Chronicles of Mystery

The old book and the blue ribbon

Arriving near their house, Lucy told them to go ahead, that she wanted to go greet Nana just before and grab some treats if the opportunity presented itself.

Once they were both back in the house, Lucy wiped the smile off her face and turned into an alley nearby. There, she took out of her bag the book given by Catherine. "The fabulous investigations of Lucy Moon".

Lucy's face contracted. She thought she would never see it again. It looked so much like the edition she herself had owned! Except that hers was much more degraded because of the daily use she made of it. She believed that this work had sunk into oblivion. She had done everything for it to be that way. Her hands tightened on the edge of the volume. She began to tremble a little, her mouth twisting. She opened the book to a random page. She immediately recognized the writing, the style and the story that was told there. She could almost recite the entire page just by looking at the first few words. She knew them by heart as she had read a similar book. She could almost see it, even if her memory was half erased. There, placed on the small shelf of a blue room, oh, so blue, with white curtains, moved by the wind, the room constantly bathed in azure light. She remembered this little room. Where was it? She didn't know anymore. She only knew that this room must have existed, she felt it. 

A few visions replayed in her mind, of the sloping roof which took up part of the space, of the shadows which ran on the walls, of his own, long and thin, which was always silhouetted when he slowly climbed the stairs, making them squeak as they pass, to visit her in her attic. But she could no longer see it clearly, only remember certain sensations. The cold of winter as she got out of bed, when she huddled in her blanket so as not to touch the wooden floor with her feet, observing the square of brilliant daylight that her window cut out, dotted with drops of dew as the sun ignited the glass gradually rising to the horizon. She remembered that this window was always closed and often also obscured by the white curtains, as if they didn't want the light to touch her. It was only when the sun rose that she could feel its ardent glow for a few moments before the cottony covering of the curtains blotted it out until the next day. She remembered, all day long, this room so blue, melancholic, blue like a dream, blue like water vapor, like the smoke of a departing train, blue like oblivion, like a forget-me-nots. Blue like the ribbon she had been given. Had someone given her a ribbon? She wasn't sure. She knew, on the other hand, that he had stroked her hair, adorned with this ribbon, gently, as he did so often. It was always him who brushed her hair. Then, seized by one of his impulses, he tore off the blue ribbon. Yes, he had ripped it off. What did he do next? He had hurt her. Had someone hurt her? No, she must have been wrong. Or was she?

She saw, however, the next moment, when he opened the window and let the ribbon fly away, far into the open, pure air, shimmering in the heat, burning like glass on fire. The ribbon had flown away, little bird, it had left her behind. The man then whispered to her that the ribbon had gone, where she would never go. The little ribbon was gone! It was so sad. It was beautiful though, so blue, bluer than the room. It wasn't smothered by the white curtains. It was the blue of freedom and the sky. It was the blue of her dress when she, she, she, when the forgotten one gave it to her.

Above all, she remembered the little book that she grabbed from her shelf, she remembered the old cover that hung, the half-faded title, the yellow, fragrant pages where she discreetly buried her face in order to catch the scent. She remembered the pages that she stroked to feel the texture, making her think of the soft skin of an old person, dotted with small spots with a slightly fragile grain.

She finally remembered the hands that had given her this book for the first time, the smooth, young hands that had held out the work to her, offering it to her like an escape route, like a shelter in the midst of distress.

Like a chance to smile again.

Her hand landed on the page of the book she currently held in her hands, and tore it violently. She crumpled the torn page in her hands before throwing it on the floor. She was out of breath for no reason.

For what ? Why did this book have to reappear now ? When everything started to get better, when she controlled herself more, when she hid her cracks and flaws better and better. Why was her past catching up with her again? She had hoped she would always be able to escape. But everything was fine for the moment. They didn't know yet. And they would never know. She would make sure they never knew.

This book had become odious to her because of the half-erased memories it brought back. He reminded her of what she had never wanted to be. It prevented her from fully being Lucy Moon. She threw it angrily against the ground, as if she wanted to hurt it. It ricocheted several times against the cobblestones of the alley. Lucy raised her foot and began to strike it, again and again. Her boot crushed his cover, covering it with dirt. And yet, she continued. Again. She had to make it disappear forever. Hurt it so much that it could never come back to haunt and torture her again. She began to cry out in anger, her face distorted by hatred. Hatred for who? For the book? Or for someone else? Was it the book she was hitting or herself by extension? By attacking the work in this way, was it not against herself that she was attacking? And what she hated, was it the book, or her?

She who had lied, she who had concealed. It was there, the work, surviving, witness to her lies. It was there and it was screaming at her that soon, whether she liked it or not, the truth would come out. And it seemed to her that the leather of the cover, damaged by her blows, took on the features of a smiling face which mocked her vain attempts.

Taken aback by these questions asked by a whispering voice, she stopped, almost out of breath. And yet, her anger needed to be exerted on an object. So she turned to the book again. To destroy it, she had to destroy it for good. It would stop staring at her like it knew everything. It didn't know anything, she didn't even know herself.

She took the book back in her hands and began to tear up each page at a crazy pace, overcome by euphoria, by an unhealthy agitation, making them fly like hundreds of white corpses of butterflies floating in the air towards their end. Then, with each page, she stomped on it, crushing it against the floor until it was nothing more than a jumble of shredded and stained paper, unreadable.

Her hair flew in all directions, as uncontrollable as she was, in wild, wild curls, like the tall grass of a meadow stirred by the wind.

When the book was reduced to nothing more than its cover emptied of all its pages, a simple shell deprived of its soul, she continued her work of annihilation, smashing these remains against the walls, manhandling them endlessly, no longer caring about anything else. She seemed to live only to finish this work.

When the book was just another piece of trash, abandoned in the middle of the street, neglected by the world, Lucy set out in search of another thing to destroy. There was nothing. Nothing that hadn't already been massacred.

She fell to the ground, desperate, deprived of all purpose, sliding against the wall, with no strength left, as if she herself had turned into waste. A little doll left there, among the other abandoned objects, which everyone no longer wanted. A broken doll that just kept repeating the same command over and over. And the doll didn't know what else to do. She felt lost, in the darkness of the alley, surrounded by rubbish, with the rats that passed by from time to time as her only companions.

She ended up getting up, disheveled, panting, her clothes in a mess. She took one last look at the shell of the book she had left behind. She saw a few more words on it, which she could barely make out: "of Lucy Moon". This name that pursued her. She was Lucy Moon and she wouldn't let anyone say otherwise.