【CHAPTER FIVE 】
—chapter five, or...
❛ p.s. i love you (if i have to) ❜
SEPTEMBER 1st, 1963
HIS HANDS USED TO SHAKE WITH ANYTHING HE DID. His father called him names for it, laughing when he got too nervous and dropped the dishes he had cradled so carefully. In the early days he would have beat him for it, too. His Grandmother would scold him and make him redo every stitch, every scribbled letter 'e', every stir of barely edible food that she taught him to make. His sister had taken him to a doctor as soon as she had claimed custody and got him a prescription against what she called anxiety. She told him that it was normal, she had dealt with similar symptoms and that the pills would help just as it had hers.
In his dreamscape, however, Ellis' hands no longer shook.
He pinched at the heated metal, uncaring for the reddish glow and carefully formed it around the other tube. It joined the rest of its siblings in a small pile below him, every single piece the same and waiting to be replicated again.
Ellis glanced over to the pages beside him. He felt like he had barely made a dent in them; stacks of scribbles and notes surrounded him, piling up to touch unreachable ceilings. But, still, progress was progress. He had done more than expected in the few moments he caught, and he would just have to continue faster if he wanted to meet the quota.
"You work well," grated She. Her eyes traced over his work, one glinting much brighter than the other, scarred one. "Your hands are admirable tools. Agile, as a dancer would spin — but strong enough to mould metal as clay."
Ellis shook his head. "I don't think so. I mean, it's only a dream. My hands can be whatever I wish them to be, do whatever I tell them to do."
"You still believe this is only a dream."
He glanced over to her, frowning. "What else could you call this?"
"Surely someone of your intelligence would realise cognition beyond the subconscious, and the creation of worlds is not something that can be done by any mere mortal. This," She gestured about aimlessly to the pages and piles, "is a world of its own. It just is not of the sort you would consider reality. Not in the confines of your earthly beliefs."
Ellis' lips twisted into a look of deep thought as he considered her words. "Can others access this?"
"This world? No," She told him, gentle in her mechanical words. "You have this specific space, but it is limited to what you've created — a building with no doors. The more time you spend, I am sure you could expand a little, but it would be a waste of time. There are better worlds to travel to."
"Like your own?"
Her artificial eye glittered with silver ambition. "Yes. Like mine, and the one you may call your own, too."
"And you are sure, this is the answer to getting back there? I-I mean, why can't we just dream up being there, too?"
The smallest hint of emotion echoed on She's face. Or, what Ellis had started to read as emotion. His friend couldn't ever really express what she felt (and sometimes, She felt nothing at all) but the smallest sense of warmth against her cold blue skin, and the way her lips quirked, told him how She felt. A tiny sense of pride rolled through him knowing that She trusted him enough to reveal how She felt.
"To copy a world already fully developed is an arduous task. And one that's almost worthless, when we could just build a way back to the original form. There would be nothing to find in a duplication."
Admittedly, that didn't make much sense to Ellis. Neither did most things She said, but he simply took it at face value and accepted such questions could be answered later, or thought about on his own time. He knew enough about his mysterious friend that her homeland was a sore subject, and while he was curious...he could wait for his answers.
The boy turned back to his work at hand, but did not kill the conversation yet. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
She's hands folded in her lap, twisting together into an intricate pattern of limbs and glowing sigils tattooed onto each one. "So long as it does not hinder your work."
"No! I just, well..." Ellis dared another glance up, staring at the woman across from him. "Do you have a real name?"
"No." Her tone was flat.
"Didn't your parents ever give you a name?"
She tilted her head in quiet thought, considering his question. "No. Like you, Ellis, I did not have true parents. Only creators. And they did not see fit to give me a title, or waste emotional value on such a gift as a name."
Ellis' expression sank. She, from what little he had been given to know, had lived a similarly difficult life to his own, and he wondered if She had ever had love in her life. Or if She just existed waiting for a greater purpose.
He understood that too, and he knew that was partly why She had sought him out. Regardless of Elodie, he was a lonely boy, and had struggled to find purpose in life before the one in front of him. But She had given him a reason to thrive, a greater meaning to the universe and something he looked forward to in the struggle of 'real' life. And despite not knowing much, he did know he wanted She to have that same feeling about life, too.
