A DOVE'S POEM

My brain treats empty spaces like a security vulnerability. A virus, even. I am well aware of that. In the absence of a crisis or setback in the White Wing, my brain forces itself to create imaginary ones to stress over. I have little control over it. The orange prescription bottle on the bathroom counter is one of the ways I have to slow down these thoughts. It was prescribed for that specific intended purpose. But I haven't touched that bottle in over eight years. So self-induced hypothermia had to do. My entire body soaked in an ice cold bath – save from my head and right arm, which I kept my eye on to monitor my vitals. The timer sat on the basin. Exactly four minutes and thirteen seconds. Not a second more nor less. The ice cubes clicked against each other as I shifted only slightly. Ten seconds left. The goosebumps on my arms stood out, yet my body refused to shiver. Seven seconds. Six. Five, four… I didn't wait for the timer to go off to get out. I got out with the timer. The icy water dripped down my skin as I reached for the towel. I dried myself off. Exactly three dabs on each part of my body, then threw the towel around my neck. I wore a black sweatpants before going to sit on the balcony – where my laptop was. Paris was dead quiet this early. The 2AM sky shimmered dimly. The winds bit my bare chest and back, grazing over the angel-devil wings on my back. Wings identical to my cousins. I unlocked my laptop and the first thing I saw was a message from my uncle through Microsoft Teams. Sent at 21:43. I was long asleep then. He knows that. The message read as follows: hey nephew. I know you won't see this until tomorrow morning but I need the security footage of the New York docks from the 31st May. Specifically around 12-4pm. I'll be expecting it first thing tomorrow morning, okay? Please and thank you. PS: your my favourite nephew. My lips curled into a small smile as I resisted the urge to type “you're” and correct him. Security footage isn't something I usually just give out to. Not even to my family. If it was anyone else, I'd have left it and carried on. Unfortunately I am cursed with the inability to say no to Uncle Liam. Everyone is. It only took an hour for me to get the footage. I sent it to him immediately. And seven minutes later he called on Teams. A chuckle escaped from me as I answered. “That was f*****g quick, nephew.” He said, his voice groveling. “I don't like dwelling on simple tasks that can be done immediately.” I spoke in French. “Sure. Turn your camera on. I wanna see your face.” He said as he turned his own camera on. He was seated in – I'm assuming – a leather seat in his study. My auntie Delphine lay asleep in his arms. I turned mine in as well. “There he is! How are you, birdie?” He said joyfully, careful not to wake up auntie. “I'm fine.” I muttered. “I really appreciate you getting that done for me. It means a lot.” He said. I nodded slightly. “You're not even gonna ask why I need it?” He asked. I tilted my head, “would it be disrespectful of me to say no?” He chuckled. “You can at least pretend to give a fuck.” He said with a smirk. “Pretending takes too much energy.” I said, “Speaking of, I need to eat breakfast.” “I don't even want to comment on the fact that it's still too early for breakfast. I'm going to bed.” He said, yet waited for me to hang up – which I did. Then replied to his previous message with: *You're* = you are. Your = possession. He reacted to the message with a laughing emoji. I've always wondered what made him so happy all the time. Auntie Delphine's brothers – one of which is my father – hates him. He's part of a crime syndicate by marriage default and is exposed to the horrors of the elite lifestyle everyday. Yet, he still manages to have a smile on his face. How? The only other ray of sunshine I know is Maksim. And even he can't get close to Uncle Liam. Three hours passed. At 6am I went for a morning run. The air was still chilling. Perfect. My monochrome athletic wear matched almost perfectly with the Parisian sky. The streets were silent for the most part. That would change in a few hours. For now, I enjoyed the silence. The silence didn't last long though. As soon as I reached the main road, the noise started picking up. People, cars, the sky itself, everything woke up. Paris woke up. I continued my pace throughout. Running past the street corners, the opening shops and now busy cafés. I stopped in front of this cozy bookstores. One I'd always thought about trying out but never actually getting that far. I knelt down to tie my laces. A simple miscalculation, but one that should never have happened. I must have undone and redone the left shoelace five times in order to get it perfect and it still wasn't. I probably looked like a mad man to the people that walked by. That's what my father says. He says that people don't understand people like me, and that they think I'm insane. They're right in some regards, and I inevitably don't care what they think. On the seventh try, I finally got it perfect. I got up and faced forward, ready to keep running. As I did, the vision of soft pink curls and a white baby doll dress interrupted my line of sight. A goddess-like woman coming out of the bookstore, speaking on the phone in a beautiful, bilingual balance of French and Italian. She looked so bright against the dull skies – against me. She looked…like a dream. Keep running, Jean. Ignore her!! My brain yelled, but my eyes seemed to be defiant. They followed as she walked over to her car, and even followed as she drove away. I let out a shaky breath before continuing my run. It was nothing. Just a little distraction, a minor inconvenience. Those were the thoughts filling my head all morning. When I got back home and got dressed. When I went to the White Wing Manor to meet my two Uncles and fathers. My brain kept trying to convince the rest of me that that woman was just a blip in my existence. I would've believed it – as I usually do. I would've moved on and forgotten. The problem with that is…I can't forget. Those pink curls always find a way to show themselves in my memories. That woman… That beautiful goddess… I want to know who she is. I need to know who she is.