Felicite Found

by Julia King

  You know you will never get rid of me. After what you did to me, I will torture you forever.

  The man cupped his hands firmly over his ears. “Please, just leave me alone. I did nothing to you.”

  He sped off in a dead run away from the voice, screaming a high-pitched howl. Pedestrians narrowed their eyes, wrinkling their noises, and backed away from him as though he was infected with a contagious disease. He pumped his legs faster but, all of a sudden, powerful hands pushed on his back making him stumble forward. Grasping at nothing but air, he plummeted hard to the unforgiving pavement. A distinct crack exploded in his ears as his nose connected with the ground. Blood coursed like the heavy current of a river out of his nostrils. The crimson fluid splattered on the ground and smeared onto his wrinkled, white shirt.

  The man stood, searching around him, eyes wild like an animal with frothy foam bubbling out of its mouth, dripping down its jowls. His hands trembled and tears billowed from his dark-circled eyes. He began muttering as he sprinted away from the scene. After jogging for what seemed like forever, he made it home—the sight making an unnerving ache churn in his belly. Sweat billowed from the nape of his neck and down to the small of his back despite the chill in the air.

  His mind was made up; the madness solidified in his mind. He knew there was no going back. There was only one way to get rid of the hell of his nightmarish life.

  He crept up the creaking steps of his home with hopes he would go unnoticed. Up and up he traveled until he made it to the top floor high above the grounds of the yard—the perfect escape route for him.

  Shuffling into one of the many rooms, he made his way to the window. Without thought, he stripped off his bloodstained coat and white button-up shirt until his pale chest shown bare. His face bore dried blood that had drizzled down his chin to his neck. Deep, guttural breaths gushed from his mouth until he felt light-headed. His heart pumped hard drawing blood heavy into his balled up fists.

  Moisture rushed from his eyes, making dried blood streak down his chest. He wiped hard at his face, madness taking over his ability to function rationally. Treading toward the shuttered window felt like a thousand years even though it only took a few seconds.

  The maddening voice returned; it was lathered with laughing malice.

  Do it. It is the only way you can be rid of me. Open the window and jump.

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?” he screamed, heat sweeping down his face to his toes. It stung him until his body was engulfed in a storm of hellish fire.

  I do not think you can do it. Prove you can.

  The man threw open the window, leaving his bloodied fingerprints on its white paint. A chill rushed in, cooling his body temperature until goose bumps rose in high peaks over his flesh. His legs wobbled as he stepped onto the window’s edge. His expensive black shoes forced some loose pebbles to plummet into the wide expanse; they dropped, gaining speed until they shattered into dust at reaching the pavement below.

  Jump and pay for your sins, the voice shrieked into his ear.

  “I did nothing . . . I did nothing to you,” he stammered, his voice strained. His hands shook until his whole body followed suit. “I did nothing.”

  And then he kicked off of the ledge with his arms stretched out wide like a plane. As the slow motion of air rushed past his face, his son’s precious two-year-old chubby face flashed into his mind. A stabbing pain exploded in his broken heart, and then it ceased beating when he crashed onto the pavement with puffs of dirt rising into the air. He was dead, blood pooled around his lifeless head, eyes still open with a vision of horror caught in their depths.

  Sweat poured from Ém’s skin as she screamed, being completely unaware of where she was at the moment. She bounded up with a start in the warm bed. Branches of lightning-filled pain shot through her side, making her groan until moisture spotted her vision.

  The first thing she could think of was a name: Pierre. Without willing her voice to do so, she shouted out the name. Loud.

  The door to the room screeched open, and a light flashed on with the flick of a switch on the wall. She had to close her eyes to adjust to the light that filtered into the room. A woman, she remembered her name: Hélène. The woman—Pierre’s mother padded to her side.

  “Ém, what’s wrong?” Her words came out in a rush, and her face became pale—grave.

