Anne Rosie

[modedamour]

instagram @modedamour

[booksssunny]

— CHAPTER ONE —

When I feel something wet and raspy on my face, I open my eyelids and fall on the dog, all tongue out. His tail beats against my natural wood bedside table and shakes the vase that holds one of the many green plants that adorn my room.

He jumps up and joins me on my blanket while I grab my charcoal plaid. Storm is asking for his morning caresses and I enjoy this moment of tenderness, as I have done every day for years.

This slobbering ball of hair was my family's dog before I took him with me to Paris. It was out of the question for my father to let me go to the other side of the world without him to take care of me.

Two years ago to the day, and thanks to his clumsiness as legendary as mine, I was able to meet Corentin who, after having saved my life, became a friend, a real one. My best friend.

I could have died when my dog made me fall from the second floor, but the friendship I found made me forgive him.

Reluctantly, I desert my warm sheets and slip on my pig-headed slippers that lay on my bedroom carpet and squeak with every step. I head to the bathroom and wash myself under a cold spray to force my body and mind to wake up.

My insomnia gets worse during times of stress, so to keep up, I drug myself with strong coffees and ice cold showers. Today, I'm finally going to leave my horrible job as an assistant, so I'm nervous!

Once I'm clean and dry, I rush to my closet, putting on a white turtleneck sweater and my inevitable high-waisted jeans that make my legs look much longer than they are.

"Abigail?," exclaims Corentin from the other side of the door.

I keep telling him to call me Abby, like everyone else does, but this man is stubborn and won't budge. At least he doesn't call me Miss Davis, which is something.

"I'm here!" I think about the promotion I was promised. Just yesterday I was the assistant to a wedding planner for the company Amour Passionnel, but today I will start at the position I was aiming for since the beginning. After almost two years, I will finally be able to plan weddings by myself. I worked day and night to finally be given a chance. It wasn't easy, but the possibility of being close to my dream kept me going.

As soon as I arrived at the firm, Eleanor, the boss, made a point of telling me the history of the company. With her angelic voice and strong British accent, her story was all the more poetic and melodious.

She explained to me that the company was founded in the early 2000s. The profession was not well known to the French public at that time, so the company had no trouble finding customers. The lack of competition was obviously a factor, but it is above all the quality of the services offered that still sets us apart from the others today.

Unfortunately, with time, things ended up blowing an unpleasant wind. With more and more wedding planners on the market, Amour Passionnel almost went bankrupt. It was by organizing the union of a famous artist couple that they were able to avoid bankruptcy. Their ceremony saved several careers and even allowed us to hire new employees, including myself.

My passion for weddings was born while watching Prince William and Kate Middleton's wedding on TV. This dazzling event sealed the rest of my life. I dreamed of nothing more than to organize the most beautiful day of a couple's life, again and again. Which should happen soon.

I rush out of my room to find my friend. On the doorstep, I watch him put coffee and pastries on the white central island. This huge mountain of muscle then leans against the bare beam that delimits the space between the kitchen and the living room.

I walk around my gray couch, dazzled by the light filtering through the large bay window through which I once fell, and approach Corentin. Seeing me, he straightens up and nods at me. As always, when the dark-haired one is around, Storm follows him around while I no longer exist. I can't hold back an annoyed sigh as I feel abandoned by my own dog.

Corentin comes in almost every morning, when his schedule permits, to walk Storm for me. With my current schedule, I need help taking care of him. Luckily for me, I can always count on my favorite fireman.

"Thanks for being there. You're a lifesaver!"

"As always," my friend simply retorts. I grab the coffee he left on the light wood counter, but I only have time to take a few sips before Corentin snatches it out of my hand.

"What the...," Surprised, I look at him as if he's growing a second head.

"That's mine. Didn't you see my name on the cup?"

I frown. "I thought you hated coffee?"

"No, I don't like the one you drink, it's different. Besides, you should think about slowing down on the caffeine."

Here we go again! I roll my eyes, disillusioned. "This is the first I've had today," I said. His gaze crosses mine with severity.

"Because it will be the last one, maybe?" he says. I remain silent. He finds his answer, while I admit defeat.

"Your excessive consumption is not good for your health." he continues.

I know he's saying this for my own good, but how does he expect me to cope with an hour's sleep and Cecile – my supervisor – on my back, without a little help? I'm barely surviving on my daily dose, so without.

"You're right. I'll think about cutting back... when I'm dead."

I smile, amused by my own joke, while my friend remains stoic, far from being pleased by my joke. In all the years we've known each other, I've never stopped smiling or wanting to laugh with him, but this man has built an impenetrable wall. He never smiles or laughs. But despite the disappointment and frustration of his unyielding impassivity, I've come to terms with it.

"It's not funny, Abby." When he calls me by my nickname, I know he is genuinely upset. I sigh and promise him I won't drink more than three coffees today. After all, I don't want to die early from my caffeine addiction either. I take a croissant in front of me and at the same time, my eyes fall on the time stamp on the microwave.

