She had nothing
left of him but this photo.
The picture was
crinkled and old, faded at the edges where fingers had smoothed its brittle
surface hundreds of times.
In the center,
two teenagers on the brink of adulthood laughed. The boy, sharp features worn
blurry with age, twinkling eyes still burning brightly like twin black coals
smoldering with heat. The girl, pressed tightly against him, her magnolia skin
flushed with the rose-hued tinge of love and youth. Once, a glassy finish had
coated its satiny surface and the colors had shone brilliantly in this frozen
moment.
With a sigh,
Océane DuFeu set the image carefully on the glass tabletop. Her hand shook
tremulously with the effort. The magnolia skin wrinkled into nearly perfect
pleats, papery thin, and her blue veins pulsed sluggishly beneath that delicate
protection. She was tired beneath the warm, heady sunlight streaming into the
room, and it served only to emphasize her age.
In the photo,
she was young, but the photo was old.
So was she.
She could see
her reflection in the shiny glass surface. When her eyes met those of her
reflection, two pale, rheumy blue orbs stared back at her. Her parents had
named her for the ocean. For eyes the color of the sea at its deepest and most
mysterious depths, where sunlight slides into murky waters. He used to tell her
that her eyes were like a bolt of lightning crashing into his soul, sizzling
against the salty water in a hiss of steam. But that was so very long ago.
Ages ago, when
they’d laughed and embraced and flirted like the lovers they were, he told her
so many things. He told her about the color of sunset at breaking dawn and the
whisper of butterflies in the early morning air. He told her about the feel of
silk sliding against skin and the smell of summer. But, perhaps most
importantly of all, he told her that he loved her.
And, oh,
sinking into the velvet depths of his mind, she believed. She believed every
silken word slipping from his lips like drops of honey, even when that strange
connection that bound them told her differently.
When she
touched him, truth spiked between them, despite any desperate attempts to hold
it back. They had no secrets, no uncertain lies to spin their souls crashing
apart. When he told her he loved her, that truth shone more brightly than any
other word he spoke, and so she knew it was true.
Now, in the
somehow stifling afternoon warmth, her eyes were pale as ice and faded, like
the promise of his words and the photo lying so neatly before her. Outside, the
ocean roared like a lion in fury, crashing against rocks and sand with white,
frothy rage. It reminded her of him, just like everything reminded her of him.
He was, oh, so
very hard to forget.
Squinting down
at the photo, she smoothed it flat for the millionth time that afternoon. The
image was never far from her hand. Despite everything she had seen and
experienced, she treasured this bent and broken slip of paper the most.
His somber eyes
stared up at her from the darkened and thinned photograph, framed by icy cold
skin. Icy cold to the touch, perhaps, not that she would know. Skin so white it
made her think of frost and glaciers, spun slick against the too black obsidian
of his hair. Eyes like onyx and hair like hematite, the strands catching an
awkward red in the sun.
She had loved
to dance beneath the oak trees with him. With her honey-streaked hair whipping
and catching around them, they would twirl under the afternoon sun until they
collapsed into a laughing heap. As they lay there panting for breath, she would
run her fingers through the silky tips of that hair and watch them glow a
startling crimson. Then, as the last ray of light faded from those dark spikes,
their mouths would meet and meld in a piercingly sweet vow no words could
match.
They danced
beneath the midday sun and the midnight moon, stealing each precious moment as
if it was their last. And one day, it had been.
One day,
Iakobos Katsaros had left her without a word of promise.
He’d talked
about it so many times, but she’d always thought he was merely teasing. His
eyes would darken as though they’d been dripped with tar, and the cocaine
headiness of his voice would deepen with intoxicating sorrow. She could still
see the faraway look turn his sculpted features lax, sixty years later.
“I am bad for
you, ma cœur,” he said, his shoulder pillowing her head as she stared up at him
through adoring cerulean eyes. One hand stroked a shivering path along the bare
skin of her arm. Though his French was perfect, every so often she could catch
the faintest hint of an accent. “I should go.”
And she,
innocent and trusting as she was, merely snuggled closer. “Don’t go,” she
begged against the smooth, smooth skin of his neck. A smile curved her lips. “I
should miss you too much.”
He sighed.
“Océane, I love you too much to stay.”
Those words
always made her angry, even now, so many years later. “That is the stupidest
thing I have ever heard,” she snapped, struggling to prop herself on her elbows
though her body screamed in protest, telling her not to move away. Her hair
spilled over them like a rush of honey.
As he caught a
strand of it between his fingers, his smile was sad. And instead of answering,
he casually asked, “Do you know what my aunt always told me?” Her sullen
silence must have told him she wouldn’t play his game, because he continued
with barely a pause. “What we do not know will not hurt us. I always thought it
to be a stupid phrase.”
