A BLUR OF BLUE

You can't repeat the past...but can you out-run it?

Pairing: Adele/Emma (Femslash)

Genre: Drama/Angst

Rating: "M"

Warning: Contains Spoilers!

For the record: I haven't seen the film (as of this writing it hasn't been released yet), so if any of the characters' likes/dislikes, etc. aren't 100% accurate, kindly take this into account.

Current Muse: "Goodbye" (performed by Terramara)

The story is told from Adele's POV, and begins ten months after the film's ending.

CHAPTER 1

"FAGGOT!"

The solitary word cracked like a whip through the still, early morning air of the Parc Montagne and I, jolted abruptly out of my brooding reverie, reflexively and angrily snapped my bowed head upward and then to my left - the direction from which the vicious insult had come, ready to hurl back one equally as rude.

But, as I shot my filthiest glare at the two scruffy teenage thugs sitting on the bench ten feet away from mine...

...silently daring them to call me something else...

...anything...

...I quickly realized that they weren't looking at me at all...but rather at someone all the way over on the far side of the lake where, by squinting my eyes, I could just make out the shape of a human form, heavily shrouded in mist, leaning against the broad trunk of an an ancient tree.

While no less annoyed that the hateful remark had been directed at that unsuspecting guy rather than at myself, I had more pressing issues on my mind at the moment; so I promptly dropped my chin back onto my chest and resumed gazing blankly at the tall take-out cup of tea (raspberry, with three sugars) between my hands; while fervently hoping for one thing only: to be left alone with my thoughts.

No such luck.

"What's the scrawny, limp-wristed butt slammer doing on that side of the lake?" Thug #1 wondered aloud. "How'd he even get in? Ever since the police found those four dead prostitutes over there-"

"In varying stages of decay," his friend added helpfully.

"Yeah, well, since then the whole area's been fenced off. No one goes there anymore...not since that city ordinance made it illegal," Thug #1 finished decisively.

"Who knows how he got in?" Thug #2 replied with a shrug. "The little fairy probably just flew over the fence. Anyway, since the area's deserted, that makes it the perfect spot to fuck his hundreds of boyfriends in seclusion. I'll bet he even likes to-"

The remainder of the insult was drowned out by the roar of a motor as an ancient produce truck rattled up the street and past the nearby park railing, causing the overhead branches of the elm tree behind me to shudder in its wake; the resulting solitary falling leaf that landed on my right shoulder distracting me momentarily from the highly offensive conversation over on my left.

Brushing the leaf off, I glanced up at the still opaque, yet steadily-lightening sky. It confirmed what the weather forecast I'd heard last night before finally sinking into a troubled sleep had promised: that it was going to be a beautiful day...for the rest of the world.

But not for me; because I hated summer.

I hated it with every fiber of my being.

As usual, I'd slept badly, awaking unrefreshed and frustrated way before five a.m.; and, after staring at the wall opposite my bed for nearly two hours while trying to will myself back into unconsciousness, I'd finally given up. Throwing on some clothes, I stumbled groggily out my front door and headed toward the park, stopping momentarily at Cafe 24 for a tea.

Ten minutes later I found myself sitting on this bench – just as I had every morning for the past two and a half weeks - enveloped in the dense, lingering fog and hoping that being out of my musty old townhouse apartment and in the open air would afford me some inspiration...

...to figure out how I was ever going to get through the day that lay ahead.

For the past nine months I'd had my class of thirty first grade students to keep me occupied, answering their endless questions during the day and planning their upcoming lessons well into the evenings...but now, during the seemingly endless months of June, July, and August, getting through every single hour of every day was an indescribable struggle.

And the summer had only just begun.

In order to avoid spending (all of) my time curled up in the fetal position on the floor of my (otherwise empty) apartment, alternately crying, praying, and begging, I tried hard to stay busy; and so far I had managed to do quite a lot:

Investing endless hours in studying complicated recipes, in countless gourmet cookbooks...definitely a step up from the low-rent Spaghetti Bolognese recipe I'd learned from my dad...

...following by long, frustrating sessions in my too-small kitchen, where, hunched over my temperamental old stove, I labored intently, attempting to perfect countless elaborate dishes...

...and then, reading seemingly-endless stacks of cinderblock-sized books on painting and sculpture - far into the night, while trying to force myself to develop more than just a passing, casual interest in fine art...

...followed by (badly) sketching almost every single item in my apartment...

...and then trying, as she had once urged, to cultivate my creative writing skills...

...all for hours on end...

...to show her that I was very, very sorry...

...for everything that I'd done...

...and that now I was trying...

...so incredibly hard...

...for her...

...but, in reality...for nothing. Because now it was too late...

...she was gone...

...and, because I had been - and always will be - such a complete screw-up, she's never coming back.

So now here I sat, rolling the half-empty cup between my palms, watching through its clear plastic wall as the deep-amber, raspberry-scented waves of its contents sloshed around in uneven, ever-diminishing circles. Finally, after the thousandth one had settled, I shook my head, trying (and failing) to clear it...

