Lion Parmi Les Hommes

VI

"C'est ce que ça fait d'être une merde...être frappés de toutes parts par le monde poussé vers l'avant, vers l'extérieur, dans la puanteur et la lumière nues".

~Gregory Maguire, Lion Parmi Les Hommes

(Y/N) did not pay any mind to Marth paused in her path of travel and bumped right into her, stumbling backwards and then turning a questioning gaze unto her girlfriend, "M? Is something the matter?"

Marthe did not respond, only continuing to stare at something in the glass that (Y/N) could not, or perhaps was unwilling, to see. It took the shorter girl's hand, eerily cold, on Marthe's arm to draw her attention and then she just shook her head dismissively, "Sorry, I thought I saw something. Must just be tired", and then she rubbed her eyes as if to emphasize that point. Offering the closest to a reassuring smile that she could muster up.

(Y/N) laughed at that and then pulled the keys from her girlfriend's hand, unlocking the door herself, "Well, come on then, we can go to bed early".

Marthe nodded, albeit absentmindedly and followed behind (Y/N) though she did spare a glance behind her once again, trying to convince herself that it had been a trick of the imagination. This seemed enough to soothe her frayed nerves, all that greeted her in the darkness of the mirror was (Y/N)'s retreating back and her own pallid complexion. She just needed rest, that was all. Even with all of her self-reassurances, tucked up into bed next to (Y/N) she couldn't help the images seared into her brain. Not her (Y/N), but a girl of similar structure, the same face but these eyes were clouded with decay, flesh sallow and doughy, all bones and marred, sinewy appendages. That was wrong of course, all wrong. (Y/N) was very much alive, she told herself so many times as her nightmare came back to haunt her. Marthe didn't get much sleep at all that night, she laid with her ear pressed to (Y/N)'s chest, listening for the steady thrum of it beneath her breast and she kept her arm sprawled across (Y/N)'s ribs and stomach because then she could be sure of the breath in her lungs.

She slept not much more the following night or the night after. She never spoke to (Y/N) about it because she was the strong one, the stable one, and she was unwilling to admit that sort of weakness, even to the girl she held so dear to her heart. The nightmares persisted, Marthe wasn't even sure she should call them that anymore because they followed her into her waking hours as well. They would shower together and she would catch a glimpse of bone shard through raw tissue in the fogged up glass, or (Y/N) would pass a mirror and it would reflect grey skin and water-logged clothes instead of rosy cheeks and pastel sweaters. Marthe was losing her mind a bit, she thought.

She became paranoid. Marthe would draw the curtains across all of the windows and draped sheets over the mirrors, she wouldn't look into the water when she did dishes or let her gaze linger on the glass of the coffee pot. Everything was fine, it was all fine so long as she avoided the reflections, so long as she did not acknowledge them verbally or otherwise. It was all fine, all good.

(Y/N) had always risen early, though late enough that the sun had come up already. The light filtering through the linens was too much temptation. She knew that Marthe wanted all of the windows covered over but it had been dark inside for days now and she longed to read with the bluish winter light bleaching the old pages of her book. (Y/N) figured that Marthe wouldn't be up for a while yet anyways and so it should do no harm. Thus, she pulled the strings until the light was let in and it was as if all of the dreariness of the upstairs disappeared. For days she would wake and tiptoe out into the lounge and then she would draw open the curtains, shutting them only when she heard the beginnings of her girlfriend stirring in the next room over. She would then go over to the couch and sit so as not to draw Marthe's suspicion, sipping coffee and flipping through a book as if she had been there all along. Marthe would join her in not long at all, feet muffled by thick socks and she'd lean over the arm of the couch in order to see what (Y/N) was reading, "You read the same thing every morning, my love, doesn't that get tiresome? I could bring you the newspaper". (Y/N) always shook her head adamantly at that, she couldn't quite pinpoint what made her so averse to the happenings of the outside world but she was in no hurry to involve herself in any of it. She was content here, with Marthe. Perhaps there was a reason for her complacency that she wasn't quite ready to admit to herself. For now, she would lean her head back into Marthe's chest and close her eyes briefly at the touch of soft lips on her forehead and tell herself that things would be better left undiscovered.

No amount of internal chastising could stop her from her wondering, however, and as days melded into weeks her curiosity only grew in measure. It did not escape her notice that Marthe pointedly did not look into shoppe windows as they passed them when the two would walk to the theatre, or that Marthe would turn her gaze to the ground rather than face her reflection in the glass paneled doors of the Opera Ballet. She asked once, when they were trudging through the snow covered streets, "What is it that you're so afraid of?".

Marthe had paused then, appearing deep in thought, brows drawn together and lip worried between her teeth, "I am afraid that what I'll see is that all of this, all of this happiness with you, has been nothing but a cruel dream". (Y/N) didn't understand what she meant and she asked again, though this time she received no reply, only a vacant smile and then Marthe was walking on, tugging (Y/N) behind her, eyes straight ahead as if she could not bear to see her girlfriend any longer. The blustery winter wind felt much colder in the absence of the taller woman.

They separated before the grand staircase at the Opera Theatre, Marthe heading towards the auditorium and (Y/N) towards backstage. She leaned up to kiss Marthe before they parted, though she turned her head at the last second so that (Y/N)'s mouth just brushed her cheek and she looked almost in pain as she squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn't have to see the question etched into the shorter girl's expression. (Y/N) frowned at that but said nothing, only gently squeezing Marthe's arm in an effort towards some sort of reassurance and then she was hurrying off.

Usually, when she was dancing, (Y/N) could think of nothing else but the air under her feet and the exhilaration of thousands of people watching. Today, only one of those people mattered to her. Twice, she fell out of time with the music because her girlfriend was in the front row and she was lost in trying to find something in deep, brown eyes. What she sought, she couldn't be sure. Her practiced precision was lost to distraction and in all of that, the blinding lights, and murky gazes, her own thoughts, and the improperly tied satin ribbons, she fell.

(I am aware that I have not updated in literal months. It's short, it's not great, it's the remnants of a draft from weeks ago, I apologize. Will likely update this more regularly again, but no promises but also look out for a new story coming soon!)