I. AM. DEAD!

"I'm going to be late!" I panic. I run to the big round mirror in the hallway. I slept without my nightcap and my hair is making me pay! How did I not notice it earlier? I gasp, exasperated.

I hadn't planned on struggling with my hair to get a decent hairdo. Pressed for time, I decide on bonded braids, and too bad if I have to style my hair on the way.

I take two elastics that were waiting for me on the oak console under the mirror and grab my purse hanging on the coat rack. Putting the strap between my teeth to free my hands, already busy grabbing my heeled sandals from the shoe cabinet in front of the console.

When I approach Storm to give him a hug, he snubs me completely and walks off to find Corentin.

"What an ungrateful dog! Why don't I exist when you're around?" I ask Corentin, turning to him.

He shrugs his shoulders, looking innocent and somewhat teasing.

"I don't know. Maybe it's because I don't stink of coffee, I take great care of him, and he prefers the company of a manly man." I frown, falsely offended.

"If the manly guy keeps this up, he'll end up at the door." Although I am sometimes jealous of their togetherness, in reality I am glad that Storm and Corentin get along so well. Generally, my dog scares off anyone who comes near me. With his imposing size, he is not the type to go unnoticed, especially when I walk him from the height of my five feet. It's a wonder who's walking who.

According to my father, Storm has an extraordinary sixth sense and is quite capable of sorting out the people who are good for me and deserve to be in my life from those who are not.

"You would never get rid of me, you love me too much for that." he replies. I look at him, impassive, answering him that I could very well live without him. He plunges his eyes in mine and at this moment, no word is necessary. He knows I am lying, to him as well as to myself.

I don't try to say anything back, because it would be futile. The very idea of not having Corentin around gives me the creeps. There is no way I will ever lose him!

No! Not for the world!

[lunawritesfics]

The Crow’s Omens, an original story

TW: BLOOD, GORE

“Fie, lovely.” whinged Caldwell as the power gave out.

Sitting in the middle of his vast estate, a wealthy yet diffident hermit once again has to war against the elements, specifically that of rain, as another projection of God's tears seemed to knock the power grid unto oblivion. Caldwell himself didn't mind, however, as he is no stranger to darkness. England is known for its unforgiving weather, and living in a manor as vast as the Eishne estate is bound to create some shadows of its own. Now Caldwell has a decision; wait until morning, or wait until the rain ceases. Either way it is a waiting game, as the number one rule of the eerie Eishne manor is to never leave the premises on a dastardly turbulent night, as the open door will be interpreted as refuge from the drowning rain; by whomever and whatever. That's what his late father and those before him would say, at least. And yet, Caldwell bared that old fable in his mind all too well as he picked up a rickety old lantern and maneuvered his way towards the battered shed located in the environed woods behind his dwelling.

“Why does misfortune, whenever possible, settle unto me?” Caldwell grunted.

He knew the answer, of course. A side-effect of living in solitude is being one’s own savior, whether it be simple maintenance or dangerous threats. The solace of being completely alone makes the trade off worthwhile, but who's to say that seclusion is a valorous thing? Caldwell does, that's for certain.

Surrounded by damp walls, he stared at the faulty boiler with dissatisfaction. It was running short of coal, and the next resupply is scheduled for the succeeding week. There was only enough coal in the shed to sustain about three full days of energy, so Caldwell decided to savor those 3 days (rather than rationing), and wait out the other four with diligence. He chucked coal into the chamber and returned to his dreary mansion with intent to sleep the storm off.

Caldwell reentered the mansion and partook in his necessary routines before dragging himself towards his lavish bedroom. The old grandfather clock chimed, singing it’s broken ballad and announcing that it had struck 12 am. The hardwood floor creaked and settled under him, and he soon found himself in bed as the calm pitter-patter of rain lulled him into what should be, a restful slumber. Ah, a restful slumber is what it should have been, indeed.

The chilling wind was the first thing he noticed. It slammed against his visage like a drunkard's punch as it brought his consciousness into the foreign terrain. Massive pale clouds pervaded the atmosphere and an eerie blue glow painted the dewed grass on which Caldwell stood. There was a prominent smell of death swimming through each breeze that passed, and Caldwell felt the icy wet grass under his bare feet while looking towards the empty horizon with melancholy and apprehension.

“It is of my own doing. What befalls unto me was a call of which I dialed.” The gentleman sighed to himself.

“Pardon?”

