Anathema
- Part Three of Three
“Say what?” he frowns.
I can’t help but stare at him, my mouth hanging open (I’m
somewhat in awe of his stupidity), nor can I get rid of that vague itch to slap
him. I can say that because it’s not really an itch at all, but one of those
almost uncontrollable urges to do something attention grabbing. Something
Bastien can’t ignore no matter how hard he tries. Believe me, if I physically
slapped him at this point, he’d definitely keel over in shock.
It would make my earlier point about needing a body to be lovers
rather obsolete, wouldn’t it?
This surprise runs through my head while my mouth works like a
fish flopping on dry land -- aimless and predictable. I’ve told him multiple
times in the past what I want from him, each time to be ignored, simply because
it wasn’t what he wanted. And yet, he doesn’t understand why I call him selfish
and self-centered.
I wish I could tape this moment, simply for posterity’s sake.
Then later, when I’m hopefully enjoying the afterlife somewhere with a mild
climate, Ianthe could bring it out when he’s too stubborn. I’m sure the film
would be amusing if nothing else. I mean, really, how often do you watch a
nineteen-year-old male obstinately telling the air he’s in love with it? I know
I wouldn’t appear in the video, other than maybe a brief wavering of the air.
Funniest Home Videos, here we come.
I sigh, not knowing how else to express my frustration. “I want
you to tell me that you don’t love me and that you’ve accepted that I’m gone.”
A brief pause. “Okay, I don’t love you and I know you’re gone.”
He has this cute way of wrinkling his nose when he thinks I’m
being anal. It should probably make me angry, because I know he’s acting
condescending, but I find it funny instead. His response couldn’t be less
sincere if he tried. Besides, getting mad doesn’t accomplish anything.
Ever. Believe me, I tried getting an attitude with Bastien early in
the relationship. This reaction brought about two things. First, it nearly
drove me to an apoplexy. Second, it made Bastien blink up at me, his eyes
losing that practiced vagueness, and demand why I was blocking the football
game, at which point he moved to a different chair.
“Let’s try it again,” I say, my voice dripping with that kind of
bright sarcasm, “but this time, let’s do it with feeling!”
Ianthe giggles. Her face lights up when she laughs. Something
sparks in those berry blue eyes, that light spilling onto her cheeks in a sort
of iced rose tint. With her cheeks flushed and her lips curving in a smile,
she’s even more stunning. I have to fight away the jealousy.
Odd, isn’t it? I’m not jealous that she’s alive, but I’m jealous
that she’s prettier than I am. Dead giveaway as to my gender. If I were still
walking and talking, I’d probably have to set aside the next few moments to
remind myself how to breathe properly. Envy is such an unpleasant emotion.
Bastien glares at me, his rich brown eyes hooded by sultry
lashes. “I said what you wanted me to say.”
And the thing is, he really thinks it’s that simple. I shake my
head, sending my dark hair to ripple over my transparent form. “I didn’t want
you to just say it,” I protest. “I want you to believe it.”
“Well, you didn’t say that,” he counters. He’s got a talent for
being difficult. He stares at me, his chin angled slightly toward the ceiling,
defiance oozing from every pore. I wonder if there’s an environmental
regulation on that.
Through gritted teeth, I answer, “I thought it was implied.”
“You think too much.”
He’s right, of course. I do think too much. On the other hand,
what else do I have to do? It’s not like I can go out and party anymore, or
occupy my time with school, or even do something as innocuous as reading. Well,
I *can* technically do the latter, but not being able to turn pages kind of
cuts down on the amount of time you can spend actually doing it.
That being the case, I’ll take my thinking quite happily, thank
you very much. It’s amazing how coherent my thought processes have gotten since
I died (probably because they’ve had so much time to develop), though I must
point out that I’ve acquired the most disturbing habit of rambling. I’m sure
it’s not noticeable, of course, and if it is, I’d rather not know.
But, all’s well that ends well, and hopefully my rambling will
lead to a good conclusion. Preferably one involving Bastien falling in love
with Ianthe, though now my glee has started to fade and I’ve remembered that love
usually doesn’t happen in one night or at first sight. Still, the soulmate
connection gives me hope.
“And sometimes I wonder if you have a brain at all,” I respond
sweetly. I ignore the sullenly disgruntled look he sends my way. His silence
simply compounds the impression of displeasure. “Okay...”
Pausing, I think for a moment, trying to figure out a way to
resolve this. Playing pretend obviously didn’t work, not that it ever did with
Bastien. My thoughts center on my previous revelation that leaving them alone
together will work miracles and move mountains.
Or it could have the same end results as a nuclear explosion. I’m
hoping for something more positive than that, especially since a crater would be
a little hard to explain and a little more destructive than I’m trying to
be. Perhaps I should be careful what I
wish for.
