by Azzurra Nox
“No you don’t. I know that you don’t. Don’t lie to yourself the same way you’re lying to me.”
The night was passing by her in a blur. She couldn’t tell where they were headed, only that he was driving faster and there were fewer cars on the road. Stealing a glance at the dashboard she noticed that he was nearing 90mph.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know,” he sounded agitated as he made a jerky left turn. She fell against the passenger door, gripping unto the handle, thanking a higher being for having her seat belt on. From the looks of it they were getting away from the city as buildings became less and less, and soon large trees hovered on either side of them as the road got significantly narrower.
“Jonathan! What’s wrong with you?! You’re going to get us killed!”
“Nothing in this world is forever, Lena.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she could sense desperation in her voice as it cracked and tears began to emerge. “I don’t know what you want from me!”
There was a sudden halt, as the both of them fell forwards and the car did a half spin, the wheels screeching rubber on the asphalt.
“I don’t want anything from you. That’s the point. I love you. But I don’t expect anything back. I’d just be deluding myself. So stop trying to be deceitful with this talk about wanting to forget him. And don’t say that you’re leaving. I can’t have someone else I care about abandon me.”
“I’m not trying to be deceitful, I just can’t be in this situation anymore. I can’t deal with him coming in and out of my life,” she rubbed the tears out of her eyes, “And don’t worry, I won’t leave. Not if I can help it.”
He looked over at her. His features lightened up, removing the distraught expression he had only a second ago. Lena unclasped the seat belt and climbed over to his side of the car, fitting perfectly on his lap. With her head resting against his shoulder, she wrapped her arms around his neck. His familiar scent captured her senses and she closed her eyes. His arms came around her and they remained in a bittersweet embrace without speaking. Their breaths the only sound in the car, and a faraway siren screamed in the background miles away.
“I can’t lose you, Lena.”
“You won’t,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Doesn’t your dad know that Bucharest is a terrible place for pretty teenage girls? Dracula might want to make you his wife,” he attempted to joke.
Lena tried to laugh, but it just came out as a muffled sob. “You’re right. He should know that being a History professor.”
“Sorry if I scared you. Sometimes I get a little crazy.”
“Don’t we all?”
A part of her needed to be held, and his figure was strong, making her feel secure. His fingers tangled in her hair, stroking her long mane. Then he moved his head, and his lips were pressed against her ear. “If there ever was a heaven, I hope it’d be just like this. Right now. Right here. With you.”
She knew she was blushing because her cheeks felt hot like freshly baked muffins emanating fumes from their flaming centers. It was difficult to find a proper response to that, so she didn’t say anything at all for fear of ruining the moment. The night was still, and no one seemed to pass by where he had parked the car in the middle of a dirt road on the outskirts of the city.
“You’re the blood in my veins. If you’re not here, I can’t function,” he told her. “Nothing makes sense without you,” his lips left her ear and roamed along her neck, coming up, and stopping at her lower lip. Tentatively, he moved further up, as though he feared a subordinate reaction from her. Then, slowly, kissed her.
Lena wished she could pull away, but his lips knew exactly how to coax her into parting her mouth. Her heart pounded fast, like a shaman beating on a voodoo drum. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was frightened of the outcome or because there was a certain thrill to this late night rendezvous. Before she could gather her thoughts into a coherent notion, she found herself sharing his breath.
Jon’s hands traveled up her legs, feeling her beneath the layered lace of the dress. Then he pulled away for a moment, to unlock the seat belt that was keeping him entrapped in one place. But once again his hands were on her again, learning the contours of her body. She broke the kiss breathing heavy against his lips, trying to think clearly but everything was a blur. Lena tried to find some words, but was rendered speechless when he dipped his hands down the front of her dress as they came in contact with her breasts.
“Jon…” she whispered in a shaky breath.
“Don’t say anything,” he told her.
She closed her eyes, and a part of her wondered if this is how he got all the girls with the persuasive kisses and all the right caresses without skipping a beat. But soon that thought departed her as his lips began to distract her once more, trailing kisses down her exposed collar.
“Jon, it’s getting late,” she breathed, unsure whether she was telling him that because it truly was or because that was her only excuse. Their bodies were on fire, skin scorching hot.
“Another ten minutes won’t kill you,” he quickly replied. His lips were aiming for hers again when a large object seemed to fall on the roof of the car, causing the whole vehicle to shake.
Lena let out a startled scream, unsure what had initially happened. Maybe a tree branch had fallen. But that thought soon faded as whatever was on the roof of the car, was making the whole auto quake with vibrations. That’s when Lena began to shake as she feared that Adriel was standing right above them.
“It’s her!”
“Shhhh…let me go see.”
“No! Don’t go out!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let her hurt you. Promise, babe,” he kissed her forehead, before gently urging her out of his lap so that he could see who was out there. He cautiously stepped out of the car.
“Is she there?”
“No!” he shouted walking around the car, and peering above and below it but from the looks of it there was no one in sight.
Lena got out as well. There was a huge dent on the roof of the car, but that was it.
“It was her, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe. I can’t see anything else being that heavy that could disappear so quickly.”