  “Where is Pierre?” Ém cried as the nightmare seared hot and tangible into her mind. All she wanted to do was transport herself into the dream before he jumped—save him, keep him from killing himself. Why had she dreamed something so horrible? So disturbing? Perhaps it came on because she had tried to kill herself. She rubbed at her temples ferociously until her fingers felt numb.

  Hélène’s voice chimed sweetly into her mind, answering her question. “He went to school. I promise he’ll be back.” Hélène grabbed the blanket laying wound in knots at the foot of the bed. She proceeded to soak up the sweat and tears mounting on Ém’s face and neck with its fabric. Sitting down, Hélène draped her arm over the girl’s shoulder while stroking the blond locks of hair that fell parallel with her arm. “Are you okay?”

  “I had a dream . . .” Sniffle. “A really bad, bad dream.”

  “I’m here. I’m here. It was only a dream.”

  After a while, the door to the flat opened. “Pierre?” Raising her head, Ém darted her eyes over Hélène’s shoulder to gain a view into the living room. “Pierre,” she spoke louder and more insistent.

  He pounded into the room, dropping his bag on the floor; it made a heavy thud echo throughout the space. “What happened? Are you okay, Ém? Mom, what’s going on?”

  “Pierre, she needs you,” Hélène said, relinquishing their guest to him.

  “I had the worst nightmare. It was so bad.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Pierre asked. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. Ém looked at him and then to his mother. Hélène shook her head as if to tell him not to pry.

  “Are you hungry? How about I make us dinner?” Hélène left without getting an answer.

  Pierre drew Ém into the living room. Rustling sounds spilt out of Hélène’s bedroom. Moments later, she appeared dressed in a coat, holding her purse and an umbrella. “I’ll be right back. Need to get some food for dinner.” Pierre’s beautiful mother sniffled and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. She stepped out of the flat, shutting the door softly.

  “Just so you know my mom’s a terrible cook. Don’t tell her that I told you. It’ll be our secret.” He put his finger to his mouth, making a shushing sound.

  Ém laughed, a blanket of fluid warmth filled her chest. “Were you trying to make me feel better, or is she really that bad of a cook?”

  “I’m telling the truth. Honest. Be careful eating anything she puts in front of you.” He nudged her. “You going to make it?”

  “I think so.” Ém sighed, nestling her head into Pierre’s chest. She could feel his heart beating like the low thump of a drum—a comforting feeling. A minute later, their eyes met and danced from one another’s eyes to lips. Inside, she wanted his lips to brush hers so badly. His head leaned closer—inch by crucial inch—but she lowered her head back to his chest. A heaving breath filtered out of his lungs. She hoped she had not offended him, but knew being intimate with him right now was a terrible idea. The timing was unquestionably off.

  Outside, the wind picked up, and it started to rain. Pierre continued to hold her and rock her back and forth. She felt safe with him, out of danger. But more so, she felt peace being in his presence. The thought of not being with him was too difficult to fathom.

  Please do not leave me, she thought. I need you!

  Getting to Know You

  Pierre plopped with a deafening thud face first on the floor. He rubbed his eyes, wiping the sleep from them while vibrating a lungful of air out of his lips. Muscles tensing, he hoisted himself up as if he were doing a push up. He remembered why he had fallen asleep: heavy-eyed exhaustion. And th
en he remembered Ém. Was she okay? He hopped up to his bedroom to see an empty bed. Stupidly, he rummaged through the blankets as if she had shrunk to some doll-sized person and was still there. He backed out of the room almost tripping over his legs. His chest heaved in and out which magnified his sense of helplessness.

  Where could she have gone?

  With the blink of his eye, he spotted her in the small kitchen, watching him, a bright smirk frosting her expression.

  “Are you all right, Pierre?”

  “Oh.” He wondered if she had seen him fall off the couch. “Ugh. I’m fine. Was worried you left.”

  “No, I am still here,” she said, turning her head away. “Where else would I go?” She brushed a loose hair out of her eye, biting her lower lip. “Uh, so one minute you were sleeping and the next you turned and fell right on your face.” She pointed toward the floor and laughed, but stopped, slapping her hand over her mouth.

