𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃, joseph descamps

𝟎𝟏𝟕. behind the mask

THE AFTERNOON STRETCHES LAZILY, the sky tinged with pinkish hues as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon. Aimée has taken refuge in an empty classroom on the top floor of the school, seeking a bit of peace. Sitting on the windowsill, she watches the students gradually leave the building, each one returning to their routine, their friends, their secrets.

Just as she is about to leave the room and head home, voices from the hallway catch her attention. The door is slightly ajar, and through the crack, she catches sight of a familiar figure: Joseph. He's there, leaning against a locker, speaking quietly with Jean, a serious expression on his face.

She doesn't intend to eavesdrop, but something about Joseph's posture, the tension in his shoulders, keeps her from looking away. He doesn't have his usual arrogant demeanor, nor that mocking smile that irritates her so much. No, this time, he seems almost... fragile, breakable.

"I'm telling you, it's fine," he murmurs, though his voice lacks conviction. He absentmindedly reaches up to touch his eyepatch, as if seeking reassurance. "It's just... these past few days, it hurts more than usual. Nothing serious."

The boy in front of him raises his eyebrows, his eyes filled with skepticism. "Are you sure ? Because the last time you said that, you ended up in the infirmary."

Joseph lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, I can handle it. I don't need help, alright ?" His hand lingers on the eyepatch before falling limply to his side.

Aimée has never really thought about what it means for him to live with one eye. He wears it like a simple quirk, like an accessory that's part of his carefree style. Yet now, she perceives the truth behind his bravado.

She takes a step back, but her foot bumps into a desk, causing a slight noise that makes the two boys jump. Joseph turns abruptly in her direction, and their eyes meet through the gap in the door. There is a brief moment of hesitation, where neither seems to know what to say or do. Aimée feels caught, like an intruder in a moment that doesn't belong to her.

"Hey, redhead," he says finally, his tone softer than usual, his expression closing off instantly. He takes a few steps toward her, his jaw tightening as if trying to mask his embarrassment with a look of annoyance. "Spying on people now ? You must be desperate."

Her cheeks burning, she shakes her head, a mix of apology and defiance. "I didn't mean to... I didn't know that..." She doesn't finish her sentence, her words trailing off in the awkwardness of the situation. "I was just passing by."

"Sure," he replies, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "And you just decided to stay and enjoy the show, is that it ?"

Aimée opens her mouth to retort, but stops herself when she sees the look in his eye. It's not mocking this time, but rather... defensive, as if he's shielding himself from an attack that never came. She realizes then that there's nothing funny, nothing insignificant about this moment. He appears to her as he truly is, stripped of his usual masks.

She finds nothing to say. It's as if the silence has settled between them, heavy and full of unspoken words. After a few seconds, she steps back, then another, before turning away and walking towards the exit. She needs to get away, to leave behind this strange and unsettling moment.

So she leaves the school, descending the steps with her breath quickened, as if she's just sprinted. She picks up her pace, feeling an irresistible urge to put as much distance as possible between herself and him. But just as she reaches the gates, a voice, familiar and full of frustration, calls out behind her.

"Redhead, wait !"

She stops dead in her tracks. There's an urgency in the way he called her. She turns slowly, finding him a few meters away, his face tense, his brows furrowed. He looks angry, but not only that. There's something else in his eyes, something that confuses her.

"What do you want ?" she asks, her voice harsher than she intended.

He approaches her, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his gaze fixed on her with his one eye. "Why do you do that ?" he finally says, his dark eye shining with a glimmer she can't decipher.

She narrows her eyes, unsure of what he's getting at. "Do what?"

"Why do you always leave ?" he says at last, his voice rough, almost resigned.

"What ?"

"Every time," he continues, taking a step closer, closing the space between them. "As soon as it gets serious... you walk away."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about."

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips, but his gaze remains intense, almost desperate. "Stop it. You know exactly what I'm talking about." He gestures toward her, his fingers trembling slightly. "It's like you're afraid of what you might find out. Afraid of... me."

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She wants to snap back, to tell him he's wrong, that she's not afraid of him, but the words escape her.

"Why did you do that ?" he continues, his voice hoarse, piercing the silence. "Why did you come to see me that day ? When I was there, on the ground, bleeding out... Why was it you ?"

She averts her gaze, her heart pounding wildly. "I... I don't know," she whispers, unsure of her own answer. She remembers the chaos around them, the people forming a circle, some whispering, others nervously laughing, but she, she just felt an impulse, a need to do something.

"You could have done like the others... Just stood there and watched. But no, you knelt beside me, talked to me. You said it would be okay, even though we both knew it wasn't."

She struggles to find an explanation that would make sense, a reason that would justify that act. "I... I couldn't just leave you there," she finally says.

He stares at her with an intensity that roots her to the spot. "Then why, after that, did you act like I didn't exist, like that moment never happened ?"

A wave of guilt washes over her. She's never stopped to think about what that day meant to him, or even to her. At the time, she just wanted to do what felt right, without expecting it to leave a mark.

"That day was... it was just an impulse, I guess."

"An impulse, huh ? Like making yourself throw up, is that an impulse too ?"

"It's... it's not the same," she stammers, her voice trembling. "You don't understand."

"And what don't I understand, Aimée ? That you do this to yourself every day ? You talk about impulses, but I think you're lying to yourself. Because if it was just an impulse, you would've stopped a long time ago."

She remains silent, her cheeks flushing as if standing exposed before him, all her flaws and fears laid bare. She wants to defend herself, to say he's wrong, but deep down, she knows that would be a lie.

"You really think that gives you control, Aimée ? It's destroying you. Can't you see that ? It's keeping you from living. And honestly..." He pauses, a provocative smile curling his lips, but his gaze remains earnest. "If you keep this up, soon you won't have anything left to show, even to those guys who fantasize about your legs in gym class."

"What... ?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed ? Seriously ?"

She raises her hand to slap him, but he catches her wrist before she can. "How dare you ?"

Joseph doesn't let go, his fingers still gripping her wrist. "That's what I wanted. For you to react. To stop hiding behind this facade of a perfect, untouchable girl."

"You think that gives you the right to say whatever you want ?" she hisses. "To talk about my body like it's a topic of conversation ?"

"What I mean is... you don't need to do all that to please others."

She narrows her eyes, uncertain. "And what do you know about it ?" With that, she turns on her heel.