Felicite Found (12 page)

“I know very well, indeed.” He paced around her like a deadly predator, and she was his prey. “Do not think me ignorant of your situation, Mademoiselle. I told you to come, and you disobeyed me. I should never have wasted my heart on you. I should never have spent one minute thinking you were my equal because, obviously, you are not.”

He took her by the hair and said, “Look at me!” Félicité did as she was told.

His face was mere inches away from hers. She could feel the heat of his breath. Then his lips ravished her own and down her neck. She tried to free herself, but his hand wound in her hair, and his arm wrapped firmly around her waist held her in place. After many minutes, his hold slackened, and he backed away.

“Your ugly face is swelling.” He spit on the swollen portion of her face. “You better say you fell and hit your head. You hear me?” He grabbed her again by the hair, his lips brushing her ear.
“And if you
ever
mention this to anyone, I will
make
you regret it. I will make your life a living Hell. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said as he threw her against the wall. The door slammed shut, startling her. He was gone.

Tears flowed down her cheeks as she tried to get up. She wiped his spit on her dress. Somehow, through her sorrow, she gathered the eggs and made her way back to the kitchen. Fear of Anton forced her never to breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Claire.

Félicité woke up gasping for air. She clawed at the couch, searching for Pierre, but he wasn’t there to console her. She ached for him to come home to protect her from remembering. She wanted more than anything for the nightmares to stop and didn’t want to recall anything more about her past.

But there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty: the awful man in her dream—whoever he was—had betrayed and broken her heart. Pierre was the exact opposite of Anton. Pierre was kind and generous and, above all, he would never hurt anyone, especially her. And he truly loved her as she did him. More than anything she had ever felt for the man in her dream.

Puzzle

“What’s wrong?” Pierre asked Félicité when he came home from school and found her hunched over on the couch, head in her palms. His mind immediately thought that she had remembered everything about her past, and it wasn’t good. At all.

“I had another dream. It . . . I . . . I think I understand why I wanted to die, now.”

Pierre tucked her under his arm, unsure what to say. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” Her head fell onto his shoulder. “With all this.” She motioned her hand up and down her body. “I cannot believe that you still care for me.”

“Félicité.” He faced her. “I want to be with you no matter what.”

“Promise?” she pleaded, peering into his eyes.

“Absolutely,” he said, taking her by the chin. “Always.”

Félicité let her head fall into the palm of his hand.

“There is only one good thing about the dream. I found out what my last name is: Moreau. I’m Félicité Moreau, the broken mess. That’s all I am.”

“No you’re not.” He lifted her chin. He gave her a short, affectionate kiss. “You’ve just had some bad things happen in the past. You have a bright future ahead of you, I’m sure.”

Félicité cuddled up to Pierre. Her warm breath enveloped him as she inhaled and exhaled as though he were in a garden full of perfect flowers. Her eyelashes fluttered on his skin, making him love her all the more. They sat in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the street below—cars honking and muffled voices.

He yanked out his cell. “I guess I’ll call the police department.” After telling Lieutenant La Roche her last name, the lieutenant said he would run a search and call him back.

“They’re going to call me back soon.” Pierre pressed on Félicité’s hand encouragingly.

Ten minutes later his cell rang.

Pierre listened, eyes narrowing on a piece of lint on his pant leg. “You mean to tell me there’s no Félicité Moreau at all?” he said after the lieutenant told him what he had found out. The girl of his dreams, sitting next to him, stiffened, and she pressed harder on his hand until his fingers were white and numb.

“I’m sorry, but she’s not in the system,” the lieutenant responded.

Pierre’s forehead scrunched up. “Thanks, Lieutenant.” He pushed the end button on his cell and flung it to the other side of the couch.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes,” she said with a shaky voice.

“Are you sure that your name is Félicité Moreau?”

“I
know
my name is Félicité Moreau.” She released his hand, backing away.

“Okay, I believe you.” He raised his palms into the air. “How about we not worry about this anymore tonight?”

“I could use a break from it. And to be honest, I do not want to know who I am anymore.” Félicité paused and then changed the subject. “I bought some things for dinner. I will start making it.”

She tried to go to the kitchen, but Pierre reached out and pulled her back to him by the wrist. He didn’t want her to put her feelings on the back burner.

“Félicité, don’t put up a façade that you’re okay. I know you aren’t.” He turned her head in his direction. “Please, for yourself, don’t think that you have to be so strong. Avoiding this won’t make things any better—probably worse.”

“Pierre, if you only knew how much it hurts not to know who you are. And when you remember anything—anything at all—you find out that life has been horrible, then you would want to avoid it. You would want to run from it and never, ever look back.”

Pierre didn’t know how to respond, but he would take her getting mad at him if it meant she was addressing her problems. “All right, I’m sorry. Let’s make dinner—together.”

While Hélène, Félicité, and he ate, Pierre grabbed a plastic bag that was on the floor by the table. “Open it, Félicité.”

She opened the bag, biting her lip. It turned out to be a box with a picture of Paris on the front. “What is this?”