  His shoulders rolled forward as boiling heat churned in his cheeks. “No problem. I’ll do that more often if it’ll make you laugh.” Even though what happened took a stab at his pride, she was happier for it, so he tossed the embarrassment away. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Not very long.” Her eyes flashed to the circular clock on the wall. “It was five o’clock when I woke up.” Pierre turned to see it was now six o’clock. Bright yellow covered the living room, glistening upon the furniture and hardwood floor.

  “An hour?” he asked. “What have you been doing this whole time? You could definitely have woken me up.”

  “I felt bad. You seemed so comfortable there, sucking your thumb and all.”

  “Wh . . . What?” Pierre raked his hand through his oily hair.

  “I am joking.” She giggled an amazing laugh. “No, I was fine just watching you.” Her eyes dashed to the right as her pale face blushed pink.

  “Watching me, huh?” He took a risky step closer. “You’ve been here a few days now and are already invading my sleeping privacy.” Shifting his jaw back and forth, he advanced closer, sweat moistening the nape of his neck.

  “Never. But it is difficult when this,” she motioned around the room, “is the only common area in your flat.”

  “Touché.” Gazing at Ém’s unforgettable body made intense pressure build heavy in his rib cage—fear mixed with chickening out bad time. Skirting past her, he grabbed a couple mugs. As he pried open the coffee canister, the aroma of the potent beans wafted around the room. He could taste the strong smell flowing through his mouth without having downed a drop of the drink. “You hungry?”

  “Ravenous.”

  “What are we waiting for, then? Breakfast time.” Within moments, food was strewn across the counter. He chopped and stirred and clanged pans around the room.

  “I am going to freshen up a bit.” She ducked into the bathroom.

  Pierre thought back to the first time Ém used the bathroom. His mom had to teach her how to use the sink and the bathtub as though the girl was from a third-world country. He accounted for it because of her memory loss, but he wondered how she could have forgotten so much.

  Wiping the strange memory clear from his mind, he focused back on his mad cooking frenzy. Eyes widening, he cracked a large brown egg into a sizzling frying pan. He breathed in the scent of spices with a smile filling his face.

  He turned on some pop music that whispered from his iPod, and he nodded his head rhythmically to the beat of the drums.

  Ém peered into the mirror above the washbasin to appraise herself. She removed the bandages and gasped when she saw the rope burns—still red and tender. It made her sad to think that not only once but twice she had tried to take her life.

  Why would I do that? She wondered.

  No beauty reflected back at her in mirror. Nothing stared back at her, for that matter. She still had no idea who she was.

  Who am I?

  Again, as she had done so many times over that past few days, she knit her brow until her forehead crinkled into miniature dips of mountains and valleys. Forcefully, she willed herself to remember something—anything. Her eyes blazed a firestorm at her reflection until all that resulted in the exercise was a wild ache in her head. Nothing came to mind, not even her own name. Ém was not doing the trick. In fact, the nickname only brought on violent frustration. With her failed attempt, she took one more glance at herself and humphed out a bitter groan.

  She undressed, and removed the ace bandage from her chest and then stepped into the hot water until her entire body was immersed. Immediately, the knots in her back loosened and the stitch of pain in her ribs lessened. She grabbed the strawberry scented soap and lathered herself from head to toe. After a thorough, yet, delicate scrub, she let the water wash away the suds. And her hopeless and helpless thoughts.

  Pierre Rousseaux

  “Hi.” A smile formed on Pierre’s face as Ém sashayed like an angel out of the bathroom.

  “Do you need help with anything?” Ém inquired, clasping her hands in front of her.

  “Nah, you just rest. You need anything?”

  “I am okay. Don’t worry about me.”

  “That’s a bit hard to do when you are . . . you.” He almost said, “Beautiful you.” Pulling on the neck of his shirt, he changed the subject. “Anyway, let’s eat.”

  After an awkward lull in conversation, Pierre asked while pointing at her plate of food, “Good?”

