Even through a veil of crooked limbs and leafy branches, it was clear to see that every single light in the house was on. Like a beacon on a desolate shore, it sprayed a glowing path through the haze of trees, guiding Lucien home.
Three weeks had passed since he had savagely murdered Joelle and left her tattered remains in Delilah's capable hands. Though the rules were broken, and there would no doubt be a penalty to pay, Joelle's life had been restored. But the reparations ended there and he knew what waited for him at home, was bound to be as torturous as the carnage he had left behind.
Pushing open the front door, he found Delilah's twisted frame draped over the mocha, high-backed leather chair in the foyer, and though he had made quite an impressive entrance, she barely stirred.
"You're late," grumbled Delilah through a wide yawn which twisted her angelic face. "She's leaving in two weeks. I hope you have a plan."
"Did she say where?" he asked as he rushed past her toward the stairs.
"All she would say is 'back home', wherever that is."
Detroit, he thought to himself, while racing up the stairs. Although Delilah had skillfully mended Joelle's physical wounds and returned the breath to her punctured lungs, she could do nothing to revive Joelle's broken heart. That was entirely up to Lucien to mend. And when he found himself standing outside their bedroom door, it suddenly occurred to him that fixing what he had broken, was the one thing beyond his scope of knowledge.
Joelle sat at the edge of the bed and stared blankly at her suitcase, wondering why it was still empty. More so, she wondered why she wasn't more eager to correct that problem. Perhaps part of the reason was that in just two week's time, she would be going home to the dregs of The Motor City and a life from which she had fought so hard to escape.
Perhaps the bigger reason was that, though Lucien had murdered her body, her heart never stopped beating his name and that pain had consumed her fully. But irrespective of her reluctance, she could stay no longer. Remaining in his home meant a more painful death, the death of her spirit. So, feeling obliterated by life, she kicked closed the lid to her suitcase, hurled it across the floor with a loud grunt, and turned on the television. And as she hung her head over the side of the bed, she wondered if, like with The Notebook, life might have a more amusing ending if experienced upside down.
After hearing her groans of frustration and the muted sounds of the television, Lucien opened the door and stood in the streams of light which poured in from the hallway. Dressed in a thin ivory nightgown, Joelle lay draped across their bed in a twist of sheets, as a kaleidoscope of colors spilled from the plasma and pranced across the shimmering fabric encasing her delightful figure. And for the first time in his many years, he found himself stammering.
"Forgive me Joelle... I... please, there are no words to express how..."
"Not this time," she interrupted, turning up the volume, "we're beyond salvage."
"Tell me what to do; I will happily oblige your demands."
"Leave," she sighed, "just go away."
"As you wish."
***
In the week since his return, Lucien had tried everything he could think of to win Joelle's favor. Pink peonies filled the bedroom every night; he bought her every vintage Zeppelin album he could find; he wrote letters of adoration and apology; and even stooped so low as to have Delilah plead forgiveness on his behalf. Ultimately, nothing worked and she remained steadfast in her commitment to leave.
On the very few occasions Lucien actually saw her, she merely hissed at him and beat a hasty retreat into the safety of the bedroom. Though she hadn't technically banned him from entering, it had become her sanctuary and it was obvious she needed for it to remain that way. So, despite his desire to be close to her, he tried his best to accommodate her need for distance and only spoke to her through the barricade of a closed door. But she almost never answered, and when she did, her words were doused in venom.
As she'd done every night for the past week, Joelle pulled a handful of peonies from the vase and plucked the petals from the plump blossoms, letting them float like snowflakes to the floor. It was mesmerizing, like watching the little flecks of white, drift around in a snow globe.
She'd had one once, with a tiny replica of the Empire State Building inside. When she turned five her father had given it to her for her birthday after a trip to New York but, when he died, her mother threw it against the wall, shattering it into a million pieces. All that remained was a fractured building, its point missing and its base cracked, but she kept it safely tucked in the tiny zippered pocket of her purse. It was a reminder of what she left behind and a life to which she had never intended to return.
When nothing remained of the peonies but a few spiny green skeletons, she pulled the blankets over her head and felt the first wave of tears claim her lashes. All that life now promised was a relinquishment of hope and what felt like her only chance for something more than the nagging ache which had stolen her childhood. When her father died, he took with him every semblance of normalcy and feeling of family, leaving her with a mother who resented being burdened with a child. And that's what was waiting for her back home, a history of regret and selfish indignation.
Tonight, as Lucien stood outside the door in the hopes of seeing Joelle, he heard her mewling, and the fact that she despised him no longer mattered.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, rushing to the bedside.
"Nothing, it's fine, really."
"Joelle, please, tell me."
"I don't want to go home. Are you happy now?"
"Then stay."
