I could have found a way not to. But I was only a child whose perfect world had crumbled down and who couldn’t do anything about it.

The violent scenes in my home multiplied. I kept hearing the fights; I gradually began to understand the accusations they made to each other and eventually the hits, but I still couldn’t understand why that was happening. I couldn’t help asking myself every day: “Why don’t mommy and daddy love each other anymore?” That much was obvious, even to me. I tried to ask my mother, but every time I got the same annoying answer: “You’re too young to understand. But you don’t need to think about this. I promise it’ll be ok.”

I couldn’t wait to grow up, to understand the meaning of the disaster around me. Meanwhile, I learned to stay out of his way, when noticing he could not keep his balance very well. I didn’t always manage that, so I often had to make up all kinds of lies for the people who asked what had happened to me. I felt so bad that I couldn’t wear short skirts anymore, like all the other girls in school. I always wore long pants and big t-shirts, trying to hide the bruises that didn’t have time to heal before I had new ones.

One summer, when I was thirteen, he kept me locked in the basement for two weeks. I had started standing up to him and he didn’t like it that I tried to draw his attention so that he wouldn’t hit mom anymore. Taking advantage of the fact that my mother was at work, he locked me down there in the dark, without food or water. He did it because he was evil, because he hated me. He knew I had always been afraid of the dark. I still am. I still can’t fall asleep without a dim light on.

Still, I was lucky. He had forgotten that my mother kept winter supplies in there. I opened cans of carrots and green beans and ate. I still needed light, though. I couldn’t sleep in the dark. I paced back and forth, always finding small corners I hadn’t checked before. I couldn’t think about anything beautiful, as they had told us in school to do when we were afraid. The idea that the deep darkness would give birth to a horrible monster consumed me. He got me out of there eventually. He probably wouldn’t have done it if my mother hadn’t had the courage to remind him in one of the few peaceful moments he had. When he saw me still alive, he beat me up so bad that I had to be taken to the hospital.

A few months later, towards the end of November, something strange enough happened. The weather was bleak, it had started to rain since early morning and it hadn’t stopped by two o’clock, when my mother came to my room and said:

“Princess, will you get dressed really nice in a few minutes? We’re going to the park.”

She closed the door and let me get dressed. While I looked at my closet, not knowing what mom had really meant by “nice,” I thought about him. I had heard him leaving the house and he wasn’t back yet. And after all, that was no weather for a walk in the park. But I didn’t dare ask my mom anything, maybe because of the indefinite feeling that something important was going to happen.

I had noticed my mother wasn’t crying that much anymore, she had stopped begging for forgiveness, she had stopped telling him how much she loved him. All this was confusing to me, but what could I do? There were moments when I desperately wanted to be a boy. I could have prevented him from hurting my mother. But I was just a thirteen-year-old girl who was learning to survive.

I eventually chose the blue over-rolls that my mother had secretly given to me as a birthday present, and that I had never worn before. She smiled when she saw me, but only later did I realize that she wasn’t really smiling because of me. She drove to the park without saying a word. I wanted to ask her something, but it seemed that my words were stuck in my throat. She heard my thoughts, or so I thought at the time, because she told me, while trying to reach for my forehead with her soft comforting hand: “Wouldn’t you like to have a brother?” “Mommy is going to have a baby?” I thought, already imagining the little one who would cry and scream, waking everybody up in the middle of the night. I didn’t have time to answer anything, because mom stopped the car and told me to get out. We passed the big gate and walked towards the playground. The rain kept falling from the sky, like tears of a god watching over me.

I was still wondering what we were doing there when I noticed the two figures. I knew all of a sudden that they were waiting for us, but I didn’t recognize them. I had never seen them before. My mother hugged them both. The tall man whispered something in her ear, making her smile, and the little boy – who was probably my age – kissed her on the cheek and told her he had missed her. Then my mother introduced me. I didn’t care much about the man’s name, as I didn’t understand what he had to do with us.

