NEVERMORE : A twist to the tale

I slammed the bedroom door behind me, taking in a last deep, intense breath before rushing to each corner of the room with my soaked hair.

I threw my wet clothes on the ground and tied up my hair with a towel from the adjacent bathroom, remaining in my underwear. It was always in the moments of anger that you hurt your little toe against a piece of furniture. Which was exactly what I did, swearing some insults at Spectre’s commode. I stuffed all my belongings into my bag, trying to squeeze in as many things as possible without folding them.

In the middle of my mess, I had left one of my notebooks on the floor. I always took them with me, hoping to relive an emotion and be inspired in some way. I knelt down to pick it up, coming across the date stamped on the page it was open to. It was my diary of the year that had changed my life. Seven years ago, from the time I had left my hometown. A time that seemed so distant with painful memories that I hadn’t dared to go back into it.

I plunked to the ground.

Our first official date!!

Augustus is the most romantic (soon to be architect) man I ever met… he organized a typical French picnic (in a real basket) for us to eat by the Seine. He told me to dress casually, which I did, putting on a plaid midi dress with a hair bow, because no one wears a bow anymore.

Augustus told me I was sophisticated, and his eyes settled on me for long minutes the moment I arrived, which I guess is a good sign. After that, I accidentally crushed the picnic basket by smashing it with my heel, not noticing it on the floor because I was too excited to see him. And what did I do? I laughed. Augustus, on the contrary, did not. Then, I invited him over, but he found out I was a terrible cook, so we made love. I didn’t orgasm twice like in those novels, but he did, once. I like him a lot, and I think he likes me too, because he cuddled me afterwards. It was like in a book. And here I am, writing this to myself instead of sleeping in the comfort of his arms. Maybe it’s true love like mom and dad’s?

I laughed at my old self as if she were someone else, so stupid, foolish, and naive. I was failing at being perfect, and I had no idea.

I turned a new page. “Let the villain era begin, my dear.”

Augustus had to work on a uni project with a girl with a beautiful flowery name. Violette, I think. I met her—she could be a model but isn’t one. She was kind to me, and they already had inside jokes. She seems like a good friend. But all I felt was jealousy. The way his eyes bored into hers was nothing like he ever looked at me. He had a stupid corny smile on. My heart wanted to combust. I think I’m in love with him… Maybe he’ll love me over time? I’ll do anything to fight for true love. Maybe she’s the villain behind her angelic facade?

“Well, that was embarrassing.” I spared myself from reading how I tried to hold Augustus close to me, trying to be as perfect as possible, but I was insufficient. I was not the chosen one. I faded over time, and my smiles filled with jealousy and envy toward the sweet and kind Violette. I had believed for a few months that I would experience what I craved the most: a romance of my own.

“She was not the villain,” I sang in a high-pitched tone as I went back to the beginning of the journal, having no desire to remember Augustus and flower girl’s love story.

I was the one in the way of their one true love, and now they were happily married, living the Insta life.

“Assholes,” I cursed before I stumbled over a different handwriting.

A note was tucked in the middle of my notebook.

Please, continue to inspire me with who you are.

My brows knitted at the title. It was the day I’d met Augustus at Les Beaux Arts seven years ago.

“Wait, I remember that day.” I gazed at the handwriting, plunging into a memory of the past I hadn’t thought about all this time.

I had arrived early at Les Beaux Arts, except that on the way, my long dress had caught in a thorny bush, like an unfortunate irony. It was torn, and pulling it didn’t help its case. I had left my belongings in the studio where I was working as a muse, and I had locked myself in a kind of storage room, hoping to find a thread to repair the seam, when I heard the group of students arriving.

Long story short, they went through my stuff and read my unfinished novel, making fun of my characters and describing me as “the corpse bride who paraded through the halls like an evil ghost.”

My finger slammed across the page of this day.

I just wanted to get out of that stupid closet and give them a good lesson. But I had to keep my job, so for a moment, I mumbled in my corner about how I’d get out from this mess, thinking that I was alone among the vast tall shelves filled with odds and ends—from unused globes to wooden mannequins to learn poses, and sheets of all sizes and old art books. A window covered in cobwebs lit up the path with dust in a blinding orange light.

I ducked down to see the other side, but all I saw was a boy, or rather a raven-haired man drawing on his canvas. He was leaning on the ledge of the vault of the other old window with a crack, dressed in holey black jeans, and had no problem sitting down in the dust. His bag was old, with hanging threads. I wondered if he was a student—he certainly didn’t have the attitude. His dark gaze fell on me, and I immediately took a step back.

He was threatening, but I threw him a “What? I’m surprised you’re allowed to be here too.”

He deigned not to answer me, and his disinterested gaze returned to his canvas as if I was boring him to death. It didn’t help calm my nerves.

I wanted to go out, but the latch dropped in my hand. This building was so old that nothing held in place. I complained and knocked on the door, and that’s when the rude guy decided to get up.

I thought he was going to help me or say a word, but he stared straight ahead, not glancing at me, his hair falling in front of his eyes. He was strange, believe me. Tortured, even.

He, on the other hand, managed to open the door without the handle and, for once, dared to look at me from his side profile. “Wait here.”

I was about to protest, but he closed the door behind him and left me in this critical situation. I knocked on the door, insulting him from inside. Whispers coming from the studio echoed, and I stopped kicking the door to eavesdrop. The words “freak” and “beggar” escaped the incomprehensible hubbub.

There was a noise from the table, another one, and laughter. Soon, footsteps headed in my direction. I stepped backwards, a shadow forming under the door.

My notebook slipped underneath, and I grabbed it directly, clutching it to my chest. “Thank you, but I’m stuck. I can’t get out,” I said.

I glanced at my book, and a note was added inside.

Please, continue to inspire me with who you are.

The latch clicked, and the door opened slightly, and I put the note back where it came from and rushed outside.

The strange, tortured man.

He was walking away, hands in his pocket. He’d given my novel back to me. I was ready to run after him, to thank him, but a voice interrupted me.

“You lost something, love?” A man with a devastating smile gave me back my bag, his elbow leaning on the doorstep. “I don’t think that old closet is suitable—nobody goes there. Are you okay?”

“Who is he?” My stare locked on the rude stranger from the closet, who looked back in my direction for a moment before continuing his way through the corridor and disappearing. I wondered if I would ever see him again. “I met him in the storage room.”

“Him?” he chuckled. “Don’t pay attention to him. He’s a freak. I’m not even sure he takes classes here.”

My eyes then swiveled on the stranger in front of me. He was charming with high cheekbones and brown, tousled hair.

“But he gave me back my journal.” I raised a brow.

“And that’s why he’s running away instead of having a pleasant conversation with you?” The man knew how to smirk, and he had a point. “So maybe you could thank me over a walk later on? I promise I won’t bite, and I’m known to have excellent conversation skills.”

Dear diary, this day was a sign of fate, I know it.

And I’d made the right choice.

“Aurore.” I held out my hand to the man in front of me. “Sounds like you’re my hero.”

“At your service.” He kissed my hand. “Augustus.”

I smiled.

“Augustus. You sound just like a prince.”

I had met the man who would undoubtedly steal my heart and make it vibrate and fly through the air.

I closed the notebook, looking vacantly at the floor in front of me. How could I have forgotten about all of this?

I remembered searching for that stranger the following days by going to the storage room.

I never saw him again. Not once, to the point that I thought I had made it all up.

“Fuck,” I dropped in a whisper, my cold heart decaying.

There were similarities that were incomparable, starting with the ghostly presence of the stranger.

Spectre.

Ajax, could it be you?

And why didn’t I remember you sooner, erasing this part of the story?