...and then - as always when unable to figure out what to do - I automatically reverted to my default setting: systematically reliving each and every mistake I had made with her, in vivid detail, while silently yet liberally berating myself for every single one of them...being far, far harsher on myself than the two creeps sitting ten feet away could ever be.

On the upside, my lengthy, self-inflicted tirade was successfully blocking out the crude, non-stop conversation that was taking place over on the next bench, until I caught one of the thugs remark,

"...sick, twisted freak! Lucky for him I'm not on his side of the lake, because I'd snap the biggest branch off that tree and shove it right up his a-"

"Marc," his friend interrupted suddenly, holding up one hand and squinting in the direction of the lake's opposite shore, "that's not a guy...it's a girl."

This declaration caught Marc off balance...but only for a moment, before he replied, "What? Are you sure?"

"I...think so," his friend replied tentatively.

Looking doubtful, Marc turned in that direction, peered intently, and then, after nearly half a minute had elapsed, he declared, "It's hard to tell...but if it IS female, then it's a DYKE...but only until I shove something huge up her twat...and you can bet that it won't be a tree branch!"

My eyes, which which had been staring at him in anger, now narrowed into slits of rage as I sat, seething, wishing he'd look over in my direction and hastily trying to decide which of the multiple scathing replies in my head to hurl first. Soon I'd settled on what seemed to be the best one, but before I could deliver it, the bells in the church on the next block chimed seven...

...and uncurling himself from his slumped position, Marc, with an audible groan, got up from the bench...

...and, suddenly/fully aware of his hulking size, I quickly lost my nerve.

"Shit," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, "time to sober up."

"Ha! Famous last words!"

"Shut up, Henri!"

"You're only fooling yourself." his friend taunted.

"No," Marc answered, with some measure of (temporary) conviction, "I mean it this time. I've gotta stop staying out all night."

"Yeah, well, you say that every morning."

Marc shrugged.

"Whatever...I have to be at work by nine."

"Blow it off, like you usually do."

"Can't. The boss said if I'm late again, that's it."

"Well, then, will I see you at the billiard hall tonight?" Henri asked.

"Maybe."

Twisting sideways, I watched as they both ambled - somewhat unsteadily - up the path and then through the park gate where, after exchanging a few words that I couldn't hear, they parted...

...and I settled back into my seat and, now weary of self-flagellation, sat taking in my surroundings. Soon finding nothing of interest nearby to focus my attention on, I shifted my glance back across the lake...to its opposite shore.

The heavy blanket of early morning mist had only begun to dissipate so, like those obnoxious apes I, too, found it impossible to tell if the light-haired person who still stood there, slouching against the huge tree and staring at the ground, was male or female.

Seconds later, as I sat watching, their gaze shift upward...

...across the lake, and over in my general direction...

...and suddenly, whoever it was flinched sharply, seemingly startled at having been spotted, and a moment later turned away quickly...

...and then, with a flash of blue jacket, he or she was gone...

...and I got up, stretched, and absently shuffled off toward home.

My small apartment had never seemed so huge...

...or so empty...

...not of furnishings, but of life.

Even though I'd already been awake for nearly three hours, I didn't feel much like breakfast, but in the end habit won out and I had scrambled eggs and toast.

In my book, skipping meals is never a good idea.

I managed to kill another thirty minutes or so by washing the dishes and tidying the kitchen, and then, with no idea what to do next, I wandered into the living room and over to its only good piece of furniture: my antique desk. Sitting down, I turned my computer on, pulled up the local news site and began scrolling mechanically, listlessly, through the stories; reading everything yet comprehending nothing.

All too soon, I reached the bottom of the page.

At a loss for what to do next, I began to mindlessly surf the web...

...and, not encountering anything of real interest, eventually found myself indulging in my favorite time-waster: watching endless, funny cat videos on Yoo Toob...

...only I didn't feel at all like laughing.

Finally, curiously, I stretched in my seat and, pausing the video I was currently watching, I glanced over at the clock...

...and suddenly snapped to my senses.

What the hell was I doing?

Three hours wasted.

Three hours of my life that I could never get back...not that I'd ever want them. Still, months ago, as I'd walked away from the art gallery – and from her – forever, I'd made a solemn, anguished promise to myself: that my days of acting childish and irresponsible were over.

Well aware that I'd been failing at this resolve...on an almost daily basis...I blushed; deeply ashamed.

What was wrong with me?

No need to even ask that question, I reminded myself...because the answer was already glaringly apparent.

Nonetheless, I decided, even though it's obviously a total lost cause, today I should at least try to do something grown-up - if not productive - with my time.

So, with a sigh...

...and with Herculean effort...

...and with a final, wistful glance at the still-frozen screen of Fifi: The Break-dancing Feline, I clicked away, and over to a far more serious/far less entertaining site: Your Academic World Network (Y.A.W.N.).