But Eric seduced me from the first moment with his blue eyes. We went to sit on a bench under a tree. It didn’t help much, but at least there was the feeling of being somehow protected. We stayed there for almost an hour, carrying on the silliest conversation I had ever had. I liked Eric. I found out that we attended the same school and the same music club, without ever noticing each other. My mother’s conversation with that man was of no interest to me, so I didn’t pay much attention to her words: “Ok, you convinced me. I’ll file a complaint the first chance I get. There must be a way…”

The chance she was talking about appeared later that same day. He was home when we got there. He was obviously angry when he was asking mom where we had been, and when he realized she was lying, he started the usual routine, hitting her. He stopped after a few minutes to take another sip from the bottle he held. Seizing the moment, mom dragged me behind her, at the same time getting the phone, too. We locked ourselves in one of the closets in the hallway and, while my father was hitting the doors with a golf club, she dialed 911. I was so confused I didn’t hear much. I saw her put the phone down and then she held me, covering my ears with her hands to prevent me from hearing the mean words he yelled at us. It took us about ten minutes to hear the sirens and then mom whispered that policemen will help us be safe.

I heard them enter the house and fight my father. We both came out of the closet and after she told me to go upstairs, she sat in the kitchen with a policeman. From the top of the stairs I heard him saying: “That’s more than enough to file a complaint against him. There’s nothing to worry about anymore.” My mother thanked him and promised that she would go to the police station the next day. After that, the policeman left. I never saw my father again. A few months later, the man in the park and little Eric moved in. When they got married, I still didn’t understand how that was possible in so little time. Eric explained to me that he would be my brother and his father would be my father.

I loved Eric’s father on the spot. I liked it that he treated us both the same. On Eric’s birthday, he would bring me a present, too. On my birthday, he would get one for Eric. He took us to that park and did everything we wanted. He took us to school and picked us up, even if we had different schedules. He bought a cottage in the mountains for us to spend the winter breaks there. He never did anything to us if we did something wrong, except explain why he thought it was wrong. We never made the same mistake again.

Most of all, I liked the fact that I never saw my mother cry again. Maybe just when she was too happy. He would bring her flowers or chocolate. He used to cook for us. He made up recipes for us, sometimes he failed, but that amused everyone so much. Eric and I were always together. At school, on trips, at the movies, on holidays, we were always together. And even though we had separate rooms, we used to sleep together in my bed, pretending that it was fluffier than the one in his room.

The happiness lasted for about four years. During all this time, I had never heard one raised voice in our house. There were moments, though, when I briefly remembered the two weeks spent in the basement or one of the accidents my mother had to explain at the hospital. During one of those moments, Eric and I realized our feelings weren’t that innocent anymore.

It was one of the few nights that we didn’t sleep in the same bed. I was dreaming that my father had come back home and was threatening the four of us. I could see Eric hanging from the living room ceiling fan. I woke up and started crying so loud that I woke Eric up. He was near me the next moment. He took me in his arms and started caressing me, kissing my forehead, my cheeks and eventually my lips. It was my first kiss and I couldn’t help asking for more. I realized soon that it wasn’t his first. But that was natural, after all. He was seventeen, he was good-looking and his blue eyes could have seduced any girl. I knew a lot of them myself. He told me he was in love with me. I told him the same thing but that somehow made him stop. He went to his room and came back with a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and, standing by the window, he started explaining me that his feelings now were very different than those he had for me where we were kids.

He really was in love with me but had never found the moment to tell me. He had been with so many girls hoping that would somehow help him forget or discover he was wrong.

“When I kissed you just now, I knew you felt the same way. Maybe you’ll refuse to believe it, but that won’t last long.”

I was confused. He was right, maybe more than he imagined. I was the one avoiding the reality of the situation.

“What will they say when they find out?” I asked him.

He threw the cigarette out the window and came near me. We lay there, covered with that soft blanket, holding hands.

“I don’t think they should find out,” he replied.

“But we can’t do that. We’re brother and sister,” I showed him my fears.

“We’re not really brother and sister, not by blood,” he said. “We’re not doing anything wrong. I already thought about it.” He seemed so sure of himself, that I stopped questioning what we were doing at that very moment.

