Felicite Found (15 page)

Impossible

Félicité dozed restlessly for most of the night. She woke up many times wondering where Pierre was, but remembered he slept in the other room; his snores thundering through the shut door.

Between moments of wakefulness, she dreamt. All of her dreams made no sense—all blurred faces that screamed for mercy, begged to be left alone and offered peace from the hell there were trapped in.

Extreme agitation—mind muddled with thoughts of her past—overtook her each
time she woke up from the repetitive dreams. She thought a bath would help her unwind.

As she crept out of the bedroom, Pierre—twisted in a contortionist-like manner on the floor—mumbled, “You okay?”

How can he sleep like that?
Félicité frowned at the awkward sight.

“Bless your heart, Pierre. I seriously think we should switch rooms. I will be just fine sleeping on the couch. It is just the right size for me.” Her gaze danced from Pierre to the couch.

Pierre rolled over and straightened his legs as he pulled the blanket up to his face, snuggling in. His voice slurred with every word he spoke. “It’s . . .  not . . . that . . . bad.”

“Are you awake?” He said nothing but started snoring like a horn again. Félicité almost laughed when she realized he was half asleep and trying to hold a conversation with her. She bent over and kissed his cheek. He sighed and a big smile covered his handsome face.

Soon, her bath was drawn, and she stepped into the hot water. The temperature shot sharp tingles up her legs. Before long the sting subsided. She submerged her body into the warmth. It brought instant relaxation to her. Within minutes, she fell into a deep sleep.

She dreamt of the faces again, only this time she could see them clearly. Each of their heads were pale with gaunt features as if they had not eaten for weeks. They pled with desperate yelps, saying, “I do not want to die.”

But you will die, and I will make sure of it,
a screeching voice yelled.

All of the faces stared at the blackness that formed the maddening voice. “We only want to live. Please do not do this to us, it was not our fault.”

It is all of your faults because his blood runs in your veins. I will not have remorse or pity for you. Mark my words, I will never stop.

Stepping out of the obscurity, a girl appeared and emanated a hellish aura of deep red—the same shade of her lips. The rest of her was grotesquely pale. Her eyes were webbed with crimson veins that spread out from the aqua blue pools: the only thing that was pleasant or beautiful to look at. 

She scrutinized each of the men as their faces disappeared one by one until only a particular face was left: Anton’s. The men took after him—dark hair and sharp features. It made the girl eternally nauseous.

Her lips curved into a smile at the thought that Anton’s hell had already come, and he was burning in it.
Forever.

Félicité woke up shivering in the now cold bath water. Her teeth chattered to the beat of her thumping heart.

Light stretched its early morning rays into the bathroom through the small window.

How long have I been in here
?
How could I have fallen asleep
?

She unplugged the tub, and the water escaped down the hole. Once it was free of the cold water, she filled it again, and then cupped water over her goose bumped skin. After a few minutes, her muscles were freed from being tight like an expanded rubber band.

Pierre still snored in the other room, and no noise came from Hélène’s room. Félicité dried herself and dressed in the hospital scrubs. Hopping into bed, she pulled the covers tight over her body to escape the chill in the flat.

Instantly, she remembered the faces from the dream. She knew exactly who they were. And by name, too. They were the faces of all of male heirs who lived after Anton. With a gasp of horror, she remembered how each and every one of them had died. She had already dreamt about how some of them had perished, but the other deaths, likewise, were too horrible even to think about.

A sob rose from her belly because their lives were cut so short. She knew with certainty that they all deserved to live long, happy lives with their loved ones, especially their sons. In her mind flashed a familiar face—Pierre Rousseaux’s. It resembled . . .

Félicité bolted straight up. Heaving breathes choked in her throat. Drawing her legs to her chest, she rocked herself back and forth, trembling. 

But how could
that
be possible?

Her mind came to a halting stop as she remembered the girl in the dream—those eyes.

Félicité sprang out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom. Flipping on the light, she studied her eyes, their color, their likeness to . . .