They’re staring at me. I think they might be wondering why my
voice trailed off and what I was thinking about in that small span of time,
drifting away in memories and madness. I wish I could share myself with them,
but so much is gone already that I don’t dare take the risk.
“...I’m going to leave you two alone now...”
Both faces darkening like storm clouds churning across sunlight-streaked
skies. Something twisting and flickering through Bastien’s eyes, something that
looks like...
Betrayal.
...as if I’d stolen the sun from the sky and doused it in an
ocean, forever destroying its heat in those cooling waters. As if I’d sent the
last snowflake drifting into hell, my laughter accompanying it on its way to
those fiery recesses. As if he’d been betrayed.
I’m momentarily stunned into speechlessness. In fact, I’m so
thrown by those accusing threads radiating from his eyes that my words falter
like pebbles skipping crazily over whipping water. They skim the air more and
more slowly, until finally they sink into nothingness.
Tightening my resolve, I clamp down on my annoying habit of
empathizing with Bastien and with what he wants. That habit is just going to
make it harder to break away. And really, I’ve never been a fan of vandalism,
so I’m just going to leave Bastien’s mental health alone.
It’s not hard to figure out why that expression swims in his
eyes. He doesn’t want to be left alone with her, or even have anything to do
with her. In his eyes, I’m abandoning him to her mercy. I’d *like* to abandon
him to mental hospital, or maybe a prison ward. It’s a shame we don’t always
get what we want.
Holding my breath -- metaphorically, of course, since I don’t
really breathe -- I block his hurt from my mind and staunch the answering ache
flowing from my heart. Sometimes you have to guard your emotions so they don’t
run rampant. Mine are locked up in a padded cell. I threw the figurative key
into the Thames or the Seine or the Loire during one of my astral projections.
I’m not entirely sure which one, something that could make finding it rather
difficult.
That accusing emotion deepens during the silence, mahogany knives
cutting through flesh and carving through bone, until his eyes are only blades
that wound me. He seems to want me to say something, to take that pain away...
If I had a throat to clear, now would be the time to do it. But
even then, I don’t think I could bring myself to finish my thought. With a weak smile, I wave to them and fade
away.
You realize, of course, that I don’t really intend to leave. We
ghosts have this neat trick of going all invisible, but remaining in the room.
I’ve every intention of monitoring the conversation. After all, what’s the point of having these skills if you can’t
use them?
When I listed my virtues, having morals was not one of them.
For this reason, I feel no remorse about eavesdropping and
spying. I’ve got just as much invested in the outcome of this as they do. So
much that I have a *responsibility* to stay. Well, maybe not, but it sounds
good, doesn’t it?
I have to swallow the choking outrage rising at Bastien’s first spoken
words. I realize I shouldn’t have expected more from him, but this refusal to
cooperate is rage inducing, not to mention redundant. It’s a shame I’m supposed
to have left and can’t talk.
“I don’t want you.”
As usual, his voice brooks no argument and leaves no room for
discussion. Bastien is the textbook definition of predictable, right down to
the fine print. It’s going to take quite a bit on her part to make him listen.
Lucky for me, I have faith in her.
Which I should. She smiles slightly, looking sadly down at her
hands, her expression just resigned enough to be poignant, and just hopeful
enough to be inspiring. That spun gold hair falls like a curtain over her face,
but oddly, her voice is clear and sweet when she speaks.
“I know you don’t,” she says softly.
Her fingers twist fretfully in her lap, the gesture unconsciously
betraying her nervousness despite her obvious efforts to keep her lower lip
from trembling. Now that I’m gone, she’s reverted back into her shy and
uncertain self, clumsily fumbling through the motions that will bring them
closer together if done right.
Her words bring only silence.
Bastien glares and Ianthe cowers, but for several long and
stinging seconds, nothing else is said. Just silence, a void that sometimes speaks
louder and more clearly than words, in this case offering only rejection and
diffidence. While words can be painful, silence can cut deeper than the most
finely honed blade, ripping your heart and turning the pieces into a finely
chopped pedigree meal.
The smile wavers and fades. Tears glisten in her bright eyes,
hovering in that split second between falling and fading, and brighten the
color to the deepest and most gorgeous blue of day. With a tremulous sigh, she
speaks. “I know you love Anna,” she says, her tone so careful and apologetic
that I nearly want to snort with laughter, “and I don’t expect you to stop
loving her.”
Something like surprise flashes over his features it before he
quickly buries it under that apathetic mask. She’s caught his attention with
that statement, which grudgingly earns my respect. Grudging only because I
*want* him to forget me. But, as I’ve already said, my methods apparently
weren’t working, so if this is the way she needs to do it, she’s got my
approval, as well as my one hundred percent backing. I’m not going to nitpick
over the methods. Only over the results.
Still, he keeps his mouth shut, which might be a record for him.
