You are the hole in my head You are the night time fear No light, no light in your bright blue eyes
You are the space in my bed
You are the silence in between
What I thought and what I said
You are the morning when it's clear
When it's over you're the start
You're my head, you're my heart
I never knew daylight could be so violent
A revelation in the light of day
You can't choose what stays and what fades away
You are the night time fear
No light, no light in your bright blue eyes
"No Light, No Light" by Florence + The Machine
It's been almost a month now that I've learned what happened and even if the abuse had lasted years I'm oddly recuperating. It may be because my mind had shut it out. I blocked it. Everything that had happened to me by the hands of my Uncle would creep up into my sleep and the memories would keep me up.
I've come to terms with what happened to me all those year- I'm not wallowing in self pity anymore. I've been writing them down in a small leather bound notebook I keep under my bed. It's sandwiched between the mattress and the bed post. Every new memory that comes back to me in the middle of the night is scribbled onto those pages.
I know I should be speaking to somebody about it, but the person I want to talk to the most has walked away for a good reason of course, but I still miss him.
When I can sleep it's not a deep sleep-just me closing my eyes. I'm asleep, but can hear everything. I can see the sun coming up. Hear Martin walking around. My eyes are closed, but I'm never far from opening them.
I'm not sure when my sleepless nights began to hinder my work, but Martin has noticed.
I was lost in thought. My mind lulling over the words that Callan had written in his letter and his actions in the square a week ago were fresh in my head. He had told me that he was to become more ruthless more fearful and more like his father, but I hadn't realized just how much he was going to change.
"Look at what you did to that poor dough," Martin quips coming up beside me.
I glanced down at the dough I was squishing between my hands and slamming against the wood slab. The flour I had coated it in was gone and it was tacky and stiff underneath my fingers. I glance up at him and smile weakly mumbling a quiet apology and reached for more flour. I try to revive it, but no matter how much flour I toss at it and wringing into the limp dough, it's wasn't working.
"I think it's gone. Why don't you just start over?" Martin asks. His tone of voice is light and high like what you use to speak to a child who has done wrong, "Here. Just start over," He repeats sliding the dough into the trash.
He had pushed me aside and I watched him gather what was needed. Every now and then he would glance up at me and a tight smile would pull at his lips.
My brow furrowed and I pushed up my glasses, my cheeks heating up, "Do you have something to say to me?"
Martin's eyebrows rose up to his hair line and he shrugged as he kneaded the dough, "Why do you say that?" He asked feigning surprise or knowledge that I wasn't myself.
"Oh, cut the crap, Martin," I snapped.
He sighed heavily and bracing his hands on the counter he lowered his head, glancing at me, "You said we were already behind on baking two days ago. Let's just get this done, yeah?"
I just stare at him and puff out hot air. Without anymore words I turn on my heel and walk towards the door. I grab my coat and slam the door behind me. Once my coat is slipped on I venture around the city. I needed to take my mind off of my problems. I wasn't in the mood to bake or set up pastries for people today. And Martin wasn't helping with his tense smiles and sideways glances.
I don't have a set direction or destination, but when I end up at the Lutetia Hotel I know my subconscious brought me here.
Numerous of German men see me and they murmur to each other some smirk and whistle, but are hushed when another tells them who I am. I see it all happening before me as I contemplate if I should go up. Would it be smart to visit him now? He said not to send letters, but nothing about meeting me in person.
I shifted on my heels and wrung my fingers. I haven't seen or heard from either Callan or Pierre. Pierre completely vanished after our talk and when I went back there the following day, the owner said that man was never there. It's probably a tactic that he does since he is in the Rebellion.
"Ms?" A voice calls to my right and I see a group of German men watching me. The tallest of the three had spoken, "Are you waiting for someone?"
His voice was light and flirtatious as he spoke. I took in the smirks from his friends and the way he had his chest out and shoulders rolled back.
"No, I was just leaving,"
"Oh, don't do that. We," the man glanced back at his comrades, "are going to a gathering, well a party at the bar down the street. Want to come?"