"Once this is done," he grinned, "you'll get to start over. Where you belong. And you can give yourself your own name, too!"
She's brow tightened a fraction. "Oh?"
"Yes! I mean, names are just names; sounds we choose to let mean something. And you can give yourself whichever one you please. Something that suits you, right?"
"You are a funny boy, Ellis," She said, and her tone was a little softer. "I will consider this."
"I can always give you a name, too if you want. O-or at least a suggestion for one?"
She looked away then, off the long hallways surrounding them. "You would do such a thing?"
"Sure. I mean, this'll come first still, but—" Ellis' smile grew a little wider. "You deserve a proper name."
The woman moved to answer him, only to stop suddenly. "Your sister is nearing. I'm afraid this session must be cut short."
"What? But—"
"—up and at 'im, sleepyhead," teased a new voice, warmer than She's would ever be. He felt strong, calloused hands pat at him, drawing him back to reality. "C'mon, you gotta get up and ready for the day now!"
Ellis opened his eyes to meet the dancing ones of his sister grinning above him. Elodie was already dressed and ready for the day, but her hair dangled in his eyes; she must have forgotten to secure the locks back, yet.
Weirdly, he felt the taste in his mouth sour, staring up at his sister. He knew he loved her, but having her interrupt something so important, and have the audacity to smile at him like that — like a child on Christmas day with no regards to her parents deserved rest — made him angry.
"Livingston wants you downstairs in thirty," she hummed, unnoticing of his bitter expression. Elodie pulled away to open his curtains, and Ellis squinted at the brightness. He missed his lab already. "He says he's got that nutso back, that so-called tutor to prep you for the college work - though, really, I don't know why you need one, if anything you're...you good, Ellie?"
He didn't look at her. His eyes remained downcast, twisting up in anger as he thought about the world he left. He had been doing so damn well, he mused to himself, inwardly cursing his sister for her meddling.
"Ellie?"
"That's not my name," he huffed, glaring up at her.
Elodie looked aback, "I — well — I mean, I know it's not your name—"
"—so please, don't refer to me as it," Ellis hissed. He stood up and stomped past her, leaving her confused and watching after him. "My name is Ellis. Thank you."
"Oh, c'mon, Ellie — I mean Ellis, what's wrong?"
"I'm going to get ready." He ignored her questions even after he slammed the door shut, and waited for her to head out of the room, listening to the clicks of her little heels on the wood. Once gone, he finally burst, cursing and pounding at the walls in every chance to get his anger out.
He loved Elodie. He really, really did. But...
"She'll never understand," he muttered to himself, glaring down the tinny reflection opposite him. His mirrored version nodded emphatically. "It's not her fault. She doesn't have the brains. But..."
No matter. He would get it done, one way or another.
AIMEE BAYARD HAD BEEN STAYING AT LIVINGSTON MANOR FOR A WEEK, SO FAR. Charles had left town on a month-long business and she had claimed it counterproductive to waste gas when she could just stay there for a little while, that her business was all in town anyways. Secretly, Elodie believed it was because she was lonely, but whether that be true or not, neither pressed further on the issue.
Elodie had come to enjoy her presence around the house. Their friendship had grown immensely over the years, and despite the young woman's naturally stony disposition, she found her quite warm under the bristle. While she wasn't about to trust her with any real truths, it was at least nice to have a friendly face around the manor.
"Afternoon," she greeted, swinging into the library where Aimee was sitting. She had started to spend most of her afternoons in the large room, reading one of her father's many books in the soft quiet of the room. Again, Aimee made the excuse that boredom had drawn her to boring material — and only Elodie seemed to notice how the young woman craved greater education, and sought out the biggest books on maths and sciences.
It ached her to know she was stuck in such a bitter situation, but she dared not speak on it.
"Hello," Aimee greeted, setting down her book. Elodie only caught a glimpse of it over the tray in hand; something about botany, or maybe biology, or something along those lines. "You can set the tea down there."
She did as told, carefully placing the teapot and its respective cup on colourful coasters. Her plate of biscuits followed suit, clattering gently against the teakwood.
"What are you forcing yourself to read now?"