He’s much more likely to be verbally obstinate than silently glare, which
matches my personality more than Ianthe’s. Whereas she’s playing the
unobtrusive maiden of old, I’d probably look him straight in the eye and tell
him where exactly he can put his tenacity. And, if that didn’t work, I’d help
him find that place by putting it there myself.
Ianthe drops her gaze back to her hands. They pause, then flatten
against her thighs in an attempt to soothe shattered nerves. When I look
closely, I realize she’s gripping her knees so tightly that her knuckles are a
bloodless white.
“I don’t think you should ever forget her,” she ventures, her
voice still that soothing tone I’ve heard used to calm wild horses. “She seems
special, but... Sebastien, she said it herself. She’s dead.”
His eyes slide shut, his teeth clenching tightly and a muscle
ticking in his jaw. It’s not been a good night for him. I think he’s finally
realized he’s not going to win this one, no matter how hard he tries or how
uncooperative he is. A low sound rumbles in his throat. Finally, he shakes his
head, as if to deny the truth of the situation.
She sighs, the resignation creeping over the hopefulness until
one emotion eclipses the other, and then she stands. Quietly, watching as
Bastien’s body tenses in anticipation, she moves closer, until she’s standing mere
breaths away. He looks like he’s in pain, waiting for her to make that first
fatal move.
But instead of moving, she simply stands quietly near him without
fidgeting. The invasion of his space must be driving him crazy. I can see him
flinching away from her though he never actually moves, holding his place
almost like he’s punishing himself for something. Maybe for loving me. Maybe
for giving Ianthe a chance.
It’s hard to tell how his mind works.
“I don’t want you to give her memory up entirely,” she whispers.
Tilting her face so that she’s staring up at him, her lips brush the air only
millimeters away from his. He tenses further, waiting for that first touch of
mouth against mouth like the sealing of a pact. But Ianthe doesn’t move,
doesn’t fill the growing cavern of anticipation.
Time and emotion hang frozen between them. Then Bastien groans
and his shoulders slump, his words more a moan than anything else. “Then what
do you want from me?” he demands, and even Ianthe seems to notice the charged
need in his voice.
The tension electrifying the air is both tangible and palatable.
It’s not entirely related to their conversation. I can sense uncertain
undertones linking their closeness and those voiceless signals they’re sending
to each other like emergency flares during a traffic accident. The only
difference is, the flares are a safety precaution, but the silent communication
between Bastien and Ianthe is more likely to make them go up flames. And that
reaction is about as far from harmless as you can get.
Her eyes have been trained on his mouth, which I must say is
delightfully full and sensuous and which he knows how to use, but now they
shift to stare at the wall, the floor, the ceiling. Anywhere but at his face.
She has these on and off moments of courage. Sometimes she seems
ready to slap him. Others she seems to shrink away. It’s anyone’s guess as to
what she’s really thinking and how she really feels. So far she seems
reasonable, if not remarkably brave. Occasionally that’s something that can
only come with time.
Biting her lower lip, which draws Bastien’s attention to her
mouth, she looks up at him. Her eyes have darkened, either with worry or fear,
but either way, they’re a luminous color I’ve never seen before, to which I
have nothing to compare. I think that any effort to find a comparison would
fall flat, so I’m not even going to bother.
I wouldn’t be able to do it justice anyway.
Still just a shallow dip of air away, her mouth curves in a
smile, but it’s one of those sad smiles that says everything is being laid bare
before him, that her heart is his to shatter or shelter. “I just want a
chance,” she says softly.
And at that statement, something new sparks in Bastien’s face.
Something like wonder, or maybe trepidation, but whatever it is, it’s the first
time he’s expressed it. Then he seems to realize who he is, what he’s doing,
and where he is. Like a camera’s shutter clacking closed over the lens, he
tucks that emotion away. “I--“
Before he can get out more than a single syllable, she rises on
the very tip of her toes (Bastien’s quite a bit taller than she is) and shuts
his mouth with her own. I saw this coming ages ago, when they first sat beside
each other, the tension so sharp it could be marketed as a weapon of war. I remember
what it felt like to kiss him, memory and longing so heartrending that I almost
want to scream with jealousy. It’s not Bastien I want, but feeling someone
else’s touch instead of simply... nothing.
I can’t tear my eyes away.
I know it’s rude to watch them, but they can’t see me anyway,
right? And I really can’t help myself. My eyes are drawn to the clashing of
mouths against each other, so gentle and chaste that it’s nearly frightening. I
can see that emotion breaking over Bastien’s face, like he’s just discovered a
miracle. I’m not sure that’s far from the truth.
A moment later, I realize that tears run down Bastien’s face in
silent, glistening rivulets, and this time, I’m the one who’s shocked. I have only
rarely seen Bastien cry. Ianthe pulls away from him them, her lily petal skin
flushed and heated. One hand rises to his face, the pad of her thumb brushing
away that dampness.
