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***
Small, gray waterfalls trickled down the page, threatening to mar the crisp white sheets beneath. The tears that wouldn’t fall before, coming in a cascade.
“Hugo?”
A light touch on my arm. I looked to see Vega, awake and alert, the covers fallen around to her waist. It made her look like a classical statue tourists went to gawp at in the Louvre. Every gentle curve of her, perfectly symmetrical with the others. A waking dream after a waking nightmare.
The pad slipped away as my strength relented, my hands falling slack on my lap. Vega pulled me to her, enveloping me in her gentle embrace. My soft sobs were muffled by her supple neck. The silver of the collar pressed into me as I held onto her, for dear life. Vega cuddled and shushed me lovingly.
“Want to talk about it?” she asked when I pulled myself together.
“I think I’d better, or I might go insane.”
It all came flooding out. The dam of denial and reserve had finally burst, letting the emotions flow free. One could only be stoic for so long before it stated to take a terrible toll. I’d never even been able to talk to my parents about what happened. Never talked to them again after the funeral.
As soon as Delphine was put in the ground, I was on the next plane back to California. Remaining in the airport terminal for the entire twelve hour wait. I just couldn’t face them. Their baby was dead. The guardian had failed. At least that was how I’d felt at the time. There was really nothing I could have done except take the bullets myself. Given the option, I would have.
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“But I did. It might not be right, but it was true. They had trusted me, Delphine trusted me and look where it got her? That was why I went funny when you said you loved me. I know it is a very different situation, but, in my experience, those who love me most die. Young and horribly.”
“You think you’re cursed?” Vega asked, without judgment.
“Now that you put it that way, yes. At least I did. Kind of silly, hey?”
“No, it’s understandable. You’ve been through a terrible trauma. People don’t to tend think clearly under such circumstances. Perspective can be a powerful thing.”
“True. I suppose an artist should know that better than anyone.”
Vega looked at the pad, her expression flickering from confusion to delight. Realizing what she was seeing.
“So it’s true.”
“The rumors that I’m an artist as well as a writer? Sure, for the last few years, anyway. I didn’t have any great plan to hide it. It just sort of happened when I was looking for something to do. Much like my first novel, honestly. Not to say there wasn’t any effort involved. Just no particular aspiration.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. I was hoping to capture the serenity of sleep. I’ve only done a bit of it and never saw it from the outside.”
“You don’t sleep?”
“Not for a while, although lately it feels I’ve done more of it than I have in like the last year combined.”
“What changed?”
“You.” I admitted, “I can’t quite explain it.”
Her warmth enveloped me once again as Vega kissed me tenderly, filling me with a sense of peace and calm.
“I love you,” I finally said, the words coming naturally.
“I know.”
Chapter Thirteen - Vega
The end was near. There were only twenty pages left. Even though I had a good idea how the story would end, I was still dreading its arrival. Part of the problem with powerful prose. It felt real. Even more so than television, which seemed odd.
Despite the realism of things like television or film, there is always a disconnect. Maybe it’s something about the audience knowing, at least subconsciously, what is really going on. Actors, reciting lines in front of a camera. Particularly if the actors were exceptionally bad or the shot composition especially clumsy. The sudden appearance of boom-mics was the bane of any amateur production.
Text had no such tells. There was no major immediate distinction in terms of the actual pages between a history text and a fantasy novel, except in how the exact words were used.
Which can be gotten around. As in cases of creative non-fiction in which true events are presented in a creative way, and novels which go out of their way to feel like realistic accounts. Especially when based on real life, it can be easy to engage with the characters and events on an emotional level.
Knowing the real story behind Hugo’s novel made it sadder, while also adding to the imperative to get it right. It was his goodbye letter to Delphine. I was honored he had trusted me with it.
“Fuck,” I choked, putting down the manuscript.
My fingers pressed hard, willing the tears not to come. I didn’t know if it would work but figured it was worth a try. I didn’t want to cry in front of Hugo. I didn’t want him to think he’d made me sad. He had, but not in the way he thought.