Aimee rolled her eyes, but there was humour behind the motion. "A little novella. Variation and Evolution in Plants. Sleep inducing, really."
"Sounds utterly mind-numbing," she teased, smiling at the younger woman. Her hands drew back with the tray, "but I suppose everyone needs something to put them to bed."
"Precisely." Her eyes danced with mirth, "how are you doing? How is Ben?"
Elodie's smile wavered a little; she hoped it wasn't noticeable. "He's been good. You know, the usual."
Ever since their fateful run-ins a year ago, Ben and Elodie have been in heavy correspondence, exchanging letters every week. Their in person meetings were far and few between, but Livingston had been surprisingly lax about visitations, even going so far as to let Ben take Elodie out a few times. A part of wished he hadn't been.
Ben was a good man, though. While he lacked that spark of interest Elodie normally leaned into, he was kind, and gentle, and he seemed to find her captivating (which was odd, but she didn't mind feeling worth something). Their relationship was frail and tentative and truth be told, every inch of her still leaned out of it — but for survival's sake, she had learned to accept it some.
"You sound like you're hiding something," Aimee said. "Any gossip you'd like to share from his latest love letter?"
Elodie flushed and glanced down. "He...well, he told me he was buying a house."
"Oh?"
"A nice one," she confessed. She could see it in her mind still, the little picture frozen in time for her to curse at. "Not far from here. I suppose his business has been good, and he's been looking to settle down well, and...well, yeah. It's a nice place."
Aimee watched her like a hawk. It made her squirm. There seemed to be nothing she could hide from the younger woman, that she had inherited her father's perception and interrogation skills and honed them to a murderous talent. Elodie was lucky she hadn't been entirely found out, yet — though she was just waiting for that to happen, too.
"And you like this place?" Aimee finally asked, settling for simple. "It's nice?"
"Yeah. It's really big, and near here."
"I presume he sent it to you for a reason, not just to show off the wealth?"
Elodie shrugged. Her hands danced along the rim of the tray, the only tell she had yet to kill off. "He hinted at more in his letter, yes."
She didn't have to say what more meant.
Surprisingly, however, Aimee switched gears. She pulled away from her desk and towards the teapot, pouring herself a cup with dainty hands. "How is your son doing? I know school's starting up for him..."
"Yeah," Elodie responded. "Yeah, I mean — well, teenage boys are a kind of their own, but...he's still a good kid."
"Hm. Yes, true. I remember my own brothers well. I don't miss that time." Aimee grinned wolfishly, "I wouldn't want a boy for a son. Too untuned into their emotions, they never know just what to do with their hearts. Even the prodigies like your son struggle with that topsy-turvy mental world."
True. But not a subject she wanted to linger on.
Elodie switched gears. "How is the treatment going?"
"It's...going," she said with a little less emphasis. "You know. The leaps and bounds we've come with technology, we're still learning."
Also, true. Elodie could only speak on what little Aimee had told her on her fertility troubles, but it seemed things had been horrific in terms of pregnancy in that decade. She could not imagine the hardships that the woman bore; half because of her own disinterest in childbirth, but half because she wore her struggles oh so well.
Truthfully, Elodie admired her.
"I know soon, things will turn around," she promised. "Soon."
"You always say that. It makes me think you know something I don't."
"Ha. Me? I know little more than a common rose, Aimee."
"You're right," Aimee grinned, "but still. You unnerve me, Lucille Cruise."
Elodie moved to speak again, eager to brush away from where the conversation was leading, but a roaring call swept through the house instead. Richard Livingston had arrived home again, and was expecting his tea.
"I'll see you around," she sighed, sweeping up her things with a last wave to Aimee. "Have fun with your boring biology."
"Botany — but, don't fret, I won't."
She shuffled out of the room with a smile, but it dropped as soon as Aimee couldn't see her.
The picture of Ben's new house floated in her mind, taunting her. It was a beautiful place. The sort of house that she would love to claim for her own, if she had the money. Lots of space, a huge backyard, a sweeping front porch where she could sit and sip at her coffee on, watching the birds and dog-walkers and kids head off to school. It was the sort of house made for the woman she pretended to be, a woman who would have a couple more kids and an adoring husband she would bake casseroles for.
Elodie hated casseroles.