Oh, no. No, no, no. That is impossible. There is no way. No way at all.

Châteaux de Rousseaux

“Come in.”
Félicité rolled over onto her side at the knock on her bedroom door. She lay wide awake stewing over the heavy fog of depression that had overcome her a week ago from the dream with all the faces. And . . . what she had done. It didn’t make any sense, but the more Félicité thought about it, the more she had the strangest feeling it was true. How was the question? It was impossible.

She stuffed that train of thought away—deep into the farthest corner of her mind; it had driven her crazy to the point that she no longer had the desire to breathe. She never got ready during the day. And going to Madame Rose’s was the only thing that brought her happiness. Even Pierre did nothing to help. His face was so similar to . . . But it had to be some strange coincidence.

Before she went to bed, she would chug down cup after countless cups of coffee to keep from sleeping. To succumb to more dreams made her quake with fear until her heart beat so fast she broke into hives. Jitters consumed her body as the caffeine submerged her to wakefulness.

Regardless of how many times, Pierre, Hélène, and Madame Rose urged her to see Doctor Garnier again, Félicité adamantly refused. 

“How about we go somewhere today?” Hélène said as she sat on the bed and rubbed Félicité’s arm in a motherly, tender fashion. “You have to get out of the house, Félicité. This isn’t healthy. Just because you aren’t remembering anything, doesn’t mean you can stop living. Maybe you aren’t going to remember your past. But, sweetie, you’ve got to move on with your life. Take it from someone who’s spent more than a decade being depressed. It’s not worth it. Your future can be as bright as you want it. Hiding from it is going to do nothing. Please, let’s go out to lunch—anything.” Hélène sighed, an expression of desperation flooding her face.    

Just to appease her friend, Félicité agreed by a quick nod.

“That’s the spirit. Now, let’s get you ready. Don’t want all of those pretty clothes Madame Rose bought you to go to waste.”

Without energy to pull her out of bed, Félicité held onto her new mom’s arm as Hélène led her to the bathroom. As she had done for the past week, she avoided looking in the mirror. Her eyes reminded her far too much of the wicked dream and of . . . her own impossible eyes. Remembering this stabbed and twisted and festered painfully in her chest. It screamed a flood of guilt
upon her as though hell had gaped open; the heat of the flames licking her flesh, scorching it to charred blackness. 

Hélène, Pierre, and Félicité finished eating a fancy lunch at a café on the outskirts of Paris. Being outside had definitely lifted Félicité’s spirits. The sun’s rays tickled her skin with the warmth of spring inching itself upon the city. Seeing the buds opening on the trees and blossoming into beautiful leaves and flowers had made her eager to have that same feeling envelop her. She desperately wanted to bloom into a new person, not the person in her dreams.

Thoughts of what
might
have been her past fell from her shoulders, allowing a flood of peace to fill its burdensome home. For the first time in a week, she sighed out in relief as though the act had pushed out all of her sadness. It then drifted into the air and was driven away in the subtle wind. A smile crept upon her lips.

“That’s what I like to see: my girlfriend smiling.” Pierre took Félicité under his arm as they strode away from the restaurant.

“Yes, a nice Sunday outing to make our girl happy, huh?” Hélène took Félicité’s hand in hers, and they continued to make their way home.

“Can we walk for a while? I would rather not take the metro right now, at least just for a while,” Félicité asked, still not used to its speed and congestion of people in the underground labyrinth.

“Sure,” Pierre took her other hand. Between the mother and son, they held onto the new addition to their family, Félicité, as though she were a child they wanted nothing more than to protect. “We can walk all the way home if you want. It’s a long way, but we’ve got time.”

“I would like that. Thanks.” She shrugged from her posture. “Sorry I have been such a pill lately. Hélène, you are probably right, I have to move on with my life. Maybe find a job or something.”

“That’s a great idea,” Pierre said, nodding and pumping a squeeze on her little hand.

