Page 6 of Nosfer-Meet You

“Whatever shall we do with you? Can’t marry you off to someone your own age, and you’re too weak to carry the sacks of grain anywhere. No good with the animals. Do we sell you to the widower in the village for a few extra coins?” she always threatens.

I no longer visit the markets with Maman or allow her to touch my hair—another thing she hates about me, I’m sure.

Maman strides into the room and pulls open the shutters on my windows. The sunbeams strike me across the face like the back of her hand. I groan and roll onto my stomach to block out the sun, hoping she’ll get the hint and go away. But she doesn’t. Maman the ox, too stubborn to ever give up when she could get her way instead.

“Juliette, do not make me do this. You know how much I hate doing this—-” she starts, and I grab my pillow to press it over my head.

“So don’t,” I mumble into the pillow.

This has been our ritual for the past year. I lie in bed until the afternoon sun is high in the sky, and she charges into my bedroom to grab me by the ankles and pulls me out of bed. The entire house shakes from our fights. My father, always in the stables, never witnesses these violent tirades, but he hears of them from Maman at supper. He’s never once stepped in. Never asserts himself as head of the household. Never tells Maman to stop her foolishness and leave me alone. That would be too much work for him, I suppose.

When Maman yanks me by the ankles, the ground rises to meet me with a terrible thud. I can already feel the bruises forming on my buttocks. I roll onto my back and glare as Maman hovers over me with her arms crossed over her chest.

“What is wrong with you, girl? Sleeping all day and never lifting a finger to help your parents?” She shakes her head in disappointment. I don’t even care anymore. “We should have sold you to Widow Bernard when we had the chance! Now he has gone and taken another wife, and you have missed your only window of opportunity at a normal life!”

I let out a snort and stare up at her sweaty, tomato-colored face. “A child. He took a child bride. I have evaded a fate worse than death, and you think this is something I should be ashamed of?”

Maman bends down to slap me across my face, and I fall back against the floorboards for a second time. “Oh, get up, you insufferable sow!”

The taste of metal explodes in my mouth. I must’ve bitten the inside of my cheek when she struck me. When I finally pull myself up off the floor, my mother has already fled the room. Moving to the window, I look outside to find a group of shrieking and laughing children running circles around Papa. He is smiling and laughing, too.

Chapter 3

Scotty

MERDE, WHAT A COWARD

“Idon’t mean to interrupt,” I say, and narrowly evade a pool of suspicious goo by sliding past it. “I can tell you’re deep in thought about something. But, uh, where are you taking me, exactly?”

“Home,” Juliette says, and quickens her pace toward it. We approach a small alcove hidden away in one of the corners, and it’s here I see the source of the light. Dozens of candles sit on the ground and on top of crates here, dripping wax all over the place. But that’s not all; there are a few paintings on easels, sitting beside a tiny cot with a burgundy wool blanket and a few other small belongings. Pictures. Books. Tchotchkes. It would almost be cozy if it weren’t for the fact that piss and shit water was only a few meters away.

I notice words painted on the bricks above the entrance to the alcove. Le Salon de Juliette, it reads. I point up at it and grin. “Oh, cute. Did you do that?”

Juliette hurries over to her cot and checks underneath the blankets like a squirrel checking to make sure her nuts are still buried. She’s not going to answer me, so I’m just going to have to figure shit out on my own, I guess. I walk around the small space, nearly bumping my head on the ceiling a few times. Almost knock over a couple candles, too.

Juliette sighs and shoots me a scowl. “Prudente,” she admonishes.

I may not understand much French, but I understood her loud and clear. I nod, then sit down in front of one of the stacks of paintings and rifle through it without waiting for an invitation. Juliette doesn’t say anything as I flip through the stack of papers. Watercolor paintings of different French cities seem to be the trend in this stack. There’s a painting of the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Louvre. All touristy spots I’ve never visited. I’ve traveled a fair bit, but never there. And we’re hundreds of miles away from France, so I’m not even sure what she’s doing out here in Mystilla.

But there’s one I don’t recognize. I hold up the painting and tap it.

“Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre,” Juliette fires off quickly. I have no idea what she just said, but I nod anyway.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

Juliette sits back on her heels and … is that a small curve of her lips I see? I stare at her face for a long, long while. So long that Juliette swallows thickly and mutters, “T-Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, then put the stack of artwork down. “So, you’re a real painter. An artist.”

She nods from across the room. “Yes.”

I snort and lean back against a crate, trying to get comfortable. Yeah, fat luck there. “I can’t even draw stick figures.”

Juliette shakes her head slowly.

“Yeah, I know. Every artist hears that, right?” I ask. She merely answers with a soft tutting sound. That’s probably a yes, then.

Down here, there aren’t any sounds save for a slow dripping in the distance. Occasionally, the candles hiss, but that’s about it. Complete and total silence. It’s enough to drive a man mad. As a professional lowlife and metalhead, I’m used to noise. Lots of it. Heavy bass that makes my bones vibrate and my skull throb. The screams of a crowd going absolutely ballistic for the music.