Prologue
The ripples of la Seine send shimmers of light reflecting over the dark depths, and I can't avert my eyes from the temptation to see, to know.
I try. With everything in me I try. For several footsteps I keep my face forward, my gaze following the lines in the cobblestone, my mind focused on the sound of my heels clicking against the stone street. The chill of fall forces me to pull my wool coat around my shoulders, to tighten my red scarf against the breeze caressing my skin as it brushes through my dark hair like cold, invisible fingers that send shivers up my spine.
This is my favorite time of day in Paris: twilight. Studying here for the past year has been a dream come true—a dream turned nightmare. As evening shadows dance with remnants of afternoon sun, the sky turns shades of purple and red. I never tire of it, of the vision of colors swirling together like one of Monet's paintings. As much as I love spending my days at the Sorbonne studying art, and my afternoons at the Louvre gazing at the greatest paintings in the world, nothing can compare to the masterpiece mother nature creates daily.
At least, that's how I used to feel. Until that night.
Nothing has been the same since that night.
An older couple passes me on the bridge, the woman smiling in my direction as she wishes me a good evening. She looks happy. Carefree. Her long dark hair falling down her back like waves. Her sundress dotted with red poppies. I try to smile back, but my face freezes in the effort, the weight in my heart too heavy to give the fake gesture much sincerity.
A teenage couple stands at the foot of the bridge kissing, laughing, whispering to each other. A businessman paces near them talking on his cell phone. All of the voices—French, English, Italian— blend together—into a music that becomes more sinister the longer I listen.
I stop walking and turn towards the water with pain and reluctance, but also with a compulsion that leaves little choice.
When I peer over the side of the bridge and into the murkiness, I see nothing unusual. I smile for the first time all day, a real smile, and almost laugh out loud at the relief that courses through me as the ball of anxiety that has been tightening in my chest slowly uncurls.
But my relief is short-lived.
At first it appears just a trick of light, something explainable by science. Anyone might see it if they tilted their head just so.
But I know it isn't the light, and that no one would be able to see what is about to show itself to me.
The form clarifies into an image so achingly familiar a bolt of pain shoots through my heart. It's me, but not. A reflection of the woman whose face I have shared since birth.
She smiles in that sad way that resonates so deeply, and I can't turn my head, can't look away, even knowing what's about to happen.
The smile fades on the beautiful elfin face, wide blue eyes almost too large, skin too pale, the color of porcelain.
No longer my own reflection, my twin stares back at me, her mouth twisting into something grotesque as the voices return in whispers that grow into screams. Celeste, save me. Help me. He's hurting me. Why won't you help me? It hurts. Celeste!
I cover my ears, but the voice doesn't live outside my head, and nothing can shut out the sound once it begins. Whimpering, scared, unable to face this ghost yet again—this mental madness brought on by loss and grief and an unfortunate spin of the genetic lottery— I run.
I run off the bridge, away from the cursed water, away from my own insanity. I've taken the pills, done the counseling, followed all the rules, but it hasn't gone away.
I know only one thing can stop it now.
As I stumble towards my flat, latching onto my keys, I feel someone watching me from the shadows, but when I turn to look, no one's there. Still, my skin prickles and the hair on my arms stand on end. I'm not alone.
But it doesn't matter.
Only one thing matters right now—quieting the voices once and for all.
For years, I hated my mother for what she did to find relief from her madness.
It wasn't until recently that I finally understood. That I finally felt compassion. That I finally realized this was the true curse of our family.
I've had the plan for weeks, ever since that night, but I never really thought I'd follow through with it. Tonight, I know I will. There is no more doubt. No more fear. Only a deep relief that soon it will all be over.
Once inside my flat, I don't bother kicking off my shoes or placing my keys on the hand-painted table under the mirror along the entryway. Instead, I drop everything on the floor as I make my way to the small bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. After weeks of anguish, my hopelessness propels me. I don’t stop moving toward the inevitable. There’s nothing else left to do anyway. I've already written the note. They will find it on my desk next to my laptop.
I don't bother taking off my white dress, though I do pull off my coat. I almost laugh at the absurdity that the moment before my death I would be worried about ruining my favorite—and most expensive—indulgence, my beautiful red wool coat.
But thinking about the coat keeps me from thinking about her. Or my mother. Did either of them feel this way before the end?
I take the razor blade I purchased just for this occasion, turn on my bath, and sink into the warm water. My red scarf floats around me like blood. How fitting, I think, as I place the silver blade against my left wrist.
I know how to cut, vertically not horizontally. I know which veins to hit to get the job done correctly. Living alone helps. No one will look for me until tomorrow when I don't show up for school.
I idly wonder who will come checking in. Probably Mike, from Art History. He's been asking me out for months and would want to be the first to ‘help’. But maybe Lacy will insist, knowing I don't fancy Mike at all. I actually hope it's Mike and not Lacy. I don't want my friend seeing me like this.
The slice doesn't hurt like I imagined it would. It almost feels good, like it's cutting into an illness and letting out the infection. As the blood flows into the water, covering my pale skin, staining my white dress, I imagine all the crazy bleeding away. Soon I'll be with my sister and my parents again.
Soon, I will be free of the madness that has taken the sanity—and lives—of every woman in my family for generations.
My eyes are closed, lost in dreams of death, when a stranger’s arms pull me out of the water. Heat tickles across my wet, chilled skin.
"You poor girl. There's hope for you yet." His voice is the last thing I hear before I fade into nothing.
1
I wake with a sudden gasp, inhaling damp, chilled air that burns my throat. My fingers are cold as I bring them to my face, rubbing at my eyes. It doesn’t help against the blurriness. Blinking, I sit up, then wobble as the room spins around me. What time is it? Where am I?
In the muddled mess of my own thoughts, I struggle to remember the events that led me here.
Searching for a clue, I look down at the simple gown I’m wearing. It’s not familiar and is too baggy on my slender frame. Below the short hemline, my legs are tangled in a threadbare blanket draped across the cot I woke up on. Staring down at my own body, confusion turns quickly to fear. Nothing feels right about this. How did I get here?
I look up again, studying the room around me as the dizziness recedes and my vision finally begins to clear. The space comes into sharper focus. Concrete walls on three sides, and on the fourth—