And then it happened: they turned the corner, and a bitter chill prickled up Félicité’s spine. Breath no longer exhaled from her lungs. Moisture filled her dry eyes and sweat gathered along the nape of her neck.

“I didn’t realize we were so close to . . . I don’t want to be here. Let’s go, alright?” Pierre instantly tugged his mom and girlfriend away from the châteaux that stood menacingly ahead of them.

“We may as well go in, Pierre.” His mom pulled them toward the gates of the massive, taunting structure. “It’s not like it’s going to bite.”

“All right, then. But we aren’t going to stay long. You know how I hate this place.”

“I know, Pierre. I don’t particularly like it either. But we may as well give Félicité a tour since we are here.”

“Where are we?” Félicité asked, hardly audible. However, she didn’t need an answer to that question. She knew exactly where they were in complete clarity.

As they approached the grounds of the châteaux, Félicité desired nothing more than to run—sprint away from this horrible place and never look back. The anger and bitterness she felt in the dream atop
La Tour Eiffel
flooded into her as they walked through the gardens.

And something pressed upon her chest, demanding her to tell Pierre about the dream she’d had a week ago. But, she didn’t have the nerve to bring it up. It was as if she had to admit to something that wasn’t her fault. The heavy weight of guilt hammered down upon her shoulders only ten times more powerfully than before. Her body would be driven into the ground until dirt filled her mouth, suffocating her to death.

Pierre led her to the châteaux. Hélène strolled away and sat on a bench, giving them some privacy. “I’ve got to tell you something—something about this place.” They faced each other, holding hands at the front door. “This—” He motioned to the expanse of the grounds and châteaux. “It was my dad’s. He sold it years ago. It would have been mine, otherwise. It’s called
Châteaux de Rousseaux
. My forefather’s, who were nobility, lived here for centuries.” He bit the side of his mouth, rocking back and forth on his heels and then he pushed the heavy door open.

The foyer appeared just as Félicité remembered it. Exactly. She shuddered at the realization. In silence they went from room to room. The only difference from years ago was art hung in the rooms and groups of people chatting about the pieces with emphatic adoration.

“Monsieur Rousseaux.” An older gentleman with graying hair wearing a fancy suit approached. “It has been so long since I have seen you here. How are you?”

“Good, Monsieur Bourdieu. I’m giving my girlfriend a tour.”

“Well, that’s nice. How about I lead you to my favorite room in the châteaux? The room is off limits from the general public, but for you, it is all right. Please follow me.”

They trailed behind the older man down the wood-lined corridor, boasting large windows to their right all flanked by lush draperies. The farther they proceeded down the hall, the more a smothering chill invaded Félicité deep down to her fragile soul.

“This could have been Pierre’s study. Although, I am happy the châteaux is now a museum.” Monsieur Bourdieu smiled. “We rather enjoy being able to have this fine building display such beautiful art.”

“No offense, but I don’t actually care much for it.”

Monsieur Bourdieu sighed, his eyebrows pinching together. “Yes, it is understandable due to its history, Monsieur Rousseaux.” He stepped aside, letting them in the room first. “And here is the mysterious painting of the late Monsieur Anton de Rousseaux.” He pointed to the far wall not visible before walking into the room. “I still find it amusing that your father changed your last name, dropping the
de
. He sure was determined to lose the nobility that runs through your veins, wasn’t he?”

As Félicité turned her head to take in the painting, she lost her balance when she saw its face. Pierre whisked her upright. “Félicité, what’s wrong? Do you need to sit down?”

Inability to speak overcame her; she couldn’t even choke out a response. Her heart pounded so hard that its beats registered throughout her entire body. She had to run, flee from the painting of her tormentor. Yes, his name
was
Anton de Rousseaux. Her dream was real. Anton was Pierre’s forefather. But how, how could this be?

Suddenly a rush of heat engulfed her insides until the power of the sting hit her head. Black dots appeared in her vision. She crumpled to the ground, losing consciousness. The last image that crept into her mind was Anton de Rousseaux arriving home to this very room.