A few days later, during the weekend, we spent our real first night together, taking advantage of the fact that our parents had left for the mountains. They wanted to get the cottage ready, to celebrate there their fifth wedding anniversary. It happened fast, as I was rather inexperienced, but that was a one-time thing. That night, after having a cigarette, Eric fell asleep with his head on my thighs. From above, moonlight fell gently on his curly black hair. My mind couldn’t think straight. Any rational thoughts had just vanished. I didn’t look for justifications and I didn’t try to understand how that had happened. My teenage love was enough. There was nothing else.

We lived like that through the last year of high school. My mother seemed to suspect something. She tried to get me to talk almost every morning.

“You seem happier than the usual,” she would say while making tea or coffee.

Eric would come down from his room and we would smile at each other.

“I think you’re in love,” she would go on, but I never confirmed it.

Then she would look at Eric, notice the smile and attack him: “And you know something about it. You definitely know something. But you’re on your sister’s side. You’re not going say anything, are you?”

She would leave us alone, seeing that she couldn’t make us talk, but only until the next morning. We could often hear her behind us, while we were getting in Eric’s car.

“Kids! Why don’t they ever talk to us?”

Eric wasn’t at all concerned with the way we lived. I was the one doing that. I was the one living with the fear of being caught. I had tried to get him to talk to me so many times, but Eric’s way of postponing things had gotten to me too. And nothing would have probably happened if mom hadn’t seen us holding hands while sitting in the swing behind the house. She looked at us funny, but she didn’t say anything. She started watching us carefully from then on. She would go into our bedrooms without knocking, especially when she knew we were together. She would check the parties we went to and show up at school when we least expected it.

Eventually, I was the one to give in. I needed to talk to someone. I had decided to tell mom the truth, but I still needed Eric’s approval.

“No, there is no way she can know about this,” his definite answer was.

“But we must do something. I can’t go on living like this. This is not what I want for us.”

“Do you think I like it? Do you think it amuses me that I can’t just go outside and scream as loud as I can that I’m in love with you? That you belong to me? I’m trying to think about…”

“We won’t be able to be together forever, even if we don’t have the same blood…as far as the law is concerned, we are related…brother and sister. Unless our parents break up…”

I didn’t even realize saying the last sentence. It just slipped. I didn’t think Eric would take it seriously. I didn’t believe him when he told me he had something in mind, something to make them break up. He didn’t want to say more, and I didn’t insist. I hoped he hadn’t been serious. He brought it up again, several days later, at school.

“I’ve got it,” he said, obviously very happy. “We just have to prove mom that dad isn’t the man she thinks he is. It would be enough to make her give him up.”

“I don’t know, Eric, she’s so in love with him.”

“She’ll stop loving him when she finds out he tried to rape her daughter.”

I didn’t realize it at first, but the more he explained it to me, the more it made sense. Of course I tried to make him give it up. I begged him to just go away to some place where they wouldn’t find us. It would have been less painful, but Eric wanted this to go his way or no way.

I hesitated, but the thought of being with him without having anyone asking questions got through to me. My selfish inner self was more important to me than anything else. So I went to his dad’s office. We talked about the car I wanted so much. He agreed to buy me any model I wanted. After our conversation was over, I stepped out and, taking advantage of the fact that the secretary was not there, I tore the sleeves of my blouse and the short skirt I had on. I spoiled my make-up just in time to be seen by the secretary. She was very nice to me and she offered to help. My performance was pretty good, she really believed me.

I was in the same state when I got home. Mom was in the kitchen, baking a complicated nauseous cake for her husband. At first, I pretended nothing happened. But she insisted and so I had to tell her. There was no point in keeping something so important from my own mother, was it? She couldn’t believe it at first, but she figured I had no reason whatsoever to lie to her. A scandal immediately followed. Eric and I hid at the top of the stairs; we locked hands and listened carefully. Everything seemed to be going the right way.

They didn’t talk to each other for a few days. I felt guilty. I kept thinking about how unhappy my mom had been before. Now she would be like that again. Because of me. How could I do something like that to her?