“It’s a puzzle.” His eyes widened with excitement. “It’ll be fun to do. It’s of Paris. You might remember something by looking at it.” He had always liked putting puzzles together growing up. When he saw this one as he passed a souvenir shop, he thought it would be a perfect project for them.

“I have never put a puzzle together—I think. Sounds fun.” She started to open the box.

Pierre and his mom cleared the dishes while Félicité started to arrange the pieces on the coffee table. Once Pierre had washed the dishes, he joined the two loves of his life in finding all of the edge pieces. Pierre said that this made the process easier. They spent the rest of the evening working on it until they were too tired to focus any longer.

Hélène loitered around the living room, scrubbing the clean—now sparkling clean—kitchen over and over again until Félicité went to bed.

“She’s a really sweet girl,” Hélène whispered to her son. “I like her.” She winked and entered her bedroom. He was left alone. After visiting the bathroom, he took to the floor. He could actually spread his legs out straight there—more comfortable, for sure.

As he tried to fall asleep, he heard the cutest puff breaths coming from the other room.

Even in her sleep she’s beautiful
.

He hoped she would have a peaceful and dreamless night’s rest. She deserved it for once.

But it didn’t happen . . .

Haunted

Rippling shreds of her coal black dress snapped back and forth in the gusty wind as she pounded her feet on the pavement in a dead sprint. It was not until she reached her destination that she saw him coming. A bitter grin formed on her face—ominous and shrouded in darkness.

This is going to be fun
, she thought.

As the scruffy man approached, she whispered in his ear.

Go to the bar again. They will welcome you as they have for so long.

Drinking was a better existence for him than suffering the endless torment of her murmuring lies. Wasting his money on liquor was no longer an issue if it dulled his senses.

The only way to get away from me is by the bottle
, she reminded him.
If you drink enough tonight, you will forever be free of me.

“I want nothing more than that,” he yelled with spit spraying into the air around him. Opening the door to the bar made him sigh. His release was about to be obtained through a hard drink or maybe ten. “Whiskey. Now!” Pounding his fist on the bar shook—almost spilled—the drinks of other patrons.

“How much richer are we going to be tonight?” a scantily clad woman at the bar said, grinning as she leaned forward to expose her well-endowed chest. She filled a glass of whiskey and handed it to him.

“Just give me the whole bottle. I’ll be drinking it all.”

“That’s what happens every night, sweetie. But we enjoy rolling in your money.”  

He downed the small glass and then greedily drank from the bottle; the liquid gushed from his mouth and down his chin until it stained his shirt. “Another, now,” he demanded.

After finishing another bottle, he, inebriated, ordered another. He threw money at her—more than would pay for what he had drunk already.

“Honey,” she said. “You need to slow down.”

“I do . . .” Hiccup. “Not need . . .” Hiccup. “To.” He knocked over the bar stool, grabbing her by the neck with claw-like fingers. “Give me more. NOW!” 

A huge monster of a man appeared by his side, pulling him off the woman who trembled like an animal about to be killed by its predator. “I think it’s time for you to leave. Now.”

They cannot make you leave. It is your right to be here. Stand up to him.

“I . . . won’t leave. Need more drink . . . it . . . makes me not crazy.” He stumbled around the bar and grabbed the closest bottle he could get his hands on. Opening it, he began gulping it down in great swigs. The large man grabbed the drunk by his arm, making the bottle splash over both of them. It crashed to the floor, breaking into little pieces flooded by the potent stench of the liquid.

“It’s time for you to leave.” The guard dragged the drunkard to the door and kicked him out. “And never come back, you hear?”

“I won’t.” He hiccupped and then retched on the street.

Aimlessly, he stumbled up and down the swerving streets until he saw river water. The entire time he heard faint whisperings in his mind; the drink had thankfully helped them fade.

Only they suddenly were louder.

Walk to the bridge
.

He complied, falling multiple times on his way. After tripping halfway across what looked to be
Pont Neuf
, he stopped.

Climb onto the stone
, she said, her voice lathered with malice.

He did as he was instructed and glanced into the depths of the flowing water.

Do you want to be free?

“I do. So tired.”

All you have to do is fall,
she requested of him this time in a sweet as honey voice.

He leaned forward. Within seconds, he splashed into the water of the River Seine. Unable to control his arms or legs, he couldn’t keep himself afloat. After a short struggle, he lost the strength to stay above water and was pulled under and hauled along with the current. Water filled his mouth and lungs. Attempting to cough, he started to drown. No longer able to breathe he died.

Throughout the whole scene, the girl cackled an ugly laugh.

It must have been painful
, she thought.
It is better when it’s painful.

Wind circling around the girl with a tornado of dust caressing her skin. The girl sauntered away with a malicious, yet, joyous glimmer in her eyes.

Félicité awoke, bolting up with perspiration saturating her clothes and matted into her hair. She stared into the dark unable to breathe, eyes flashing across the moon-lit bedroom—safe from the dream. But not safe from other nightmares that may come. She moaned at the thought of ever falling asleep again.