Felicite Found (18 page)

Drunk

“Luc,” he said when the door to his friend’s
flat opened. “Are you up for some clubbing? Get dressed. Let’s go.”

Luc choked on some food in his mouth. After coughing it out, he said, “Uh, give me a second.” Minutes later, he joined Pierre outside, pulling on his jacket. The sun had gone down, and the night’s chill had set in. “So, what makes you suddenly so eager to go clubbing?”

“Do I have to have a reason?” Heat-filled rage coursed through his pumping veins, heart pounding double-time.

“I guess not. It’s just you don’t
normally
like
clubbing.” Luc rushed in front of Pierre, pushing his palms against his friend’s shoulders. “What’s up, man? Is something going on with Félicité?”

“I never want to hear her name again. Ever. You hear that?” Stepping to the side of Luc, he continued walking. The journal had been placed under the mattress in his bedroom. He wasn’t about to take it tonight.

“Chill, man. You’re scaring me.”

“Good. It’s nice to be the one scaring someone. It’s not like she didn’t do enough of that to people—good people. If it’s true, that is,” he said under his breath.

They continued walking in silence until they arrived at the club. The first thing Pierre did was order a beer. He downed it in seconds and then wiped the frothy foam away from his mouth. “Again,” he shouted at the bartender. Downing two more mugs, he walked into the crowd that was dancing to thumping house music the D.J. was playing.

Luc appeared by his side. “I think we should go. Come on.” He tugged at Pierre’s jacket.

“I’m not done. We only just got here. Leave me alone or get me another beer or . . . something harder.” He pushed Luc aside as he slid to the side of a scantily clad woman, obviously much older than him. “What’s your name?”

“Nichole,” she said as lustrously as possible, batting her eyelashes. “You want to dance?” He
slid closer to her, crashing her body close to his.

“Why not?”

Hours and many drinks later, Pierre relaxed into a booth at the back of the club to make out with Nichole. Luc perched himself at the bar, eating peanuts, staring protectively at his friend.

“Hey Luc, I’m going back to her place. I’ll see you later.” Pierre stood with the woman by his side. He swayed back and forth to the deafening music, eyes no longer white but webbed with reddened veins. The puffy skin around his eyes was circled with dark rings.

Luc sidled up by his friend’s side in an instant and bellowed out over the screeching music, “No you’re not. Come on. Let me take you home.” He grabbed at Pierre’s sweat soaked shirt. His coat was gone, misplaced somewhere within the pulsating crowd.

“You’re not my mother. Get out of my way or else,” Pierre said drunkenly. The poor boy teetered back and forth, grabbing at a bar stool to his left.

“Or else what?” Luc stood taller now, trying to be intimidating.

“Give us a second . . . Uh, what’s your name again?”

“Nichole,” she said, rolling her eyes and throwing her hair behind her shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I’ll be right back for some more fun,” he said to her. She ordered another drink and nursed it with dainty sips.

Pierre swung a powerful punch at his friend. Caught off guard, Luc stumbled backward from the hit that landed straight on his jaw. He shrugged off the blow and jumped back in front of Pierre.

“I don’t want to hit you, man. Just come with me before you do something you’ll regret.”

Pierre took another swing at his friend but only hit air. Doubling over, he threw up in a puddle of foam.

“Come on Pierre, you need to get home.” He helped Pierre stand, but another round of punches were swung at him. With that Luc had had enough. Taking aim, he slugged Pierre in the ear. Pierre collapsed into
his waste, knocked unconscious.

“You’re home,” a voice said. “Now, come on, Pierre, just help me get you out of the taxi.”

“What?” Pierre mumbled. Pulling his dead weight out of the car, he threw up again on the pavement.

“Gross, man. That’s something
I’m
supposed to do after a night of drinking, not you.”

Feeling arms twist around his chest, Pierre was dragged up the stairs, his feet hitting each step hard with a thump, thump, thump.

After going up farther, he heard knocking. If he’d had the strength, he would have plugged his ears for the deafening sound splitting like an axe through his skull.

“Madame Rousseaux.” That name seemed familiar. “Uh, Pierre, got himself a little wasted tonight. I tried to stop him, but . . . I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my,” a recognizable female voice said. “Help me get him to his bed, Luc. He wouldn’t answer his phone. Oh, I’ve been so worried.”

Pierre landed face down on a something soft and fluffy; it smelled familiar—amazing, like strawberries. Hands tugged at his feet until something slid off, maybe his shoes.

“Do you want me to stay, Madame Rousseaux? I can make sure he’s okay.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I think he’s out for the rest of the night. He’ll have the wrath of his mother when he wakes up, though. Go home, Luc. Thanks.”

A door shutting pierced his head. Pounding pain throbbed behind his eyes. Within minutes, Pierre fell unconscious. He dreamed of a red balloon with a face drawn on it; it had his father’s name. As the balloon bobbed up and down in the wind, it popped. He heard a terrifying voice coming from somewhere, whispering something to him. What was it?

You will end up just like your father—dead.

Pierre Deals

Just before noon, Pierre woke up with a piercing headache. In his inebriated state, he had to hold onto the wall for balance. Having never been drunk before, all he wanted to do was die. Looking into the mirror, Pierre saw that his face looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and he had black bags sagging under his bloodshot eyes.

And to make his appearance worse, he had vomit caked on all over his chin. Wanting to be freed of the stink and find some semblance of being alive—not the living dead, he climbed into the bathtub, not bothering to take his clothing off. He didn’t even have the strength to do that. He turned on the tap with the nudge of his foot until it flowed out nice and hot and covered his aching body.

After fifteen or so minutes, he heard a knock on the door.

“Don’t be so loud,” he said to the awful noise.

“I was not being loud, Pierre.” His mom knocked on the door again, which made him moan. He knew she was doing that on purpose.