Caldwell had realized what he just said. It fell upon his lips so naturally, yet he has not the slightest idea what he is referencing. His latent psyche strewed his thoughts at that moment, as crows suddenly flocked above his person. Their wings forming truncated crosses against the leaden sky in which storm clouds gathered, dark and ominous, seem as though they promised something terrible and fierce. Their scourged caws merged into a distorted cacophony that pierced Caldwell eardrums, and he strained his neck towards them while cupping both ears to observe the coal-stained creatures. The last crow in the flock abruptly dove out of the grizzled sky unto the damp grass below, and crashed before him. The creature was bloodied and deceased, and met his gaze with lifeless eyes full of harrow. Before he knew it, Caldwell was back in his villa of grandeur with more questions than answers.

"What a foreboding hallucination.” Caldwell thought to himself while rubbing his left eye. It was certainly bizarre, and what’s even more bizarre is that in that instant, a crow flew in through his window with a red hairpin sticking out of its beak. It brandished noir feathers and a fiendish presence, and locked eyes with Caldwell as it left the impromptu present on his rustic floor before flying away into the precipitation of the night. He stepped out of bed and picked up the hairpin with pleasure and curiosity. It was a deep crimson of ornate design, and the experience was unlike anything he’s ever seen before. Amazement eventually subsided, and Caldwell soon found himself drifting back into sleep, however, he could have sworn that the crow's feathers bore not a single drop of water despite flying out of a storm.

The following day came and went. He found entertainment in his illustrious and expansive collection of literature, and read the day away without struggle. Last night’s odd dream and avian encounter had seeped to the farthest corners of his mind by this point, and he found himself in that nightly circumstance yet again. Cuddled up by a lit candle on his bedside and the book The Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde, he slumbered as the gloomy night faded into background noise.

In a foggy daze lay Caldwell on his stomach. His head was pounding as he was coming to, and suddenly the feeling of unadulterated terror crept into his heart all at once.

“What place is this? What horrific sensation bests me?” He articulated in soliloquy. As he grasped the situation further he realized that he could not move, and as if in response to his fearful thoughts, a shadow grew behind him until it engulfed his own silhouette that lay on the moist sod.

“Who goes ther-” His words were interrupted by an agonizing, concentrated shock of pain in his shoulder blade. Caldwell winced as he saw the foreign shadow dissipate, revealing his own umbra with an object lodged in his back; a knife. It had slowly penetrated his skin and slid into the backside of his clavicle, sending a heat throughout his own body like hell, as he struggled to move or even defend himself. He couldn’t even get a good look at his killer and instead, whispered the words ‘help me’ before eventually losing consciousness at the sight of his own battered silhouette.

With the last thing he heard being an eerie feminine giggle, thunder crashed and he jolted up, unharmed in his expansive bedroom.

“Oh Lord. By Christ’s bones it was just a frightening delusion.” He shakily muttered to himself out loud, almost in reassurance. Caldwell had no introspection that could answer what demons his subconscious was battling. This was the second night in a row that nightmares plagued him, and he was frankly growing tired of the spontaneous anguish his heart kept befalling. The rainfall never seemed to cease either, instead bringing an omen with it everytime water fell.

The crow returned to Caldwell’s fogged bedroom window, with glass held in its beak this time. The company of the winged animal seemed to reassure the lonely recluse as he stared at it with a sort of fondness. It was nice to be in the presence of something benevolent, unlike his betraying mind.

The next day held nothing uneventful as usual. Wealth excuses most problems out of his life, and there is not much to do besides count rations and enjoy the vast villa of which he dwells. His bewitching dreams did gradually concern him, however, and so he burned some sage to expel any foul spirits out of his home. As he got into bed and took a last good look around his dull room in paranoia, the bothered gentleman carefully fell to sleep. Unbeknownst to him, the lights flickered out.

“Avast, I'm back at that cruel lea again.”

The cold, wetted grass and nauseatingly sombre sky was a familiar sight. Hidden truths lay in this place, but for what they were; only God could know. Caldwell suffered a chilling feeling as he was able to recall the traumatic experience of his last incarnations here, and merely walked across the barren and cold-stricken plains while pondering the mystery of the Hell-spawned meadow. As Caldwell coated his feet in dew upon each step, a twisted and pained tree lay in his path, with a grimace so tortured that Caldwell simply examined it with trepidation. Its branches were sprawled out like the tentacles of an unforgiving and ravenous beast, and the word 'her' was faintly carved into the middle of the trunk; as if in a haste. A speedy creature breezed by Caldwell's peripherals and she already ascended the tree before he could even step back from the initial shock. She was beautiful in stature; a petite, fair skinned, and ebony haired maiden who only held a warm smile and deep, charcoal eyes. She was perched upon the depressed tree, unclothed, purely gazing at an agitated Caldwell.

“Darkness is truly comforting. Threats lay undisturbed, in the monotony in which they thrive. Security is as fragile as that of a feather.” The words escaped her mouth with deceit.

He dismissed her soliloquy, thinking it to be folly. “What evils do you reference?” Caldwell pleaded.

"The gloom is soft, cozy, and soothing. I live to serve it, to continue thriving underneath its warm blanketing depths. Lest be known, I shall soon fade with Night.”

