Beneath Forbidden Shadows

Between fear and desire

"Emma…"

His voice was barely a whisper. She wouldn't have known if he was going to kiss her or simply place a hand on her shoulder. And if he did kiss her? That would have been perfectly legitimate, given her current attire. She wasn't really dressed, save for the cardigan she'd pulled on. Truthfully, it wasn’t as if I was truly dressed underneath, or fully covered by the cardigan. I only had my lace briefs on below, and nothing else. Doesn’t he know? Of course, I didn’t tell him. But is he going to tell me he didn’t notice? And that he’s unaffected by all this?

"Emma…" he pronounced again.

His voice, then silence. No more gestures, not a single further movement, nor a single extra word. Nothing more, and he did nothing. Nothing at all. Just her name, and he remained there, a few centimeters away. Too many centimeters. Or not enough.

Damn it. Is he doing this on purpose? It's quite cruel of him towards such a young innocent like me who means him no harm, only that he be mine, and nothing more. She told herself, deep in her thoughts.

She opened her eyes again. Looked at him.

"Don't do this," she murmured. "Not if you're not going to do anything afterward." She whispered to herself.

He stepped back slowly, as if he'd heard something in her thoughts. Or hadn't quite understood her words, if she'd spoken them aloud. But how could he hear my thoughts? Did I speak aloud? Impossible. Fleeing, to sort all this out, is the only best alternative available to me right now. She corrected herself, deep inside.

She ascended with gazelle-like steps, without another word. This time, she slammed the door behind her. And leaned against it, needing to catch her breath after the scene that had just unfolded. Her heart's beats relentlessly pounded against her chest. As if her heart wanted to tear itself from her chest after having claimed its freedom too much. But her altered breath wouldn't allow it.

Then she ran again and collapsed onto the bed. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted… him to follow her. To dare. To cross that line she had never dared to name.

But no. He didn't dare to cross that invisible line that kept them so far apart. He was too little courageous for it. She shouted this to herself in her thoughts, and she continued: With all that imposing charisma, and he lacks just a tiny bit, just a small shred of courage and I'd be his. Let him throw his aura around, if he can't throw himself into the water to save a little innocent drowning in a despair linked to her love. Yes, she’s not ungrateful. He had already thrown himself into the water for her in the past to save her life. And what's stopping him from doing it again for her today? Besides, the risks are minimal. Minimal? There are none. It’s just the two of them here, it will be their little secret. No one will know anything. Does he even know? If anyone found out anything, it would be his fault, not hers.

Let him go to hell, she’d endured enough. What kind of man is he? He lacks audacity, him. And me, did I ask him for audacity? Just a little bit of courage and he acts in this humiliating way.

"Ugh…" She sighed, to return to her most clear-headed state of mind. She punched the mattress and pulled the sheets over her head. Because she realized she was the coward in the story. That if there was anyone to blame for a lack of courage, it was none other than her, not Serge.

She wanted to bite herself, to scratch herself. But instead, she preferred to grab her notebook nearby and scribble down everything that was bothering her:

"I'm scared. Not of him. But of myself, when he's here. And of what he might awaken."

Then she got up. Opened the window again. Serge was no longer in the garden. But the still-smoking cigarette butt on the low wall testified to his presence down below, near the window where she had just left him.

She smiled despite herself. She hadn't lost him yet, after so many years of absence, and he, he had stayed there. Right there, without marrying, as if waiting for her. She, she had left without a sound, but he, he had always remained deep within her, leaving a trace, or rather a flame.

Morning had gently settled over the family home. A pale light filtered through the bedroom curtains, drawing clear, trembling lines on the walls. Emma slowly straightened, the sheets still gathered over her head. Her body still carried the tremors of a scene too sensational and emotional for her. A hazy but powerful and disturbing scene.

She rushed to the shower, emerged some tens of minutes later, and dressed without much thought, choosing flexible jeans and a light shirt. When she went downstairs, the house was silent. Too silent. No clatter of dishes, no smell of coffee. Not even the radio her father usually played on a loop.

She found Serge alone in the kitchen, leaning against the table, a newspaper in hand. He looked up as he heard her enter.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," she replied, her voice still a little hoarse.

He scrutinized her for a second too long. She felt it. Then he gestured to the coffee maker behind him.

"I made coffee. It should still be hot."

"Thanks."

She walked forward, her back to him, sensing his eyes on the nape of her neck despite herself. She forced herself to focus on the act of pouring coffee into the cup. Once seated at the other end of the table, she finally dared to look at him.

"Dad's out?"

"He left early this morning. He had an appointment with old Soglo, about some land, I think."

"Ah."

A silence. She took a sip. Bitter, but pleasant. All that mattered to her, in reality, was that she finally knew where those creaking footsteps and the rumbling engine had come from this morning.

"Did you sleep well?"

The question dropped like a gentle provocation.

"Not really. I had a strange dream. Or rather… a dream too real."

"I see, it explains your hurried morning descent," he said mockingly and without the slightest hint of nonchalance.

She gave him a slight glare. He raised an eyebrow, looking curious.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She hesitated. A smile formed on her lips, almost ironic.

"No. I don't think you'd like it."

He stared at her, as if trying to read through her words. Then he smiled in turn.

"I doubt it. But I respect the mystery."

She laughed softly, which momentarily lightened the atmosphere. A fragile, almost nervous, but sincere laugh.

She was laughing, but in reality, deep down, she was furious at him. Why couldn't he insist? I would have told him if he'd just asked one more time. But why is he so difficult?

"And you, do you sleep well here?" she finally asked, to keep the silence from weighing too heavily or to avoid getting lost in her thoughts again.

"I never really sleep well," he said, shrugging. "The house is full of echoes. Of memories. And sometimes, of overly talkative silences."

"You talk like a tired poet."

"Maybe that's what I am."

"As if you’d ever tried your hand at literature."

They remained silent for a moment. Then Emma put down her cup, crossed her arms on the table.

"Why do you always come here, Serge? You could live elsewhere. In a big city. You have the profile, the architecture, the projects, the conferences…"

He shrugged again, but his gaze had clouded over.

"Here, I feel good, I feel… rooted. Even if it hurts sometimes. And then your father…"

He didn't finish his sentence.

"And me?"

She didn't know why she had said that. The words had slipped out on their own. He stared at her. A silence fell between them, heavier, more real.

"You… you're the only thing that changes here. The only thing that moves."

She blushed, looked away. The cunning one, is he going to tell me he didn't understand my words? Or is he the King of Idiots I have before me? For him not to understand such clear and transparent words. Or do I need to explain only that? She wondered in her thoughts.

He continued, more softly:

"When you leave, the house becomes a black and white photograph again. When you're here, there's movement, colors. Even when you're quiet."

These words delighted her. So, he notices me, and why doesn't he say it clearly? What is he afraid of? But if he said it, I wouldn't bite him, would I? Let him just blurt it all out, without holding back.

"Do you say that to everyone?" she finally pressed.

"Just to you."

A beat skipped in her chest. Her rhythm became erratic. She abruptly stood up…