"Do you do this often? Ask random French women to go with you?" I questioned.
"Only the pretty ones,"
I don't know why, but I blushed and smiled.
"Okay?" He asks his voice going higher in excitement.
"Okay, I'll go," I say and he glances at his friends and smiles broadly. The confidence and need for rebelling feeling that had made me say yes began to waiver when he stepped up to me, giving me his arm. I looked at it in hesitation, but I already said yes. I should go through with it. And with a smile I linked my arm through his.
His name was Frederick Wagner and he was twenty one and to break the ice he said a few jokes and I had laughed. They were quite funny. He talked about his sister and mother back home saying his sister had the exact skirt as I did. When we reached the bar the party was just starting and he had already saved a table. With his hand on my lower back he guided me through the crowd and he even pulled out my chair.
"So, why'd you say yes?" He asked setting his cover on his knee, shifting his chair closer to me. My heart quickened at the contact of his knee brushing mine.
"I don't go out much and needed a change of scenery," I explained moving my knee away from his, "Why'd you ask me?"
His friends had gone to get drinks and were setting them down. One smiled and handed me my beer, "He thought you were hot. Kept looking at you so I told him to talk to you,"
The other two had smirked and agreed adding that he had good taste and patted him on the back.
I clasped the perspiring drink in my hand as they bickered. The room was filled with men. Officers and subordinates alike with French women on their laps. They were throwing their heads back in excitement and I saw a couple in the corner kissing. Another man was feeding his girl fries. This bar used to be a book store, but after the occupation the Germans had burned all the books and turned it into a brewery. The smoke of cigarettes and cigars wafted about the room dimming the lights all around. Laughter and clinks of glasses were all around.
I sipped idly at my drink. The men around me were asking for more rum and shots and vodka. All the alcohol they could want were brought to them. The waitress was a French woman who frequented my shop and our eyes locked. She shook her head and pursed her lips before slipping into the rowdy crowd.
Frederick was trying to get closer to me and hold my hand, but I wasn't here for that. I was here to get away from my busy life, to let loose for a bit. I was also here to observe. I just wanted to get a glimpse of him to see if his eyes were as cold as his actions now. Frederick's friends had been dragged away by a few of the dancers and were enjoying themselves.
"What, uh, what's the occasion? There are lots of Officers here," I asked loudly. There was some type of commotion near the door and I had to practically yell.
"We're taking over the world," Frederick explained. He's already had so much beer and his secrets were spilling.
"Because that's such a great thing to be celebrating," I respond.
He stares at me for a moment before laughing in my face, "You my friend, are hilarious. Such sarcastic words,"
I stare back at him for a moment and watch as his lips twist foreign words, but my ears aren't picking up on anything he's saying. I just stare past his shoulder. He's in normal clothing. I remember seeing him wear that sweater before, it's a dark blue knit very casual and perfect against his wax like skin. He hasn't seen me yet, but I've seen all of him. His brow his hardened and his jaw is set as we weaves through the crowd of dancers.
Frederick must've noticed my lingering gaze and took this as an opportunity because the next thing I know beer has been spilt all over the bottom of my skirt and legs. His hands reach out to me as I turned to him surprised, his lips capturing mine. I'm startled for a moment and feel his tongue slip from his mouth to slither across my sealed lips. My eyes are wide as I try to push him off, but even in his drunken stupor he's very strong.
My mind races as my eyes dart around. Frederick has me in a steel grip. One hand clenches my waist and the other is digging into the nape of my neck. My hands wedge in between us and press against his chest, somehow I manage to shove him off, but I quickly realize it wasn't me who had did it.
Callan's hands were still gripping the back of Frederic's jacket when I looked at him. His eyes were dark as they bore into me. I was shocked and in awe at how angry and angelic he looked. His blonde hair has moved from his perfect slicked back style to hang over his eyes. His lips were parted as hot air breathed past them. His chest rose and fell heavily and Frederick squirmed in his hold, yelling to be let up. Callan looked down at the young man for the first time and let go of his jacket.
