Nadia Dupont || Before
“Simone, I can’t let us continue to have a relationship.”
Her haggard reflection stares back at her, brows furrowed in concentration. She tries to see beyond herself, to envision Simone standing in front of her, but can only get the image to settle for seconds at a time before it ripples and fades.
She’s practiced this conversation for hours. Ever since she returned home for the day. Simone had attempted to coax her into coming over, eager to put her through another rigorous study session, but she didn’t have the stomach to see them today. Not after everything she’d learned.
“You’re a monster,” she whispers to her reflection. “If not in body, then in spirit.”
Her reflection frowns in response. It has the gall to even look… hurt by her words. How can you deface yourself? it asks her. How can you go on pretending we are not the same?
With a final, frustrated growl, Nadia spins on her heel and stalks out of the bathroom.
She has to distance herself from Simone. Hallucination or not—and she’s less and less certain what she saw was a figment of her imagination—she poses a danger to herself and the people around her. She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she caused Simone harm.
If only she could get the words out.
Planning never goes how she wants it to. If she wants to follow through at all, she will need to be spontaneous. And so, before she can think of the consequences, Nadia throws her bag back over her shoulder and stalks out of her apartment.
The walk to the Abjuror’s tower is a short one. Before she can blink, she’s in front of Simone’s door. No turning back, she thinks as she brings a hand up to knock.
Before she can make contact, the door swings open.
“Somehow,” Simone says from the other side, “I knew you would change your mind. Especially since you didn’t come by yesterday.”
Despite herself, a relieved sigh leaves her. It doesn’t matter how her hair sticks to her sweat-slicked cheeks, or how she’s sure her skin smells the wrong side of pleasant. As soon as Simone’s face is in her view, she throws herself into their arms, allowing them to rub circles into her back.
Focus.
At once, the comfort she feels leeches from her. She pushes herself back and forces herself to look them in their eyes.
They must sense the change in her. With a frown, their grip shifts to her shoulders. “Is something wrong?”
“May I come in?”
Without a word, they step back and allow her into their apartment.
Simone’s space is as organized as they are, all white space and severe angles. Several dark wood shelves line the walls, a contrast to the vastness of everything else. There is not an item out of place—from what she can tell, anyhow.
As she shuts the door, Nadia takes a breath and debates how to begin. Hey, Simone, I think I’m turning into a monster. Is that too straightforward? It’s a better explanation than, We shouldn’t see each other anymore. Less likely for them to get upset.
“Nadia?”
Simone’s voice cuts through her, sharp and knife-like. She stiffens, back pressed flat against the door, a strange warmth gathering in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps they hadn’t meant to, but their voice has a dominating edge to it.
Perhaps she could let them put her through another lesson before she cuts them off. Would that be selfish of her? Would they hate her for it? Would they chase her out as soon as they knew?
Their brows pull together. Concern fills their gaze. “Nadia?” they say again, softer this time.
She takes their hands in theirs, phrases of all sorts turning over in her mind.
Finally, “We cannot continue to see each other.”
Their dark eyes flash. The frown they wear deepens as the full weight of her words sinks in. Their grip on her shoulders grows tight. “What are you talking about?”
“Simone, I can’t keep dating you. It isn’t safe.”
“What are you talking about?” they ask again.
Nadia traps her bottom lip between her teeth. How much can she explain? What would sound best?
“I…”
“Tell me you’re trying to be humorous. Tell me this is a joke.”
“Simone…” Despite herself, Nadia’s voice cracks. “Why are you wasting your time on a dead woman?”
Simone shakes their head with great force. “You aren’t dead. Not yet.” Then, after a pause, “You won’t die. I will make sure you won’t.”
Nadia chuckles sadly. “You can’t know that, Simone. This could all be for nothing. A waste of time. You warned me from the beginning how much you hate your time to be wasted.”
Their mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, they press her forehead to theirs, ragged breaths fanning across her face. Their warmth envelopes her, a sharp contrast to the door at her back. Nadia’s resolve slips, just for a second. Just long enough for a single tear to well up.
You are a weakling. If you were a better person, you wouldn’t delay the inevitable.
She wants to shove herself away, wants to yank Simone closer and ride them through the waves of misery threatening to consume her. And yet, if she does anything, it will be her total undoing.
They hover on the edge of this precipice for a long while, Simone’s tears dampening her cheeks.
“Do not play with my heart like this,” they say at last. “I beg of you.”
As their lips hover over hers, her resolve hardens. “Simone…”
Before she can speak, they capture her in a kiss, body hiccuping against hers. Their tears mingle together as she closes her eyes and loses herself to the moment.
Then, as they grab a fistful of her hair, she shoves them back.
