Satine [ONGOING]

CLÉMENTINE (IV)

After church, as night settled over the autumn skies. Clementine's eyes drifted to the window as she pulled out a chair to sit in. She was deep in thought, a smile permanently etched to her face from the day. Satine had gone to sit with them eventually, and Marie-Lise had thanked her personally, though not louder than a whisper. She carried it like a secret. Most of all she hoped that she might have finally held the promise she had made to herself: to make sure Satine knew not everyone found her to be the self=destructive monster half the village had made her out to be. She hoped she had made her happy. She carefully took in the wet, green surface of the fields around her house, each drop shifted the grass in its stride. It looked peaceful. It gave the impression of a serene world at peace. As she watched attentively, she hoped the stillness displayed could convince her of this lie. Allowing her to forget the missing pieces of her household — including Leon's untimely outburst, and the five German soldiers dotted across different residences of her village — even if it was only for a second. From behind her came the clattering of pots and pans, as her mother and aunt Marguerite bustled about the kitchen in their usual practised evening dance. Somewhat lulled by the rhythmic sound, Clementine hugged her knees close to her body, feeling the weight of her exhaustion had finally caught up with her. Her bare ankles felt the chill of the glacial air that seeped through the thin windows as her nightdress lifted to reveal them.
"Clementine, ma puce," her mother started softly. "Would you mind keeping an eye on the fire?" The older woman turned toward the fireplace and her face contorted slightly, prompting her daughter to do the same. "I fear it might be dying out."

The young girl sighed, and slowly made her way to the fireplace. The flame fought for its life and evidently, it was losing the battle. Clementine took this as an opportunity to take a plaid off of the sofa, and wrapped it around her frail figure. The metallic, rusting instruments felt unusually heavy in her hand as she poked around the blaze to force some new spark.

"Where is Constance?" Marguerite suddenly asked, seemingly to no one, not bothering to turn around or even look away from the pot she stirred.

"She's upstairs I think." Her niece told her, her voice barely audible from across the room. The house was always quiet without Constance, had she been in the room, it would not have been peaceful and still. Anyone would notice her absence, especially those who were not used to it.

"Constance!" The older woman called up at the ceiling. In the face of the following silence she shook her head in disapproval..
"'Clem, could you please go get her, tell her she should have set the table already." The young girl obeyed, tightening her grip on the woollen plaid. She caught the gaze of her mother before slipping away. Watched as her smile turned warm, and how she blew her a kiss. Though many things were scarce in the house nowadays, some things had never changed.

They were rationing everything. Supply had narrowed over the past few months. The Pradier's saved as much as they could whenever they could: wood, candles, newspapers. The list was endless, all things one had never thought twice about before the war had started. As a result, the corridor and the staircase was plunged in darkness as Clementine stepped out into the thick of it. Only the doorway to the kitchen and living room gave off a feeble glow, which radiated underneath the door; but it couldn't possibly ward off the creeping darkness. She reached for the bannister, feeling a sharp pain go up her frozen foot at the sudden contact with the floor.

Suddenly, she heard a knock. A loud, persistent knock behind her. Her eyes widened with fright as she turned to face the door. The world around her seemed to slow down, as if a bomb had dropped and a shockwave had gone right through her, damaging every tissue and bone in her body. She didn't notice straight away, but her ears were ringing all of a sudden. A silhouette could be seen through the small window carved into the door. Last time she had opened it to a stranger, she had been met by a gun. A gun. She couldn't get the sight of it out of her mind, not a hunting rifle, a deadly one designed to hurt people. She bit her lip. What time was it? Who would be at their door at this hour? In this weather? It was raining rather heavily. The sound of it made its way across two floors. She took one step, then two, then three back down, unable to shake the gnawing feeling in her stomach or the lump in her throat.