“I’m scared,” she wailed holding unto his arm.
“Let’s go. I’ll drive you back home,” he told her. She was getting back into the car when something caught the corner of her eye. A glistening white feather lay on a nearby bush, but she didn’t say anything nor go towards it to gather it. A sinking feeling plummeted in her stomach like a heavy anchor crashing at the bottom of the sea and striking everything out of its way. Nervous, she coughed as she felt lightheaded. Getting back into the car, she turned on the radio. The music blast loud. The night was brewing with uncertainty. Lena looked out the passenger window, pretending that she was a little black dot that could travel across the city without being noticed. Uneasiness encircled her being making her whole body feel like it was sitting on a bed of pins. Both of them remained silent during the whole trip back to her apartment building. Each of them wrapped up in their own thoughts as Jon puffed clouds of smoke invading the space between them, making her feel further away from him. They were like two stars on the opposite spectrum of the solar system. Close enough to see each others’ light, but far from reaching out and breaking the barrier of distance between them.
Part Three
Charleville, France October 1870
The streets of Cours d’Orleans were lined up with white and grey buildings. Some trees and lampposts were spread from block to block. It was a typical upper middle-class French neighborhood. There was a little cafe at the end of the street that was only a couple of meters away from the banks of the Meuse River. Arthur found himself going to that cafe often, taking in the life of the people that surrounded him. Ever since he returned from Paris, the provincial life had begun to feel too stifling. His verses mirrored this desire, as he spent his
nights scribbling away near the river banks, the moon being his only companion. Although he was only sixteen, he had already decided his fate. He was going to be a poet, and for this reason he wanted to get to the core of his emotions. Even if this meant to sever a vein and let it bleed, metaphorically speaking. But some nights the line between metaphors and reality would blur and that’s when he found himself writing his best works.
Many girls fawned over him for his delicate features and pale blue eyes that seemed like a sea at storm. His brown hair, once short, was increasingly becoming longer, as he allowed his locks to grow as a way to rebel against his mother’s ideals of decorous living. It was on one of these nights, drunken with sleep and brandy wine that he thought he saw a vision. A girl so beautiful that words couldn’t express her ravishing qualities. He was lying on the meadow by the river banks when he noticed a peculiar luminance. Blinking, he groggily walked closer towards this visionary beauty. Her hair was the color of moonbeams, skin so pale that he thought she was a Greek statue chiseled in marble, and eyes of emerald green that seemed to swallow him whole.
“Who are you?” his voice came out in a coarse whisper, like that of a fist rasping on a wooden door.
“You mustn’t be afraid, Arthur,” the girl said in a sugary tone, so sweet that every word seemed to reek with molasses.
The alcohol he had previously consumed earlier that evening was blurring his vision, and he couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming or if that was reality. He rubbed his eyes, but she was still there. Flowers adorned her hair like a diadem and when she walked closer, he noticed that her white muslin dress appeared to hug her curves and the material became transparent whenever the light hit it at a certain angle.
“I’ve come to save you,” she explained, reaching out to touch his face. “You’ve got talent. You can’t just throw it away.”
“I’m not throwing it away. I’m living,” he readily told her. Life before running away to Paris had been a dull and strict one, with his mother constantly surveying his movements to the point that she’d always go to pick him up from school despite his grown age. Poetry had given him the freedom of mind when he was shackled, and now that he was physically liberated, his words had gained more power.
“I know you, you’re a sweet boy,” the girl said to him. Nothing in her gaze indicated the malicious intent or undertones that all the women he encountered held. Her statement made him cringe. He had done so much lately to break away from his mold. Arthur had wanted to eradicate the sweet boy image from himself and let what he always thought was his true self show through. A poet couldn’t be veiled in flowery expressions, but rather should gouge with the decadent. Despair should be your companion, for only when one has been touched by pain can truth transpire in writing.
“I killed the sweet boy,” he smirked. “No one has earned the right to save me, lovely creature,” he grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her towards him. The moment he touched her, an odd sensation filled his limbs. Feelings awakened that he didn’t even know existed. She must have felt the same bolt, because her eyes held a surprised expression. Maybe it was the stars dipping into the night, or how the moon complimented her skin that created the perfect backdrop for their first kiss.
She could’ve been anyone before that moment. But once their lips locked, time seemed to stop, and soon he understood the validity of the words that poets before him had described when it came to love. Every night he’d go back to the river banks in hopes to see her, and surprisingly enough, he’d find her there waiting for him. For a period it felt like he couldn’t get any happier. The two of them lived on promises and passionate kisses. During the day he’d feverishly scrawl poetic verses dedicated solely to her. His soul imprinting on every single word, dripping with a lustful melody that anyone would’ve noticed the desire leaking upon the paper.
One night she told him that she had a secret. That she could finally share it with him because she trusted him beyond belief. He had nodded, curious of what she was going to reveal. With eyes intently cast on her figure, he watched her move away from him, and dropped the muslin tunic from her body. Initially he could only focus on the shape of her breasts, and the way her hips curved in an hour-glass figure. But then he noticed a small detail. She lacked a navel.