“It is your
talk of leaving that is stupid,” she scoffed. She glared at him a moment more
before resuming her former position
His hand curved
around her, his fingers twining easily with hers. With their palms pressed next
to each other, she could feel the even pounding of his heart. “You fear the
unknown too much. It would be better if I left.”
Frowning, she
clutched his hand tighter to hers. “Promise me you will not leave.”
“I cannot
promise that, Océane. No one can.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and
hugged her close, the strange cloud he refused to explain hovering around them,
dipping her into the velvet-coated darkness of his mind. Even though she tried
to ignore them, shadows hovered at the corners where she could not go.
No wonder he
had refused to promise; Iakobos had always kept his word. Now, sixty years
later, she could not name one promise he had not kept, except perhaps when he
promised to love her forever.
She sighed
softly, the sound more a wheeze than a whispery breath. Time had turned her
lungs to paper and her body into a broken wraith of what it had been. Her
memories remained the only intact part of her, and sometimes even those were
fleeting.
But in the
sultry silence of the afternoon, she swore she could still hear the sliding
purr of his laughter washing over her. When she glanced up, her eyes told her
she could see him standing in front of her, exactly as he had been so many
years ago. Impossible, an illusion, but still welcome in the loneliness of her
glass-encased home.
“Iakobos...”
The apparition
in front of her smiled. “Yes, ma cœur?”
She wasn’t his
heart anymore. Her eyes softened and tears welled as the rough slide of his
voice poured over her skin. He looked so real, so perfect, and she could be
staring sixty years into the past, if only she didn’t know her mind had taken
one step farther from reality. Oh, but to hear that endearment fall from his
lips... If this was what being crazy meant, she would embrace it with open
arms.
Wrapping her
arms around herself, she laughed, the tears streaming down her face with too
much abandon. Their wetness felt cool against her cheeks. Standing feebly, she
shuffled to the sheet of glass separating her from the rough tumble of the
ocean. Stared out over the endless expanse of the Atlantic. The Norman coast
stretched craggily along that sharp blue edge.
Warm breath skittered
along her spine, tripping over papery skin. She let her eyes slide shut,
drowning the heavy press of sunlight and the salty taste of air into the black
abyss of her memories. He used to stand behind her and encircle her with the
heavy weight of his arms, pulling her back against him as though he would never
let her go. She could remember it so clearly she could almost feel it, weighing
the soft glide of his hand against her arm and the moistness of his words
caressing her ear.
“Why do you
pretend as if I am not here?”
She shook her
head, trying to deny the memory of those words, and was surprised to find her
hair trapped against a strong, hard chest. Startled, she blinked away the
tears, eyes wide like the expanse of regret inside her. She twisted slowly in
his arms, expecting to find eyes aged with wisdom and cheeks weathered by time,
but instead she found only youth.
“Iakobos?” This
time, her voice was ripe with questions. Questions she did not ask, but
curiosity present nonetheless. Impossible, her mind whispered. But either way,
her mind had to be lying. Either it was playing tricks or what stood in front
of her was real.
Her heart beat
just a little faster.
Some of the
sparkle left his eyes when he looked at her -- really looked at her -- fading
into a curious uncertainty. She didn’t let it bother her, two hands lifting to
touch his face in something close to reverence, but she knew better than to
think of him as a god. He had left her once, too long ago, and now all that was
left was dust.
It had to be a
dream, she thought, as her hands traced the face she had known so well. How
else could he be here, perfect, the youth shining so brightly on his face? A
dream, but it seemed so real. She sighed, relaxing against him, and wondered if
perhaps she had finally died.
But as the
regret crept slowly into his eyes, she remembered that long sixty years she
spent waiting for him to return. Time that felt like an eternity while she
trusted him to answer that strange call inside her, which calmed only when he
was near. It nestled in her chest like a bird just returned from flight. As if
in contrast, her anger rose hotly.
He must have
seen it sparking in the pale, almost colorless eyes. Her mouth pursed into an
angry line, thinned by age, and her skin drew tight across her cheeks. Regret
turned his black eyes fathomless and guarded. “Océane,” he said, his voice
stroking over her name, repeating it like a mantra. She could feel its
seductive pull on each of her shrieking nerves. “S’il vous plait...”
When his skin
touched hers, she could only let the contact slide over her like ice against a
burn. She reached to place a finger against his lips, forgetting for a moment
that she was old, no longer beautiful.
After the first
wave of feeling washed over her, she remembered her fury. “You left me,” she
accused, pulling away. And now, years and decades later, she could allow
herself to glory in the scene she imagined so many times, so many different
ways. “You abandoned me.”