“Who are you?”

It merely let out a grin; an unnatural simper teeming with predation and bloodlust. With that, Caldwell felt a distress that turned into sudden lightheadedness, as he begun to faint. As his body was on trajectory to inevitably impact with the floor, he caught a glimpse of a shiny object in her hand. A knife. Horror struck his soul as he failed to prolong his consciousness, only wishing that he could somehow warn the him in the past of this deceiving witch. With a shaky breath, he awoke.

Caldwell receded from the nightmare in lunacy. Something was the matter, and he could not figure out whether malevolent spirits or the fragility of his own being were to blame. Lightning illuminated his dwelling for a brief instant, in which he could have sworn that he caught a glimpse of the crow’s shadow flying away.

“My gift-giver, I beg that you bring sanity upon your next visit.” He whispered.

He regained his composure just enough to remember his condition. It had been three nights, and he now sat alone without power, in a deranged state brought upon him by haunting dreams. The rain had been so insistent on inviting itself in, incessantly flapping its vile wings against the windows and roof. Its winds shrieked as it desperately sought to get inside. What was happening to the poor lad? Shadows of the trees surrounding his house grew larger and fiercier, stained with malevolence. He heard footsteps, and begun to breathe heavily while bracing himself for what evils lay in the darkness of his broad estate.

“Was that a snarly breath?” Regardless of what it was, he feigned bravery to no avail, as whatever it was was getting closer. Time stood still as his madness was interrupted by a knock on his mahogany door. At his hour, who could it have been? He went downstairs and stood with his back pressed to the door, wondering if he should even entertain the existence of whatever was behind it. With a deep breath, he looked through the peephole to survey what horrors wanted entrance into his home. A woman?

Soaked by the rain, there stood a pallid damsel. She had long black hair that measured in great length, on par to that of her hips, and a porcelain face of divine beauty. She held Eastern features and wore nothing besides symmetrically placed white hairpins and a blank expression that spelled that of confusion. Her delicate look contrasted that of the raging storm behind her, and a sovereign energy exuded her, as she stood there asking to be let inside.

“May I enter, I would greatly appreciate the shelter.” The woman said with stillness.

“Fie, I will fetch a towel.” He nervously proclaimed.

She stood in his living room surrounded by Baroque and Rocaille art, her eyes as deep and unchanging as ever as she scanned the paintings, mystified and intrigued. Caldwell hurried with the warm towel, and hesitated to interrupt her extempore museum visit.

In an attempt to stifle the awkward atmosphere, he begun to speak. “By God, you must be freezing. A warm rest can be located o’er yonder.” He beckoned the woman to a cozy leather Chesterfield near the fireplace. She took the towel and wrapped it around shoulders like a shawl, covering her necessities and leaving only her head exposed, and promptly settled herself down on the seat that Caldwell recommended.

Calmed by such a strange and alluring presence, he almost forgot to even question what she was doing here or how she found his secluded manor.

“Who are you? Where do you reside?” Caldwell managed to choke out.

"I fortuitously wandered away from home in a fugue state, and snapped awake in the midst of your boundless estate, surrounded by rich earth and bountiful trees. I couldn't figure out my location, and so I moved through the amalgamation of trees and earth until the illumination of your grand villa caught my eye. Surely I was hoping someone of a kind heart would live there, and so I asked to be let in and that's what happened.” She said in a blank stare. Caldwell couldn't help but stare at the mystifying and seraphic girl, and picked up the ensuing conversation, along with his frangible sense of composure.

“Well, “ he started, “it is far too dark and tempestuous to send you anywhere at this hour; you should spend the night and I’ll entertain options once Dawn settles.” Caldwell uttered with mustered up confidence.

“I ought to repay this gratitude once in a suitable position.” She giggled.

“That is not necessary, this life gets lonely anyways so I am happy to have you.” He said with a smile.

"But I wonder, From where did you originate if the farthest stretches of my woods only prove to be more ferocious and agrestal?” Caldwell exclaimed.

She let out a slight smile at that observation, but quickly shifted in her seat before asking about a bath and sleeping accommodations, to which Caldwell carefully prepared for her.

“Thank you, Caldwell.” And with that, she disappeared deep into the mansion and closed the bathroom door behind her. He does not remember giving her his name.

He goes back into his room himself, to wrap up the odd night that befell him. On the floor where the crow once stood, lay a freshly mauled eyeball.

Dawn came and the afternoon went, and the woman finally awoke as sunset converted into night, with a hankering for dinner.

A simple stew and some wine was on the menu, to which she gratefully accepted over candlelight.

“This is such an esteemed villa, and you own quite the variety of artworks.”

Caldwell was bashful at the observation. “I am somewhat of an aesthete.”

“How captivating. I am especially fond of the painting, Saturn Devouring His Son. Morbid affairs always seem to fascinate me.”