Frederick stumbled to his feet yelling and cursing at the Captain.
"What's the problem?" He demanded.
My eyes shifted from Callan to my fingers clenching my dress, back to Callan.
"Why'd you have to go and do that?" Frederick questioned. The crowd that had formed snickered and jeered.
Callan stood still not saying anything. He just looked at the young soldier before him with a look of superiority.
"She didn't want to be kissing you," Callan spoke.
"Of course she did! She likes me, Captain," His lips slurred his heavy words and I noticed the crowd had gone silent as they stared at Callan, unsure of what he might do. Everyone had either witnessed his murder in the square or had heard about it.
"She's my gir-," The last word hadn't even finished forming on his lips when Callan's fist collided into his face. I heard a crunch and screamed when Frederick fell back onto me. His elbow jammed into my shoulder as he stumbled into the chair I was in, his weight heavy as he fell and I went with him. I had gotten a glimpse of his face. His lower face was stained with bright blood as if he was wearing a mask. It was vibrant against his skin; a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow as his eyes fluttered shut.
My fingers held his limp shoulders and pushed them off of me. The pads of my fingers ghosting over his pulse; under his jaw just for good measure.
My eyes snapped to Callan who had read them like a book and reached down, gripping my arm harshly he pulled me to my feet and through the crowd, out the steamy and silent club. His fingers were like knives against my flesh as he gripped my arm tightly. I let out a cry and reached for his hold, but he pulled me down an alley quickly shoving me into it.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" I screamed at him. Callan was a few feet in front me, his back to the open alley; his hands were clenched as he paced. He ran his hand over his hair slicking back the loose strands.
"Callan. Callan, look at me," I took a tentative step towards him my hand held out to him,"Callan,"
His eyes swam over me and I sighed. I've been waiting to watch his eyes do that for such a long time that the way they looked at me made me melt. I just wish, as I have been for weeks, that this gaze was under better circumstances.
"You could have killed him,"
He shuddered at my realization and his gaze dropped. His shoulders trembled and I stepped closer. I could smell his cologne. It was mixed with sweat. My fingers brushed against his shoulder and he leaned into the touch and I stepped up to him, my other hand resting on his torso, "Look at me,"
And he did.
"Because you're my girl," He gasped as tears threatened to over flow his beautiful, hurt blue eyes.
I didn't know what to say to that. What has been happening to him that he kills a man just for doing something reckless? I stared at his face and pursed my lips. I should be over the moon about his confession, but the words had come out of his mouth sounding odd. As if they weren't his own- those words didn't belong to the man who loves Sinatra, who enjoys cooking, who is fighting for the Rebellion.
He must have noticed my grimace and my hesitation to smile or reply, because his brow furrowed and his nostrils flared.
"Callan," I gasped stepping back, withdrawing my hands, but his hand shot out enclosing around my retreating wrist. His skin was hot against my own. Callan's other hand gripped the nape of my neck pulling my face towards his as he pushed me against the alley wall. Lips with such ferocity and power crashed against mine and our teeth knocked together as his lips slipped over mine. I grimaced as his hand tightened around my wrist and his other hand slid from my neck, past my shoulder to grip my hip. Callan's body weighed heavily against me. My heart pounding loud in my chest.
My lips were free as his trailed to my jaw planting wet sloppy kisses as he went.
"Callan," I breathed.
"You're my girl," he muttered against my neck.
I shut my eyes and bit my lip.
"You're my girl," He said again with more bravado and truth behind it. My eyes fluttered open at the absence of his lips. He was looking down at me with a smile on his face.
"You're my girl," He repeated.
I nodded, "Yes, I am,"
And he smiled a laugh falling from his lips as he leaned down. My eyes fluttered shut and a feeling of weightlessness wafted over me when his lips found mine. The kiss was tender and full of love. It was passionate, but sweet and hesitant, but rushed at the same time. He released my hand and slinked my arm around his neck. My fingers splayed against the back of his shoulder blade. The hand on my hip caught under my knee hiking it up as he moved against me.