She moved mechanically through the kitchens, sorting out Livingston's tea and knocking through the familiar space to his office. Her hand rose to rap thrice against his door; the sound pounded through her skull.
What if that was meant for her? Casseroles and children, pretty homes with a good man who she didn't love on her arm? Floral dresses and tears in her eyes as she smiled for the public?
"Come in."
Elodie set down her tray in the same place she always did, off to the side of his grand desk. She felt his heavy gaze on her; she chose to ignore it.
"Have I praised your tenacity lately, Miss Cruise?"
She didn't know what that meant. But she did know she hated when he used fancy garble like that, pretending to be better than the slimy git he was.
"You really are a charm, a gift to this old home — and myself. I don't know how we functioned without your presence here. You've made this house feel alive again, you hear?"
Elodie dipped her head down in a solemn nod. "Thank you, sir."
Livingston's owlish gaze left her own and went back down to his paper. He chuckled softly, "the world's such a funny place, filled with such funny characters. I didn't even know they made men like this — they say his mom was a gorilla. And that might sound strange to you, but believe me — the oddities of this world, are never missed by me. Keeps me feeling young, you get me?"
All Elodie wanted to get was something to bash her skull in, keep the dull pounding headache from doing her in completely. She didn't even listen to anything he said, but she learned a long time ago, he didn't want her to listen. She was good to just pretend, because he didn't care about her opinions, anyways.
"You're lucky you and your son found this home," he mused, flipping through his paper idly. She knew he wasn't reading it. "There's so much evil in the world, Miss Cruise, and I know you've seen some yourself — but you're lucky to find here, rather than what could have been. The tragedy, of losing such vivacious souls, such as you and your son. I'd hate to read that article."
She forced herself to smile, even when her lips cracked and stung. "I agree, sir."
"I daresay as well, if I may," he grinned, like she had any say on what he 'may', "you've blossomed in this home. Dallas suits a young woman like you. You came in half dead and a shell of a woman, and look at you! A fine mother, and a desirable being."
Elodie's mouth filled with bile.
"I'm happy for you. Truly, I am. You've come so far and now — well, you and Ben..." he paused to chuckle like he said the funniest joke in the world. "Never saw that, but the kid's always been precocious. And not bad on the eyes, eh?"
She still didn't speak.
"How's young Frederick taken your relationship, my dear?"
Elodie forced her lips to move, spitting the vowels like venom at the old man's face. "Fine. He likes Ben just fine."
"Good. But you know...Ben is a good man, but he doesn't have the same resources, to be a brilliant one. He enjoys a simple life. But I think you and I both know that young Frederick wasn't made for a simple life."
"My son just wants to be happy, same as I," she responded. "Isn't that what we all want?"
Livingston shrugged amicably. "Some folks do. Some, like I think Frederick does, looks towards the stars and sees a travel destination. He looks beyond the simple fabric and yearns for a greater purpose — a purpose I believe, I've done quite well bringing him."
"We both appreciate what you've done for him, but—"
"—my point is only in good faith, my dear. I think you and I have a marvelous alliance and we care a great deal for your son and his brilliance," the man grinned, "and I think you know, soon we'll have to plan his next steps forward. I pray we can do that together."
Elodie didn't answer that. She knew it was bait and she was not daft enough to fall for it. Instead, she straightened her back and nodded sharply, pulling her tray back to take with her. "If you need anything else, just let me know, sir."
"How many times, must I tell you, my dear? Here, you're family, no need for 'sir'." Livingston's smile creeped further up his wrinkled skin. He shot a hand out to shake, "appreciations."
She hesitated for a moment, before stepping forward and taking his hand. "I—"
"—remember, Lucille," he hissed. His mask had been dropped and in the mere inches he had drawn between them, his voice was only a whisper. His hand squeezed like handcuffs around her own, "I own you. I own your son, and I own everything about you. Do you understand me?"
Heart in her throat and anger pulsing all across her skin, Elodie did what she herself did not even expect. She smiled and squeezed his fingers back.
"I assure you, sir," she hummed, venom dripping from every syllable, "I understand you perfectly."
Elodie pulled away first and stomped out of the room, tray in hand. She closed the door softly and didn't wait to hear what he had to say to that -- aside from, of course, the confused whimpers as he stared at his burning hand.