Before he could even respond, she suddenly dropped her wine glass on the floor as if on purpose. It fell and broke up into shards, and she rushed to clean up the mess in a grievous state. It was bizarre indeed, but something even weirder was brewing under the surface.

The clumsy act was forgiven almost instantly. Caldwell knew what emotions were stirring up in his chest, and tried his best to deny them while he was tending to the glass fragments that now littered his expensive dining room floor. The damsel simply tripped, yet why did her twisted steps and ruffled dress display an elegance like never before? How did the implosion of the wine glass, combined with her exasperated shout create a symphony that could best be described as that of elegantly bewitching to the ears and soul? What exactly was it about the way in which she apologized while scampering to clean up the mess before even tending to her own wounds that Caldwell found endearing beyond words? Flowers continued to blossom in his chest while her gracing the originally miserable Eishne manor with her charisma and charm, and as the stir of emotions settled unto that of infatuation, her melodic humming upstairs dispersed these thoughts all at once and Caldwell accidentally cut his finger on glass.

“One glass of wine, too many.” He thought to himself as crimson blood leaked out of his left pointer finger.

The night got settled without issue after that; the maiden bandaged her arm and cheek wound and put on an innocent nightgown to prepare for slumber, and Caldwell engaged in his nightly preparations with a bandaged finger and blossoming hearts flying around his head as he thought of her. He entered his room, to which she lay on his bed in an enticing state.

The woman-shaped entity let out a breathy chuckle.

"The phantasmagoria of auspice were attempts of warning all this time." She paused for a moment, unveiling dainty fingers. Caldwell took this as invitation to join her on his fresh linen sheets, and held her outstretched appendages. He felt strangely drawn to her, as if he was afraid of this deep attraction. Sure, he was an awkward lad, but this was all too... unnatural. What did she say about warnings?

Their hands intertwined, his focus sat upon that of her ruby lips. So inviting, they were. The woman met Caldwell's gaze, and pierced the tension by leaning forward. This act flattered and intimidated him; it's all he wants, and yet even now he doubts himself. The heir clasps his eyes shut and follows suit, but the awaited kiss does not happen. In it's place, he feels an odd sensation on his left hand.

Perplexed, Caldwell lifts his eyelids to see that the woman has taken the pointer finger's bandage off. With both hands, she lifts his exposed wound to her lips, and lets out a devilish smile at the metallic aroma that met her nose. He starts to become unsettled, but struggles to find the will to disobey. She bestows an innocent kiss onto the wound, and then puts the bloodied digit into her mouth and begins to drink. Caldwell is terrified by the events transpiring and pulls away, leaving the bewitching creature sat upon the bed. He studies his wound in panic and observes that his finger has begun to blacken. What has that being done to him? Caldwell feels disoriented beyond belief, and the woman-shaped creature is displeased by his meager attempt at rebellion. It displays Its pale fingers once more, and they begin to transmogrify into bloodied, ebony talons. A sense of poised rage echoed through the creature's voice, "Tortured meek souls are the tastiest--" He falls unconscious, his thud interrupting It. "-- Unfortunate for you."

The later onslaught of attacks were vicious. Blood littered the scene, and there was no hope for the poor lad as the demon took jabs and stabs at all parts of his body. Bone was protruding, organs were slipping, and yet it seemed to cease all at once as the unforgiving woman avulsed his left eye from its socket with her sharp talons. The careful and accurate, yet uncharacteristic attack held such precision that he only felt a twinge of pain while trying to grasp the situation.

“What had just happened? Why? Why is she prolonging my agony further?”

Caldwell managed to make use of his remaining eye, almost as if he knew it would not remain for much longer, to witness a slender, bloodied hand holding what once belonged to him. He instinctively covered his wound and let out a petrified ululation as the pain and realization hit him all at once. The demon stared at the bloodied eyeball, dangling by its optic nerve, with deep lust. The air seemed to get colder as her charming voice entered his ear all at once.

“Omens are the best part. I suppose this will do; maybe seeing it with your own two eyes will clear the thick fog that persists in your judgment and faith-” Her voice trailed off. She noticed that Caldwell was wide-eyed and crying, as if everything had just clicked.

"The red hairpin gifted by the crow; the woman’s white pin she stained with my blood. The crow’s piece of glass; the object that pierced my shoulder in my subconscious some nights ago. The severed eyeball… alas, how could I have guessed that this extended unto temporal witchery? Is there no way to warn the naive me that failed to heed the warning stacked in my defense? Why has this beguiling succubus decided me as suitable quarry?”

And with that, she began to dig her talons deep into his skull. Splashes of blood and mess littered his living room carpet as he had not the energy to even shriek. Her intelligence and superiority even showed here, as the calculated attacks at his brain and cranium for consumption rendered him paralyzed,while also decalibrating his emotions. He was trapped in a hell like no other, condemned to incessant pain and ridiculous amounts of fear while she gorged on his warm blood and his succulent flesh. As he simply lay there while she licked the blood off her talons, the existence of Caldwell has been snuffed out, and yet his final emotion was agony in its purest form.