  “Very delicious.” She licked her lips. “I do not think I have ever tasted such good food in my life—I think?” She paused with a slight grin on her face. Pierre chuckled at her comment. “Maybe if you told me more about yourself, it could help me remember something about myself.”

  “Well, I was born in Paris. My mom raised me by herself because my dad died when I was two. Anyway, I like movies. I have a lot of DVD’s and those aren’t all of them. There’s more in my bedroom.” He gestured to an orderly collection of DVD’s and laughed.

  “What are DVD’s?”

  Pierre stood and grabbed one of the cases that held a disc. “A movie—you have to remember what a DVD is?”

  “I have forgotten everything.” She scowled a deadly grimace at the DVD case. “It’s so frustrating not to remember things that I should know.”

  “It’ll come back. It will, I know it.” He grasped her hand from across the table and pumped it a few times.

  “It’s so nice to have your support.” She squeezed his hand back, smiling. Pierre wondered if she would surrender his hand back to him, even though he enjoyed the feeling of her soft skin melting into his. Again, he had the crushing urge to kiss her. He almost leaped over the table to attack her with his lips. “But, please continue.”

  “Uh . . .” He shook the thoughts of her lips on his out of his head. “I’m studying for le bac.”

  “Le bac?” Her eyes glazed over.

  “Le bac or Le Baccalauréat is a test taken before graduating from high school. It gets you into university.”

  She nodded, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want to do after you graduate? Are you planning on attending university?”

  “No, I want to be a police lieutenant after I graduate. Everyone thinks I should become some doctor or scientist because they think I’m smart.” He groaned.

  “Are you?” she asked, her head perking up and her shoulders relaxing.

  “Nah, I’m not smart, but school’s been easy.” He didn’t want to go any further than that. Educational aspirations weren’t something he liked to talk about. Shifting uneasily in his chair, he continued, “What else do you want to know about me?

  “Maybe tell me more about your mother.”

  “Let’s see, where do I begin? She’s the coolest parent ever.”

  “I already know that.” Her eyelashes fluttered as if they were dancing in the wind. “What does she like to do?”

  “She loves art. She studied art history at university. After graduating, she worked at an art museum here in Paris, but she always wanted to work at Musée
du Louvre. She would take me there a lot when I was growing up. I hated it.” Pierre rolled his eyes. “But she loved it there. She was happiest there.”

  He paused, thinking of his mom’s fanatical excitement every time they went to a museum. They would dress up—Pierre always with a bow tie and her in a dress—and then they were off to a museum. She radiated every time they ventured to see art; it seemed to pull her out of her depression more than anything. It was one of her three loves: her first love, her son; her second love, art; and her greatest love of all, her late husband.

  Ém stirred Pierre from his memories. “It seems like you are very close to your mother.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve had to be. She’s been unhappy a lot, so I’ve tried to help her out.”

  “If you do not mind me asking, why has she been unhappy?”

  “She’s been down since my father died.” That’s as far as he wanted to delve into his dad’s death, and the consequent depression of his mom. Just thinking about his father made Pierre’s stomach cramp into dull twists and turns. He didn’t even want to think about what it meant for him . . . one day, that is.

  “Sorry about that.” Ém sighed. “She must have loved him a lot.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.” Pierre squinted at the photograph of his mom and dad on the wall. Ém’s eyes followed his gaze.

  “You look exactly like him.”

  “Yeah, we could have been twins. Of what my mom has told me, the day she met my dad was the day her life truly began. I’m pretty sure the day he died, most of her died with him.”

  “How did she meet him?” She cupped her head in her hand, the other still held by Pierre.

  “It’s sort of a funny story.” Pierre chuckled, a light cloud of happiness enveloping his mind. “They met at a café. My mom went there for her lunch break. On her way to sit on the patio, he bumped into her. The food in her hands spilled all over her shirt. She ended up wearing it instead of eating it.” Pierre laughed. “He felt terrible and ended up buying her a new shirt and lunch. They exchanged phone numbers, and from that day on they were inseparable. They married after a year, and I was born two years after that.”