Shame lurked in
those black as night eyes, but his face was as stoic as ever. “It was for the
best.”
“Non,” she
shook her head, stepping away until the glass pressed against her back. The
sullen air shimmered around her and lay heavily moist against her blue-white
skin. She could feel his touch, hear his voice, breathe his scent... but it
could not be reality. Sixty years gone by, and his thick black lashes still lay
smudged against angled cheeks, just past the first flush of youth.
“Océane...”
“Non!” she
cried again. “You are just a memory!”
This time, she
shoved her way past him, careful not to reach out and feel the empty air where
he appeared. Imaging again that she touched him would be almost too much to
bear. The movements were not as easy as they had been when she was young, and
her bones creaked with the sudden sliding action. He stepped back, allowing her
to pass, her mind rationalizing his youthful presence by realizing that he
simply could not exist.
No one stayed
young for sixty years. No one walked through light and shadow without a fresh
wrinkle to dust the smooth skin of his face. No one stood straight and tall
without the weight of age bowing their back or whispering through their bones.
No, if he were
real, he would be as feeble as she.
She wrapped her
arms more tightly around herself, sitting herself back in front of the photo,
her eyes caressing bright black of his irises. A memory, an illusion, but dear
god, it was nearly perfect.
A shadow fell
across the photo and she swallowed hard, closing her eyes. Memories did not
leave shadows. No matter what she told herself, he was solid. Her mind refused
to grasp the concept. Without opening her eyes, she whispered, “How are you
here?”
Maybe his
answer would be enough to convince her that she was not crazy.
Maybe it would
dip her farther in this half-sane dream.
His voice had
the same effect as a rush of morphine through her veins. He always had been
able to make the pain go away, easier than anesthesia on a fresh wound. “I do
not want to hurt you,” he whispered, and she didn’t know how to tell him he
already had. “I did not want to hurt you then, either. But I could not watch
you grow old before my eyes, while I stayed young, knowing that I would lose
you.”
“How are you
here?” she repeated, her voice stronger and more angry. His words passed like
murmurs in a dream-drenched sleep, barely registering on her brain. Let him
make his excuses, but she wanted him to explain before she heard them.
A soft sigh
fell against her ears. “Océane, I could not tell you then,” and the agonized
tone of his voice made her open her eyes and look up, “but I am not like you.”
Her gasp rang
gong-like through the room, her eyes fixing on the two slender fangs curving
delicately over his bottom lip. Breath wheezed loudly and her eyes widened
until his image swam before her. “Non,” she whispered, her head shaking back
and forth slowly in disbelief. “Non...”
The face in
front of her reflected only sadness. “Ma cœur,” he said softly, “I cannot stand
to hear you suffer.”
She had only a
second to wonder what he meant before he swooped down and bent her backwards
across the couch. His touch was gentle, so gentle, but tears rose fresh in her
eyes and panic made her heart beat swiftly in her chest. Impossible, her brain
screamed, even as his mouth closed over her neck.
Iakobos had
loved her, not this monster in front of her. “Je t’aime, Océane.” His words
skittered across her skin, and then he bit. The sensation was not unlike
drowning, not unlike sinking into his mind like she had so many times before.
And the velvet-coated darkness was the same.
He could be no
one else.
What he was
doing to her didn’t hurt at all. It was amazingly peaceful, drifting through
those suede-soft plains and dream-drunken valleys, only a brief stinging when
his teeth sank easily into her throat. In that darkness, she could feel the
lonely, cold years that stretched between them. He had not been any happier
than she.
Finally, her
mind grasped onto a word, one that had eluded her for those long sixty years. Soulmates.
And she had been his. Sixty years they could have spent in happiness, if only
he had been brave enough to tell her his secret and she been brave enough to
conquer her fears. His sorrows soaked steamily into her mind. But, quietly,
subtly, it all began to fade, drifting away into the cushioning depths of his
memories, until she slowly melted away with the remembrance of a soul-baring
kiss and a single set of words she heard only once in sixty years.
Je t’aime.
When her body
sagged against his careful arms, her heart slowing to a stop, he set her
carefully against the cushions. Her face was lined with peace. Sixty long
years, and it had taken every ounce of will to stay away from her, knowing that
if he told her what he was, the law demanded both their deaths.
It had been
easier to kill her than to feel her pain at his absence. Each night, he knew
when she dreamed about the days when they had been together and happy. Yet she
had aged and he had not. According to the law, he had no other choice. Regret
and sadness coursing through him, he turned away from her broken and lifeless
body, his gaze dropping down. On the table in front of him, a photo from long
ago lay worn and aged.
In the center,
they laughed and embraced and loved like the children they were.
He had nothing
left of her but this photo.