The emotion singing between them cannot be expressed in words.
He dips his head once more, his lips moving softly over hers. I
can hear the sound of my heart breaking. Yes, I want to rest in peace, and yes,
I think Bastien should let me go, get on with his life, etc, etc. But I wasn’t
lying to Ianthe when I said I loved him. He’s as much a part of me as I am of
him, which is part of the reason it’s been so hard for him to do what I want.
When he looks up, it takes him a moment to focus. “Maybe I should
let her go,” Bastien murmurs, that dazed wonder never quite fading from his
eyes.
Ianthe smiles softly at him, her head descending in a supportive
nod. “Maybe,” she whispers back, her breath catching on that single word.
“Should you tell her that? She doesn’t have much time left.”
He nods, the scant light rippling over the smooth plane of his
cheek. Gathering his breath into his lungs as though he’s just been
resuscitated after a near drowning, he shudders back into reality. I have to
remind myself how sweet it is. Otherwise, I might lose my transparent insides
at how *cute* they’re being.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice still shaky. Staring at her like
he’s trying to memorize her face, as if he’s trying draw her in, he hesitates a
moment, then calls, “Anna!”
And let me just tell you, the tone of his voice is really, really
insulting. He probably doesn’t mean it to be, but really! We were together in
some form or another for seven years. Now he calls my name like I’m some
annoying tramp who refuses to leave. I’m tempted not to show myself at all.
But finally, I figure it’s probably a better idea. Closure is
always a plus. Thinking evil thoughts to myself the entire time, I float over
to the wall, where I decide to materialize. They’re staring at where I
originally was, and I feel the need to be difficult.
A few seconds later, when they still haven’t noticed me hovering
with my arms crossed over the space where my chest should be (and is, if you
look at it from the right angle), I clear my throat. Both whirl, turning to
face me like I’m the premiere leader of the Inquisition, guilt etched over
their faces.
I think it’s adorable that they feel guilty about doing exactly
what I asked them to do.
Oddly enough, under that
guilt, Bastien looks pained, as though whatever thoughts or feelings he has
hurt him terribly. “Anna, I--“
“You what?” I counter evenly. My voice and gaze are level. My
arms stay folded obstinately across my chest.
He sighs. “Anna, I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“But?”
Surprise jumps over his features, as if the silence and that word
weren’t so loud they spoke for him. “But I need Ianthe. She’s alive and
you’re...”
“Not,” I finish, when his voice trails off, and I break into a
wide smile. He nods, even while he looks uncertain. I wish I could hug him and
tell him it will all be okay, but again, it’s that lack of arms thing. Not
being solid really puts a damper on old habits. “It’s okay,” I tell him gently.
“I do love you.”
The seriousness suffusing his voice is heartwarming. Really. It
forces that ache into a pulsing, burning mass of regret, but I can’t pay
attention to that. I can already feel a strange tingling, something that’s been
missing for that whole two year span that I’ve been dead.
Ghostly tears glisten in my eyes and I have to swallow hard to
blink them back. I know they’re not really there, but reality is a completely
subjective thing, and in mine, I’m crying. “I know,” I whisper. “I love you,
too.”
I’m starting to fade away now. Where my feet would have touched
the floor, I used to be almost solid. Present time, I’m quickly losing shape
from the legs up. His face tightens. I think he might be crying again, which he
really does hate. Says it’s unmanly or something ridiculous like that.
He knows I’m really going to be gone for good this time and it’s
wounding him.
Ianthe gathers him into her arms, pulling him around so that his
back is to me. So he doesn’t have to watch, or at least that’s what I think at
first. I’m almost gone now, the ghost tears slipping down my cheeks more and
more rapidly, dripping into their own disappearance. My consciousness has
started fading, too.
At that last moment, as I’m feeling myself welcomed into so much
tranquility that it’s almost unbearable, I look at them one more time. Ianthe
is staring at me, triumph etched across her face. My eyes narrow, trying to
focus on her, and her smile widens.
Then, so quickly that I would have missed it if I weren’t
watching so closely, Ianthe’s features shift and meld. For just a second,
Melissa’s face stares guilelessly back at me, then that smiles stretches into
more of a sneer. My sister, but not my sister. Her lips slowly and deliberately
form the words “I won.”
I have one last thought before I give myself over to that solemn
and welcoming peacefulness. One last conscious string of realizations before I
let myself go. And that is that Ianthe fooled me, that she played us both, and
that she is my murderer.
I seem to have lost a game I didn’t know I was playing, and
indeed, helped my opponent across the finish line. I lost my life over a prize
I’m not sure I would have fought for. And with that insight came another. All
this time, I thought I was someone else’s punishment, someone else’s penance
for past sins. But I was wrong.
I thought I was Bastien’s anathema.
Now I know that he was mine.