Tortured meek souls are indeed the tastiest, but Caldwell's essence, seasoned by the betrayal of his adoration, held a distinct succulence that is almost something to loathe. The harpy indulged itself on the raw taste of flesh and misery, savoring every bite. It felt no guilt, or moral discomfort; only dissatisfaction at the divine cessation of his torture. Death had taken him before an even worse dread could have flavored him, which means that Caldwell's persecution is not over. The harpy's ravenous act is, however, as charcoal talons reverted back into pale, dainty fingers.

"It is only fair to leave the place as I found it.” She said to herself.

The succubus cleaned up with respect, dusting the paintings and licking all the blood off the floor as if it were her dwelling. She collected the bloodied hairpin, glass shard, and his stale left eye, and tucked it into a pocket of her suffocating hair for travel safety. This reality has expired, and it took to his bedroom window to leave from which it first came. It transmuted back into its true form, that of a crow, and took off into the rainy night with intent to continue visiting her most beloved and prized meal.

-

I have finally completed this story that was 2 months in the making ♪ \(^ω^\ )!!!! It's one of my favorite pieces yet, so I'm excited to see what you guys think :DD

[booksssunny]

PROLOGUE — TWO YEARS AGO

I have to open this e-mail! 

Staring at the starry landscape of Paris, stepping down from my stepladder and walking over to my computer, my eyes land on the email I received from the company I applied for that still hasn't been opened. I should have read it a while ago, but I've been dragging my feet for an hour.

I'm afraid of being disappointed and when I nervously approach and read the email, I understand that I was right to be worried. A knot forms in the pit of my stomach as I scan the content.

“Mrs. Davis,

(…) we regret that we are unable to respond favorably to your submission, as we do not have a position corresponding to your profile in the immediate future.

Sincerely,

The HR team.”

Closing my computer in frustration, my mind wanders over all the other jobs I applied for. I answered about fifty job offers for waitress, bookseller, and salesperson. Even though my dream is to become a wedding planner, I need the money.

Unfortunately, no one wants to hire me. I guess my lack of experience in the working world plays against me. No matter how hard I worked on my mother's farm, it's not considered enough. 

I'm motivated, ready to work without counting the hours, but my determination and angelic smile – according to my mother – are not convincing enough to be given a chance. I even had to straighten my hair for a second interview with a receptionist agency. They said my curly hair didn't look professional to them. I didn't think I'd ever be asked to do that, and besides, it was useless.

Taking a break from cleaning, I retrieve a tennis ball and call my dog, petting the head of Storm, my eighty-pound St. Bernard, coming towards me for a little attention. He is my only friend and my most loyal guardian. I throw the toy with force, hoping to calm the worries that are invading me.

I climb back onto my step and shiver at the fresh air tugging at my barely tank-top covered skin. For the umpteenth time today, I reach for my phone and check my bank account, sighing in exasperation when I realize that I only have about a hundred euros left. I doubt I'll make it through the month without having to call my parents to the rescue.

I huff and puff and spray the window with product in annoyance. I would like to ‌manage on my own, to be totally independent. After all, I'm the one who decided to come to the City of Light to start from scratch. My choice, my responsibility, and yet, even far from my little town of Laredo, Texas, I am still a burden to my parents.

I've been in Paris for three months now, and it's safe to say that things are… amazing. I have to admit that I may have idealized my Parisian life, but I'm glad I made the leap. Thanks to my paternal grandmother, who taught me the language of Molière, I integrate easily. However, I miss my parents, but their support keeps me going. I am lucky to have them in my life. In the gallery on my phone, I scroll through pictures of my parents and me. Stopping at a photo where my dad, his dark brown skin glowing in the sunlight, looks jovial, holding me to his chest. Although I roll my eyes and try to escape from his shower of kisses, a big smile is discernible on my face. My mother, a small brunette with white skin, laughs at our bickering. This moment frozen in time fills my chest with joy.

The stepladder shakes, and I barely catch myself at one of the double windows. My breathing quickens, I turn my head to glare at Storm.

“Stop messing with me, you almost knocked me over!” I say. My dog doesn't seem to be listening to me and continues to play with his ball, the drool at the corner of his mouth falling to the floor. It's sickening and adorable at the same time. 

I sigh and try to calm my breathing as best I can.

My face darkens as I catch my reflection in the glass I'm cleaning for the third time today. I am not a maniac by nature, just an anxious person who has found no other outlet than intensive cleaning. It's not a solution per se, but it helps me get my head in the game.

I let out a puff of air as I realize I'll have to do more interviews. I imagine myself scanning the classifieds when Storm comes up beside me and involuntarily bumps into my step stool. My heart misses a beat.