One day I noticed they didn’t fight anymore. I didn’t understand what was happening. I was happy because Eric and I were going to get married. I knew they wouldn’t be able to do anything about that. We were to leave right after the ceremony. We had arranged everything and when Eric went to settle a date with the neighborhood chapel, I called them both to the living room. I asked them to forgive me for all the lies and trouble I had cause between them and I explained to them why I had done it.

Contrary to what I expected, they seemed to take it pretty well. That’s only because they already knew. Mom had found my diary. All I understood was that they had been discussing it and had decided to support us. I couldn’t believe it. If only I had known that before, so many things wouldn’t have happened. We were all happy. I told them about our plans and about the dreams we had while trying to keep everything secret. We were interrupted by the phone-ring. Eric’s dad picked it up. When he came back, I was standing by the window, wondering what took Eric so long. He told me to sit down. I could see he was troubled. He couldn’t hold back his tears when he told us that there had been an accident. Eric’s car had been caught in a pile up. The paramedics weren’t able to take him out in time.

I don’t even know how the next two weeks passed. Everybody was trying to comfort me. “I’m so sorry about your brother. He was a wonderful young man.” But no one could really understand the true nature of my pain. I would sit for hours on end in the swing behind the house, while potential buyers looked around. I couldn’t live where everything constantly reminded me of my love for Eric. It was too hard for the two of them, too.

I will have to find the strength to begin again, to make a new life, new dreams. I just wanted to sit here for a few more moments, to feel what you normally feel when you have to leave a place behind. I know I will never forget Eric, even if I will love someone else, which I very much doubt will happen. Nothing will be the same again. Nothing.

I  was six when my dad left for the first time. I grew up thinking that he did so because of me, because he did not love me. I remember watching him walk away, and I often wondered why he didn’t look back even once. My mom used to tell me how he stayed home for nine months (he used to be a sailor) just to make sure that I would be born. So, I kept asking myself what I had done so wrong that he left me?

What I didn’t know was that he wanted to leave the country illegally, on board of a ship. Unfortunately, he was caught and accused of high treason against the Communist Party. There were two trials and both sentences were the same: twenty-two years in prison. This happened when I was too young to realize the meaning of it.

My mom told me that he would be in the hospital and that we could go see him after a while. I had to find out from a boy at school, a year later, that my dad was in jail ‘because he was a common criminal’. I still remember I went home that day and hid under the table for three hours, refusing to speak. When I finally opened my mouth, it was only to start screaming that everyone had lied to me and that I never wanted to see anyone again.

In 1989 he was released because of the Revolution. There were several appeals after which the sentences were reversed (or something technical like that). He left again in 1990 and divorced my mom from the foreign country he went to. If I was old enough then to understand he had not left because of me the first time, his leaving a second time was an even heavier blow. It was when I realized that maybe he really did not care about me at all. His reason for the divorce was that he would marry a foreign citizen, stay with her until getting the citizenship and then divorce her, so he could bring us over there. It didn’t work that way.

I have seen him maybe ten times since then. My mom did see him recently; she showed him pictures of me and told him that I wrote a novel. Then she e-mailed me to let me know how the meeting went. She said he cried the whole time they talked about me; that she could see in his eyes how sorry he was for not being there for me; that he was glad to know I had turned out better than he had thought and in spite of growing up without him; finally, that he said he hoped to see me at least one more time before he dies.

I realized that I still love my dad. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t, no matter what he did. I can never change the fact that I have his blood and his eyes, and his taste for good whiskey. I will always remember the way he used to put me on his back and pretend to be a horse I could ride; his stories about India and South Africa, after nine-month long voyages; his visits when I was in the hospital with tuberculosis, at 5. Also, I will always remember the only time when I visited him in prison, and he had chains around his legs, waist and hands because he was considered to be dangerous by the Communist regime.

I will always regret that I did not have more time with him, and that now, being so far away, there’s even less chance of seeing him again. I would like so much to hold him and tell him that he still is my dad, no matter what he did, no matter what people say about him, no matter how little time we had together; that I see his face every time I look in the mirror; that I hope to see something of him in my children; that I wish my life would have been different, but if that means having a different dad, I would rather go through the same hardships all over again. There’s nothing more to it. He will always be my dad.