Our lips worked harshly against each other now all the questions that I had wanted to know were blown from my mind. I could only think of him as he moved against me, as his hand worked through my blouse. We were breathing so hard and so loud that I was surprised no one had stumbled upon us. He skillfully nipped and pulled and made me squirm and want more. My fingers raking through his hair, my nails grazing against his scalp. A deep moan vibrated up my neck as he breathed against me, planting a kiss to my heated flesh.
His hand cupped my breast and my eyes snapped open as he fondled me.
"Callan," I hissed,"Callan, we need to go somewhere else," I said.
He pulled his hand from my shirt and smiled as he buttoned it up, "Come on," he took my hand and led me down the rest of the alley and behind houses and abandoned shops before coming to a halt at the theatre. It was closed and no one was around. The sky was darkening and soon everyone would be inside and the curfew would be in affect.
Callan pulled me to the side of the building and I watched him pull the window open after jiggling the latch for a few minutes. He offered me his hand and lifted me up onto the window sill. His body steeping into my parted legs to peck my lips affectionately. I wrapped my arms around his neck and smiled into the kiss before laughing and moving into the dark building.
Callan followed and shut the window. I hadn't been to the theatre in such a long time that I had almost forgotten what it looked like inside. I was admiring the vastness of the theatre when Callan tugged on my skirt wanting me to follow. Behind the heavy satin curtains and large screen there was a staircase that led up to a hallway. I took his hand and smiled at him as he led us down the hall.
I barked out laughter when Callan walked into a stack of chairs.
"Be careful!" I boasted as he cursed leaning down to paw at his hurt shin.
"Shit, I didn't see those chairs,"
"Obviously not," I teased him, "Are there not any lights?" I asked side stepping to the wall. My hand trailed along the wall papered surface until I found a switch. The hall lit up with pale yellow light and Callan stared at me before huffing.
"I knew that was there,"
"Of course you did," I held out my hand to him, "Take me to wherever we're going,"
At the end of the hallway was a lone door and it squeaked when Callan shoved it open. The room was chilled and smelled slightly of moth balls, but inside it was beautiful. The walls were painted a deep red and paintings of landscapes were hung all around. On the other side of the room was a mattress on the floor that was made up to look like a bed.
I realized they were the sheets and pillows from his hotel room and there were stacks of books and a pile of his clothing off to the side. Even an old desk had his things thrown lazily across it. The curtains they had hung along the windows in his room were hanging off the closet door, piled in a blob of blood red on the floor.
"It looks like you've been living here, Callan. Why?" I asked turning to him.
He was leaning against the door frame smiling.
"Are you thirsty? I'll get you some water,"
He told me walking into the room and I noticed the bathroom door when he walked into the room and started the tap. He came out with two cups of water.
"How did you get your stuff over here?" I asked sipping the sour tasting water.
"Back at the Hotel there has been robberies- most likely soldiers against another. I had trashed my room the day my father had ventured back into my life and after I decided to pass it off as a robbery and moved all my things here that night," He explained leaning against an old worn desk that held a pair of his shoes and his cover atop the chipping wood. He downed his cup and looked at me.
"I come here to get away from the war,"
I understood that one sentence fully. This was where he and Pierre would meet. This is where he started his act in the rebellion.
"Why did you take the curtains? There are no windows in here,"
"I cut the satin and sell it to help out your people. I give them swatches of the fabric and they sell them. I had been giving them my own money, but that was raising too many questions. This way they can trade for whatever they need and not worry about Germans stopping them,"
I nodded in understanding," What do they sell them for?"
"Secrets," He responded. The way he had said it was as if he was ending that part of the conversation.
"That man in the square, why, uh, why did you kill him?" I blurted my fingers pressing and twisting the plastic cup awkwardly.
"He told me too," Callan simply said.