With my mouth wide open, no sound escapes my lips as I lose my balance. My body is leaning dangerously out of the window, and although I try to grab onto something, there is nothing to hold me back from falling. The scene unfolds so quickly that with barely a blink of an eye, I am already out of my apartment two floors down. My body, usually so light, now weighs a ton in the night that surrounds me.

I'm going to die!

Is this how my life will end? My only thought is for my parents, whom I abandon again, in spite of myself this time. My breath stops and darkness surrounds me.

***

“(…) No, she doesn't move (…) unconscious (…) speak, I will try until you arrive (…)”

My ears perceive these chopped words, while my eyelids open with difficulty on what looks like an umbrella above my head. The splash of rain mingles with the deep voice beside me, and it takes me a few seconds to remember what happened. I fell from my apartment.

The pain that invades me little by little leads me to grind my teeth. A warm liquid is in contact with my tongue and my bruised gums. A bitter and metallic taste confirms that it is blood.

“Very funny… Do your job instead of talking nonsense! Wait, she’s waking up… Just hurry!”

The first thing that crosses my mind is, Thanks god, I'm alive! But this information is not enough, because my limbs start to tremble. Tears well up in my eyes and I wonder if I'm hallucinating because it seems so unrealistic.

My dog made me fall out of the window!

“Abigail? That is your name, isn't it?” I try to nod, but none of my limbs seem to want to move. My body, lying on the soaked bushes of the common yard, remains inert. I force my vocal cords to give him a clear answer.

“Yes, that's right.”

“Why are you speaking in English?”

Shit! My brain is really dysfunctional.

“Sorry, it’s my native language.” I reply in French.

“Don't apologize. Just open your eyes. I need you to stay with me until my colleagues arrive.”

“What happened?”

I feel silly asking this question, because I know the answer all too well. I need this man to keep talking, I don't want to be alone with my thoughts again. I couldn't bear that.

“You fell from the second floor.”

His reply is clear and concise. He speaks with a calm, flowing voice, as if the situation doesn't affect him. For some reason, his composure both annoys and calms me. I know I'm in good hands, I feel it, it's instinctive. But I have the impression that my condition does not matter to him.

“Am I…am I paralyzed?” I ask, despite my stuttering.

I am afraid of the answer. This will all become so real, and I doubt I can handle it.

“Try wiggling your toes.” It takes a lot of effort for me to do it and not scream through the pain. Why is it so difficult? The sobs that come up cover my body in spasms. 

“They move. I can't promise you anything, but I think it will be okay.” 

The sense of security doesn't last long enough to soothe the frantic beating of my heart. Usually, when I'm in the early stages of a crisis, I clean until I've erased all my problems, but here I can't do anything at all. I have no way out, my breathing is getting harder, my body is in pain and nothing can ease the feeling.

“I… I'm going to die,” I gasp, my face flooded with tears. It’s the end.

My breathing grows short as fear takes possession of my guts.

“Abigail, calm down. Take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. Think only of good things.” I feel like a child, a burden, the kind of ball and chain everybody hates. He's wasting his time with me because I'm a walking disaster who can't take care of herself.

“Calm me down? Easier said than done, sir. How am I supposed to do that?” Stress speaks before I can think twice. His casual air irritates me. Footsteps pop up near me while the man's face roams over mine. Instinctively, a smile radiates from my lips. In spite of the darkness, I recognize the night green eyes of my neighbor Corentin, the fireman of the building. He is the best person I could have met, no pun intended.

His irises, a mixture of malachite and black agate, observe me with patience and compassion. It's the first time I've seen such an expression on his face. Usually, he seems apathetic, tired of everything.

“I understand that the situation isn’t easy, but it wouldn’t help if you were to have a panic attack. My colleagues should be here any minute, so just hang in there.”

“I don't know what to do.”

“What calms you down?”

“Cleaning,” I answer without thinking.

“You're going to have to find something else, because cleaning would  be complicated right now. Deeply, you're going to breathe in, then breathe out slowly,” he repeats. “Match your breathing to the rhythm of my voice.”

Despite the pain and my mind wandering away at times, I focus on him. He is the only hope I have of not losing my mind and regaining control of my body.

“Clear your mind and focus only on the positive. Soon, all this will be a bad memory.”

“And if there is nothing positive?” I ask.

My direct answer seems to destabilize him. His brows pinch together as his lips part. I imagine that it is not the explanation he wished to hear, but I do not have the force to lie by pretending I have it all.

Despite the pain, I turn my head in his direction. His silence is suspicious, even unbearable. His eyes stare at me with a strange expression, and his curly brown hair is plastered on his pale forehead because of the rain. His squared, clean-shaven jaw gives him an imposing air, perfectly in keeping with his athletic build.

“We all have something positive in our lives,” he finally says.