“Are you all right?” Her voice sounded strained. He would kill himself if his actions—whatever they were last night—made his mom depressed. She was just becoming happier.

“Just give me some time. I’ll be out soon.” With great difficulty, he shrugged out of his clothes; they splashed down in a sopping wet heap onto the tile floor. He dunked his pounding head under the steaming water. After he could no longer hold his breath, he came up gasping for air. He wondered how people could voluntarily do this to themselves when they knew how they would feel in the morning.

He could barely remember anything that happened while he was at the club. His ear was swollen twice its size; it stung as he slid his fingers over the skin. A brief flash of Luc’s fist crashing into his head popped into his mind.

What happened last night?

For some reason, he knew an apology was in order for whatever he may have done that would merit being punched in the face.

Soon, he clumsily walked out of the bathroom with only a white towel wrapped around his waist. The curtains were drawn open—bright rays of light flooded in. He swooshed them closed with the swift pull of his arm until the only illumination in the room was from light bulbs; even those made him squint. He sat at the table, and his mom poured him a cup of straight black coffee.

After some quiet minutes, she spoke to her son. “You going to make it?”

He rubbed his forehead with one hand and nursed the coffee with the other. “Can you speak a little quieter? My head is killing me.”

“I
am
talking quietly,” she said in an annoyed tone. Her arms folded over her chest, and a scowl like daggers filled her face. “How much did you drink last night? You’re an absolute mess.”

“I don’t remember much from last night. How did I get home?” He continued drinking his coffee, taking short sips.

“Luc brought you home. You should call him when you’re back to
normal
and thank him. He’s a really good friend for putting up with you last night.”

“I think I punched him, Mom. I’m a terrible friend. How could I have done that to my best friend?”

“If that’s the case then you need to call and apologize to him, too.” She huffed out a sigh. “Are you going to see Félicité again? She was so down yesterday, and I have no idea why she kept on apologizing to me. What happened, Pierre?”

“I never want to see her again and neither should you.” He leaned back in his chair and kneaded his palms into his eyes and then took a deep swig of his coffee again. “I don’t know how I could have loved—”

“Obviously, whatever happened between you two made you angry for some reason. Last night, I was worried about you while you slept. A couple of times, I heard you screaming Félicité’s name as though you were furious with her. Other times, you would cry out her name as though you needed her more than anything. But, most of the time, you repeated over and over again, ‘I hate you Félicité.’”

“I
do
hate her.” He crashed the coffee mug down so hard it broke into pieces. Steaming hot coffee spilled all over the table and his hand, but he didn’t notice. Hélène jumped at the sight, and gasped when he started crumbling pieces of the broken cup in his hand. Blood dripped down his palm without him perceiving the throbbing pain. “I can’t have
her
be a part of my life anymore. If you only knew her past you’d scream and run away,” he shouted.

“Oh, honey.” She tried to stop him from grinding the cup into his flesh any more. “Let me help you with your hand.”

Pierre’s eyes flashed to his hand and the blood pooling on the table. “What happened? Why am I bleeding?”

She didn’t answer him, only grabbed a towel to wrap around the wound. “Press on the towel until I can address it properly.” She raced into the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit.

Apparently not wanting to drop the subject, she continued, “Do you think you should talk to her
and work through whatever happened?”

“No, we’re over,” he said spitefully. He remembered what he had read in the journal, and what happened when he confronted her. This had to be some sick joke. How could she have lived hundreds of years ago, and
now
? How could she have tormented his ancestors, provoking them to kill themselves? It made no sense at all. And if he told anyone, it would make him sound crazy. “I don’t want her anywhere near me ever again.”

“I don’t know what her past is, but you must understand that all of us have a past. It is what we do with our future that is the measurement of one’s character.”

“Her past makes any decent future void, Mother.” He stood and paced the room only to sit again, light-headedness overcoming him.

“You shouldn’t stand, Pierre. Let me take care of your hand.” She started applying disinfectant on his open wound and picked out loose pieces of the cup until it was clean. He flinched as each shard was pulled free.

“Pierre, I want you to listen to what I’m about to say and not get upset, all right?” He nodded with reluctance. “Félicité completes you. It’s like you were made for each other and have known each other since the day you were born.” He groaned at the comment, knowing she probably always had been in his life from the day he was born, he just couldn’t see her. “With her around, you are more alive than you’ve ever been.

“You can own your feelings but don’t dwell on them. That will only lead you down a miserable road, one I refuse to have you go down.” She finished placing bandages on his hand and kissed it as if magically trying to make it better. “I love you, my son, and I want you to be happy.” He collapsed, his face fell onto the table, groans escaping his lips. She placed her hand on his head and stroked his wet hair.

“I can’t, Mom. I just can’t.” He stood, went to his bedroom, and shrank down on his bed without bothering to put any clothing on. With desperation, he wished all of this were a bad dream. His mom lifted him up until he sat on the edge of the bed, practically falling off.

“Come on, Pierre. You should put some clothes on. Don’t want you getting sick.”

She pulled out some random, mismatched pajamas and boxers from his drawers and placed them at his side. Without caring if his mom saw him naked, he stripped the towel off and shrugged them on. Luckily, his mom had turned away.

“You dressed?”

“Yeah, can I sleep now?” He lay back on the bed, heat rising in his cheeks.

Warm blankets were pulled over his body and then he heard a shuffle of light footsteps fade out of the room. He turned onto his side and snuggled into the linens. Pushing all thoughts out of his mind, he let the comfort of the bed overcome him until he fell fast asleep.

Once again he dreamed about a red balloon. It floated into the air until he could no longer see it. It was gone. His dad would never come back to him. He was left alone. His mom was left alone. And it was all because of her: Félicité.