It was a stupid move, even if she only released the slightest bit of power laying dormant beneath her skin. But while she would sit through most of his mockeries, she was not going to let him threaten her kid. Especially not with that stupid smirk on his face.
Elodie flexed her hand and rolled her neck as she walked back to the kitchens. Vengeance smiled behind her blank mask.
"MY DEAR BEN,"
Her hand shook with every letter, rendering the sloppy cursive unreadable. Elodie cursed and crumpled the paper. She tossed it behind her to meet the other papers in similar states, every one messed up in the very first sentence.
"Why is this so hard," she cursed, staring at her trembling hands. "It's just a letter. Just a letter! You've done worse with these bastards."
But her hands remained steadfast in screwing her over. Every word was practically chicken scratch, nonsense that no one would be able to translate. No matter how she tried, or the emphasis she placed on holding her fingers still, they refused to listen.
Elodie threw the pen down and groaned, slapping her forehead with the burning fingers. "Dammit!"
She wanted to want to write to him. She should write to him, and shouldn't she want to? He was a man who seemed to love her, and wrote beautiful prose to confess so. Hell, she had the proof right next to her, a slender stack of calligraphy that told a story of a gentle, lovestruck man who's heart beat for a special soul.
Her eyes drew over to that stack, staring it down before reaching for it. She flipped through the pages idly, catching glimpses of phrases — 'beauty is not the word to describe an enchanting being such as yourself' and 'if I could, I would give you the moon, for I think it's the only thing that could compare with you'. None of them meant anything to her. She liked them, maybe, but pretty words weren't enough to build that love in her heart no matter how she had pushed them to.
Suddenly, her hands stopped and Elodie froze. Ben's letters dropped to the desk.
She had forgotten about her own writings. The dozens of letters penned with much less composure, scribbles and crossed out words when she screwed up the spelling. And none of them meant for the man she should love.
Her eyes filled with tears. Some dribbled down her cheeks, falling to stain the aged paper, blurring the words slightly. But it didn't matter, she knew the contents well -- hell, she read them over and over and wrote others like it a thousand times, hoping that one day she would have the chance to actually send them.
She wasn't a writer like Ben wanted to be, and her mind wasn't made of half the fancy words him or her brother would know. Nothing fancy, nothing more than whines scribbled out as her heart broke, that first year and a half of the 1960s. But no one would be able to argue with the contents. They spoke for themselves in plain unadulterated speech. The love stained each paragraph no matter how short or broken up they were.
Elodie sniffled and wiped at her eyes. "Never got to send these," she mumbled to the pages. "Held out hope for so long...even when I knew you were gone, I held out hope. Like a fucking fool."
With another choked back sob, Elodie got up from her tiny desk and made her way over to the trash. She tossed the pages into it without a qualm. The other failed copies of Ben's letters went with them, but she kept Diego's letters on top to stare up at her.
She sank down to her knees and extended her hand down into the trash. With a single push, the skin ignited and in seconds, every single paper was on fire. She watched, silently, as the pages crumpled and crisped, burning into ashes and smoke in front of her.
Elodie wiped her nose and smiled down at the pages. She stood up again, returning to her desk with new vigor. She snapped open her tiny window to send the smokey fumes out, then picked up her pen to start the writing.
That time, her hand didn't shake.
My dearest Ben -
the pictures you have sent me of this house — I don't think I've ever seen anything so pretty. Everything about it is a dream. And you're telling me you're really buying it?
Alone in her room, Elodie penned her response, leaving her hope for her lost lover to burn behind her. And somewhere halfway across the city, an anomaly occurred for the fourth time in the past three years, strange energy lit up a dirty alleyway that once upon a time, Elodie had been quite familiar with.
Of course, Elodie had no clue about any of that. But someone else did.
I finally am getting around to changing my book covers, but I'm going to be editing the current one so don't judge it too much. Just trying to air out a new theme.
Also, I hope the POV changes aren't too confusing. They won't be super often, especially not in the first part, but if they're confusing I can put names so you know who's speaking. It'll only ever be switching between Ellis and Elodie, but if that's helpful let me know.
Thank you for reading; let me know what you thought!
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