I close my eyes and think for a moment, but nothing comes to me. Though Paris has been amazing, I feel alone… lost. I adore my dog, my parents, but one almost killed me, and the others are so far away.

“Is that true in your case?” I ask, to keep him talking.

“Yes, it is.”

“Tell me.” 

Hearing it would make me forget my  pain for a moment. Besides, I've always been one to listen rather than the other way around.

“I doubt you'd care,” he replies.

“What makes you so sure?”

He doesn't answer right away, so I make him give in.

“It'd help me calm down, but if you prefer, you can let me sink into my panic attack…”

Our eyes meet and after what seems like an eternity, he sighs.

“Okay, you got me. There's my family, like most people. Oh, by the way, would you like me to call your family?” There's no way we're going to tell them! My mother will have a heart attack and my father will have me back in the States by the skin of my teeth. I'm not going to be a farmer, so I’m not telling!

“That won't be necessary,” I say.

My savior pauses for a moment, I wonder if he has even left, but I am quickly lulled by his deep voice.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” he murmurs sadly. My eyes widen in horror at this misunderstanding.

“Oh, no! No, no, they are still alive! It's just that it would be more prudent not to warn them, they might faint.”

“Are you sure you don't want to let them know?”

“Yes,” I said, sure of myself. “Please continue to talk to me about what you like.”

“I love my job.”

“Why is that?”

I ask without thinking, genuinely interested in his answer. Although my father has been a police officer for many, many years, I have never understood why he would put his life on the line for others.

I have been told a thousand times that there is no such thing as a sub-job, but I doubt that I am as important as Corentin or my father in our society. My dream is to organize beautiful weddings, not to save lives. I'm not going to chase bad guys or throw myself into fires. I'm just going to deal with love and happiness.

“I like to feel useful, and saving lives is the best way to do it.”

“Isn't that scary?”

“Sometimes, but I have to fight my fears as well as the flames if I want to succeed in my interventions, because there are people who count on me. If I let fear take over, I could lose my life or worse, let someone else perish. I could never live with that.” His words hit me right in the heart. I will never be as brave as him, nor as strong. As soon as things don't go as planned, I lose my nerve, but more than that… Corentin is a hero and a good man. I am in awe.

“How is your life in Paris?” I am delighted that he is interested in my story. From the first day I met him, he always seemed to pretend I didn't exist. He is the only person around my age in this building, and I have wanted his attention countless times.

I hoped he would notice me, that he would start a conversation, since I am too shy to do so myself. I wanted him to be my friend, but he never even glanced at me. It took Storm knocking me out the window for him to finally talk to me.

“I like it, even if it's not what I imagined.”

He nods.

“Are you here for your studies?” I consider shaking my head, but I stop just before the pain starts again.

“No, I'm not. I came because I was dreaming of a life I don't even have the courage to start.”

Corentin’s green irises focus on mine, becoming much darker. He stares at me with a strange look, as if he wanted to pierce my skull to understand what’s going on in my head. I feel vulnerable in front of this pseudo-stranger who destabilizes me completely.

“Can you remind me how old you are?” he suddenly asks me.

“Almost twenty. Why?” His gaze becomes more insistent as he frowns, as if to tell me to pay attention to what will follow.

“If I understand correctly, you have changed countries and moved to a city that is foreign to you, all alone, at only nineteen years old, and you think you are not brave? It sounds like the opposite. To be honest, I'm impressed. That's one thing I wouldn't have the guts to do.”

Surprised to hear such a thing about me, my brain freezes for a moment. I've been called a lot of things in my life, but brave isn't one of them. As for impressing someone… If not for my legendary bad luck, that never happened either.

Listening to this speech from someone who risks his life every day touches me more than I can bear, and I hold myself back from shedding tears.

“How long have you been living here?” I ask.

“'Almost five years, but my time is almost up.”

“What do you mean?” Breathless, I lose what little hope I had of finally making a friend. It's just like me to make a fuss over nothing.

“I'm moving next week.” I knew it. At least I still have Storm. He's hairy, not very talkative and clumsy, but he's still there, even though he almost killed me.

“Who will I ask for sugar now?”

“We'll see you again,” he says straightforwardly.

I would like to ask him more questions, to understand what he meant by that, to get to know him too, but I suddenly hear the firemen's siren.

They're going to pick me up, take me to the hospital, and I'll be left all alone with my usual anguish and sadness. I wish I could hold on to something good, something sweet. Something or someone to soothe me, like him, my soon-to-be ex-neighbor, but I have nothing.

The rhythms of my beats quicken as the siren falls silent and voices come striding in.

“Don't leave me, please. I don't want to be alone,” I sob.

I feel a slight pressure in the palm of my right hand. I meet Corentin's eyes, which have become so tender that they radiate happiness in my heart.

“I won't leave you.”

“Promise?” I ask with desperation in my voice.

“I promise.”