“I can’t leave,” he said again, and then laughed and laughed and laughed.
He meant that he didn’t want to burden Matthieu or Alfred. He meant that he didn’t want his little brother to see how far he’s fallen, how bad he is, to see him wander around in his house in a vegetative state. He meant that he didn’t want to be around Alfred, the stranger whom he hardly knew, and just needed to be with Matthieu. He meant that he was losing his mind, that he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore and he wasn’t really sure if the girl was just a reflection of his mind or not and he wasn’t really sure why he’s never really questioned that until now. He meant that if he tried to escape he was sure she would hunt him down and kill him, because that was just the vibe she was giving him now.
The girl started to make gesturing motions with her hands, as if she was telling Francis to hand over the phone. He did, trying to still it in his hand, as he passed it over. He squeezed his eyes shut.
When had it come to this? How had it come to this? He dropped the phone in her palm.
It fell right through and clattered against the glass wall.
Francis felt relief course through him for a single moment. She wasn’t real.
Francis then felt terror follow right after. She wasn’t real.
“Francis? Hello? Hello?” came the voice from the phone as Francis slammed open the booth door and ran.
-
The demon-child was gone. Standing here, on this familiar old bridge, Francis could almost think rationally; he could not for the life of him remember her much at all anymore. Had she just been a hallucination he’d been conjuring all this time? When had she first appeared, how did she become such a regular presence in his life? Was this kind of thing normal for people with HIV? Or even depression?
Francis was panting, leaning his elbows on the railing with his head thrown back so that it hung over the expanse of water. He had ran like a madman through the streets, pushing past strangers and knocking over carts and strollers, ran without a single glance back to see if the demon-child was still following him, ran purposelessly and without destination with Matthieu’s final words echoing in his skull. Now he felt as though his lungs were being ripped out of his chest; it hurt to breathe, and he had to take great huge gasping breaths in order to fill himself with heavenly air. Night had already fallen.
There was nobody else on the bridge except for him and a few passing cars, and thank God for that. In the distance, a bugle told Francis that there were a few small ships headed towards the bridge, and on either side of him Paris was slowing putting herself to sleep. All her lights were being lit like small, flickering candles, and Francis thought that she was beautiful illuminated like this at nighttime.
The Mirabeau bridge was one of thirty-seven bridges built over the Seine River located in Paris, and it was far from one of the most beautiful. In fact, it was the disgusting yellow-green colour of sulphur and it was old as dirt. And compared to some bridges like the Pont des Arts or the Pont de l’Archvêché, considered some of the greatest romantic spots in the city, or the Pont Alexandre III that was lined with its gorgeous lamps, the Mirabeau bridge could hardly match up.
But Francis had grown to adore this bridge, he and Arthur both. After all, it was here where they’d commonly met up whenever they could spare some free time in the busy days of attending college since they were studying completely different majors and didn’t have a single class with each other. It’d been here where Arthur had stood in jeans frayed at the fringe and wet from the knees down, where he had chatted with Francis amiably about how much he wanted to bash his 18th century French literature teacher’s head in with a burnt scone and Francis had listened contently thinking about how much he loved the guy. It’d been here where they’d fought numerous times, even broke up once, but reconciled again.
The Genius Next Door [4n/7]
He meant that he didn’t want to burden Matthieu or Alfred. He meant that he didn’t want his little brother to see how far he’s fallen, how bad he is, to see him wander around in his house in a vegetative state. He meant that he didn’t want to be around Alfred, the stranger whom he hardly knew, and just needed to be with Matthieu. He meant that he was losing his mind, that he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore and he wasn’t really sure if the girl was just a reflection of his mind or not and he wasn’t really sure why he’s never really questioned that until now. He meant that if he tried to escape he was sure she would hunt him down and kill him, because that was just the vibe she was giving him now.
The girl started to make gesturing motions with her hands, as if she was telling Francis to hand over the phone. He did, trying to still it in his hand, as he passed it over. He squeezed his eyes shut.
When had it come to this? How had it come to this? He dropped the phone in her palm.
It fell right through and clattered against the glass wall.
Francis felt relief course through him for a single moment. She wasn’t real.
Francis then felt terror follow right after. She wasn’t real.
“Francis? Hello? Hello?” came the voice from the phone as Francis slammed open the booth door and ran.
-
The demon-child was gone. Standing here, on this familiar old bridge, Francis could almost think rationally; he could not for the life of him remember her much at all anymore. Had she just been a hallucination he’d been conjuring all this time? When had she first appeared, how did she become such a regular presence in his life? Was this kind of thing normal for people with HIV? Or even depression?
Francis was panting, leaning his elbows on the railing with his head thrown back so that it hung over the expanse of water. He had ran like a madman through the streets, pushing past strangers and knocking over carts and strollers, ran without a single glance back to see if the demon-child was still following him, ran purposelessly and without destination with Matthieu’s final words echoing in his skull. Now he felt as though his lungs were being ripped out of his chest; it hurt to breathe, and he had to take great huge gasping breaths in order to fill himself with heavenly air. Night had already fallen.
There was nobody else on the bridge except for him and a few passing cars, and thank God for that. In the distance, a bugle told Francis that there were a few small ships headed towards the bridge, and on either side of him Paris was slowing putting herself to sleep. All her lights were being lit like small, flickering candles, and Francis thought that she was beautiful illuminated like this at nighttime.
The Mirabeau bridge was one of thirty-seven bridges built over the Seine River located in Paris, and it was far from one of the most beautiful. In fact, it was the disgusting yellow-green colour of sulphur and it was old as dirt. And compared to some bridges like the Pont des Arts or the Pont de l’Archvêché, considered some of the greatest romantic spots in the city, or the Pont Alexandre III that was lined with its gorgeous lamps, the Mirabeau bridge could hardly match up.
But Francis had grown to adore this bridge, he and Arthur both. After all, it was here where they’d commonly met up whenever they could spare some free time in the busy days of attending college since they were studying completely different majors and didn’t have a single class with each other. It’d been here where Arthur had stood in jeans frayed at the fringe and wet from the knees down, where he had chatted with Francis amiably about how much he wanted to bash his 18th century French literature teacher’s head in with a burnt scone and Francis had listened contently thinking about how much he loved the guy. It’d been here where they’d fought numerous times, even broke up once, but reconciled again.