“What happened to you?” he asked, thumb grazing over the spot where her navel should’ve been.
“That’s what I’m trying to explain. I wasn’t born from a woman like you. I was created,” and there was a sudden snapping sound as a set of what appeared to be large white feathered wings sprout behind her.
“That’s impossible,” his jaw hanging down in astonishment. But he was referring not to what she had said, but rather what he saw. The wings were large, and curved around them in a protective embrace.
“I was sent to save you, my love,” her languid expression held no signs of coquette malice. It was almost as though she held no knowledge of the effect her bare body was doing to him.
“I must be dreaming. That’s it. You can’t be real.”
“I’m as real as your poetry.”
“Then you should know that no one can save me,” he said to her with a disarming grin that would’ve charmed any French girl in her place. But the girl wasn’t immune to his qualities, especially when his lips touched her in ways that had always enticed the women in his past. The glorious creature wasn’t any different. Whilst their bare limbs glistened against the dewy grass, and they gave in to the ardent passion that held them captive, he began to notice that her contact became less affectionate, and grew more violent. Their horizontal dance of pleasure stopped being romantic the moment she seized him by the throat. Unable to breath, he stared at her dumbfounded as he watched her eyes sparkle from emerald to a ferocious red, then glowed to an icy black. She let out a blood curling scream as her wings spread back at an irregular angle, and fell forwards around them again. Only the white had been replaced with a pitch black tint as though they had been dipped in black ink. The same with her hair. Gone were the moonbeam locks that curled down her back. Now her hair was jet black, framing her chalk white face. This time when they kissed again, he felt a puncture on his lip, and winced from the sudden pain. When she pulled away from him, he watched his blood dribble down her chin as he noticed that her teeth had become razor sharp fangs.
“Adriel…what happened?”
Licking the blood off of her lips, she said in a voice that no longer was tainted with molasses, but rather held a provocative hint, “You freed me from all that was pure, and now I’m yours forever.”
His fate was sealed. From that moment on Arthur knew nothing but debauchery, and his poems reeked with decadence and lust. Rebellion dripped from every single pore of his being, and nothing was ever the same for him again. He spent many years trying to recall that moment in his mind, trying to picture Adriel before the transformation. Remorse gnawed at his insides, but it didn’t stop him from drowning his sorrows and disillusionment in expensive wines. Like every man before him, he had killed the most precious thing he loved, and even though he found himself walking to that river bank many times in hopes that he’d see her again, he never did. He foolishly began to think that if he gave his verses to the river, they’d reach her. Papers upon papers of watered ink swam downstream, flowing down the canals. The rivers ached with his desperate rhymes. So much, that soon many would learn of his unfathomed sorrow, uncovering the black heart of Arthur Rimbaud to the world.
Paris, France June 2010
Madoka Yoshimoto walked into the quiet hotel room after a day of signing copies of Cut Here at a bookstore near Champs-Elysees. Her right wrist ached from the constant movement of the pen, and all those tremendous amounts of dedications. Letting out a loud sigh, she closed the door behind her and sunk upon a pink velvet divan. She rubbed her temples trying to ease the migraine away. Having her novel be so popular was thrilling to her, but sometimes all that public exposure took a toll on her sanity.
There was a scented candle on a ne
arby table that her assistant had brought in earlier that day. She stood up, and went to light it. The faint smell of cherry blossoms reminded her of Tokyo in the Spring. She closed her eyes, trying to envision the beautiful trees with their pink flowers adorning the streets like delicate centerpieces on an elegant table. Paris was full of lights, but nothing compared to Tokyo. In some instances she found the city to be too Gothic looking for her tastes, and hungered for the mix between ancient traditions and modern civilization as there was in Japan. Even the food didn’t entice her, with it’s many unpronounceable names and sketchy looking creams. She smiled when she noticed that her assistant had brought in a bottle of Sake, and she poured herself a glass. Too bad that it wasn’t warm, the way it should be consumed, but it was better than having to drink anise.
Exhausted, she undid the black ribbon around her neck, exposing the large scar around it. She absently touched it, massaging her skin, walking around the room, stepping out of her high heels and pushing her black skirt down, letting it fall to the floor with a soft hush sound. The city below was thriving with life as the sound of cars and buses rushed on by. Madoka tried to shake the day away, by unbuttoning her white poet shirt, and slowly lingered towards the bathroom. She caught a peek of her reflection in the mirror. The blunt fringe and short bob framing her face. After she had gotten better and her hair grew back, she stopped dying her hair caramel brown because it reminded her of the wig she wore when she was bald from the chemo.
Her toes recoiled at the feel of the cold tiles as she stepped into the shower. But soon the hot water relaxed her. She closed her eyes, thinking about how she’d be in Madrid tomorrow for another book signing. All these events were slowly meshing into one, like a big blur and she was unable to recall people or happenings from any particular city. Although a pair of blue eyes that looked like staring into a clear pond came into view. But where had she seen them? Who did they belong to? Digging through the file cabinet of her memories, she vividly recalled an incident in Los Angeles that had left her troubled.