“Don’t. Please.”
“Why?”
“You are blinding yourself to the facts. The facts here are this, Simone: I am dying and there is nothing either of us can do to stop it. And if I am not dying, I am turning into a monster.”
Confusion clouds their gaze. “You are the furthest thing from a monster imaginable, Nadia.”
“But it’s the truth. Something is wrong with me. Something vile and twisted.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Look at me!”
The shriek bursts from her before she can stop it, echoing off the walls. How does she look to them right now? Does she appear as desperate and distraught as she feels? Can they see the cracks forming in her human veneer?
Simone scans her from head to foot. They’re looking, but are they seeing? She doesn’t know. Which is worse—seeing the reality or buying the lie?
“You want to know where I was yesterday? You want to know why I called off our date? It’s for this reason. I went to Etienne’s house, we got high, and I… I can’t even describe it to you. It was like being someone else. Something else.”
Their brows crinkle. “You were high,” they say. A statement, and yet it feels like an accusation. “Of course you couldn’t process properly.”
“I turned into a monster, Simone. For several, heart-wrenching seconds, all I could think about was tearing out Etienne’s throat. And I liked it.”
For the first time this conversation, Simone’s response is what she expects, all wide-eyes and a half-step away from her. Their outstretched hand begins to shake.
Her resolve wobbles at their expression, but she presses forward. “If I hurt him… Gods, if I hurt you, Simone. Either of you. I could never forgive myself for that. You understand, now, why I am stopping our relationship? You understand why this thing between us ? Even now, you are afraid of me. Deep down, you know the truth as well as I do: you cannot love a monster.”
She hates herself for the way their face crumples at her words. It’s for the best, she tells herself as they press their face into their hands and shake with the force of their silent sobs.
She can’t let this conversation go on.
“I truly am sorry, Simone. I wish it wasn’t this way.”
Before she can stop herself, before she can watch their heart break further, she throws herself back out the door and towards the exit. Simone’s anguished shriek follows her down the hall.
#
Nadia did what was best for everyone. She tells herself this over and over and over again, but she can’t quite get herself to believe it. How can breaking Simone’s heart be the best answer? Why did she date them in the first place? Why did she bother with any of it at all?
If she was a better person, she could wipe away the traces of her existence entirely. Jumping off the edge of the mesa would be enough to take care of her, she thinks. As an alternative, she could fling open the door of the tram and plummet into the forests below.
She could also keep her death more personal. Enough Serenity could numb her to the pain of however she deigns necessary to end herself. There is no need to get other witnesses involved, after all. It would be selfish of her to inflict her final trauma on them.
With a shriek that strains her vocal chords, Nadia shoves her face into her pillows, tears flowing anew.
For a couple of months, she has become an expert in forgetting her own mortality. The pain is ever-present now, true to Doctor Aiza’s warnings, but it wasn’t until the distorted visions she experienced she’s realized she will die at all. And, if the churning in her gut is any indicator,
The room is grey with the first lights of dawn by the time she emerges from her fugue. The dull slap of her feet echoes through the apartment as she drags herself to the bathroom. Then, as ice-cold water drips from her fingers, she lumbers towards the phone on the wall.
The click of the line is sharp enough to draw the breath from her lungs. In the silence that follows, she teeters on the edge of collapse.
Then, a voice, soft and thick with sleep. “Hello?”
Nadia’s throat thickens. “Maman.”
A gasp, so faint she almost misses it. “Nadia?”
All at once, she’s on the floor, heaving sobs tearing from her breast. She cradles the phone’s mouthpiece like a child, keening into it until she has to stop to catch her breath.
You have no one to turn to, her conscious goads. You’re a danger to everyone you love. Everyone who is foolish enough to love you.
“Darling? What’s wrong?”
You never told her you were dying, did you?
The thought sobers her, somewhat. With a sigh, she recollects herself, storing all of her grief and anger and pain into a jar somewhere deep inside herself and screwing the lid on tight. Wiping her eyes, she regards the mouthpiece in her hand.
“Nadia?”
The voice inside her, no matter how insidious its intentions, is right. “I am sorry,” she says in a breathless whisper. Then, before she can think, she slams the mouthpiece back into its cradle.
She doesn’t remember the march back to her room—not until her face is pressed into her pillows and fresh sobs claw their way out of her throat. The pillows tear under her nails, spilling feathers like animal entrails. Even this wanton destruction isn’t enough to satisfy. It’s too sanitized. Too neat.
And yet, despite the lilting voice in her ear urging her to move, to find something new to tear apart, she cannot. Instead, she lays there, palms warm against her bare stomach, watching the time pass with the shifting of the shadows on her wall.
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