Being an educator, I really should have taken more of an interest in the news stories that were in front of me but, despite my (half-hearted) efforts, my mind still wandered, incessantly and broadly, unable to focus on any of them as I scrolled down the page...

...until, near the very bottom, one caught my eye: the Auguste Renaud Exhibit, which was taking place in two weeks over at the Musee de Bellard.

It was going to be a three day show, featuring his oil paintings...

...of nudes...

...and, suddenly, all the memories of Emma which I'd managed to temporarily relegate to the back of my mind came hurtling to its forefront...

...and seconds later I found myself, hands shaking, frantically clicking away from the YAWN website...

...and over to Face Book.

As my page came up, and leaning forward with heart hammering, I moved the curser over to her name, the fourth one on the list...

...but then hesitated...

...because, I reminded myself, I had stopped stalking her months ago.

I used to do it, multiple times per day, looking at each new photo of her new family that she'd posted, while feeling yet another harpoon-like stab of agony slam through my heart. Still, I'd sit there and stare...unable to look away from her captivating smile, and from her cerulean blue eyes - the ones that had always floored me...

...until, unable to ignore the fact that the joy I saw in them was no longer because of me, the images on the screen would dissolve before my own eyes in a blur of tears...

...and, once again, I'd lower my face onto the desk and bawl.

Now, still wavering, I shifted my gaze downward, staring at the faint but unmistakeable water marks that liberally streaked the dark mahogany surface, and feeling more than a little guilty at the damage. This desk had been my grandfather's...and last year, before he had died he'd given it to me...and I had promised him that I'd always take the very best care of it...and of course I had failed...

...because I can't do anything right.

Well then, since that's the case, I reasoned (finger still hovering), why bother even trying anymore?

Come on.

Do it.

Just one little click.

It would be so easy, and I would now have a way to kill the next few hours - as well as myself...just a little bit more.

Just this once.

Do it.

One last time.

And then, never again.

I promise.

But as compelling as the urge was, I refrained; remembering my earlier self-inflicted abuse at the park.

I had already punished myself enough for one day.

Reinforcing my resolve, I switched the computer off, got up from the desk, and, with a sigh, wandered back across the room.

Over to my sofa.

Slumping back into its overstuffed cushions I sat, motionless, staring at the opposite wall and listening to the steady, non-stop cadence of the clock on the mantle above my empty fireplace; witnessing as moment after moment limped slowly, painfully forward; each one - that should have approached me so full of promise - cruelly arriving empty-handed before retreating, one by one, into my increasingly-meaningless past...

...until finally, somehow, I fell sideways and fell asleep.

X

With a jolt, I opened my eyes to the late afternoon sun that filtered through the window behind me, throwing long, sad shadows across the apartment floor. Hauling myself up into a seated position, I rubbed my stiff neck, and then glanced at my watch.

Six thirty-seven.

The day was essentially over...with absolutely nothing of value to show for it.

Well, I consoled myself as I stumbled toward the kitchen, at least another empty afternoon was behind me.

Since I had missed lunch, I (over)compensated with a huge serving of last night's leftover stroganoff, and then knocked off the carton of lemon sorbet that I'd found in the freezer.

Dinner finished, and at a complete loss for what to do next, I returned to my spot on couch, where I reached for the remote...

...but, after a moment's hesitation, tossed it back onto the coffee table.

I needed to think.

I spent the next three hours trying to do just that, and at ten-fifteen I decided to call it a night...not because of my (extreme) exhaustion, but because I'd finally, actually accomplished something that day: I'd made plans for the next.

A change of scenery...a day trip, by bus, to the seaside would provide me with a temporary yet desperately-needed distraction. I didn't have any interest in actually going swimming, but it occurred to me that a walk in the surf, in the sunshine, might actually grant me some clarity...

...and, with a rare, elated sense of accomplishment, and a smile, and actually looking forward to something for the first time in a very long time, I fell asleep ...

...and, of course, awoke to pouring rain.

Since I'd spent so much time planning this trip and had no other ideas on how to successfully waste the next sixteen hours, I decided to go through with it anyway...

…so thirty minutes later, dressed in baggy khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers I grabbed my old school backpack from its hook on inside of the closet door and headed for the fridge.

I hadn't been able to find my umbrella, so I wrapped my prosciutto sandwich, bag of cheese straws, and box of butter cookies in a trash bag to keep them dry before storing them in my backpack. To this I added two liter-sized bottles of water.

As an afterthought, I stopped back at the closet and, after rummaging through it for a minute, clapped on a well-worn baseball cap.

On my way out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror by my front door, and smiled wryly.

I looked like I was still in high school; and in a way I really wish I still was...

...because then I would at least have an (admittedly lame) excuse for my incurable, crippling immaturity.

Ignoring the rumble of thunder that came from somewhere over on my left, I walked out my front door...

...and into the rain.

Mercifully, the nearest bus stop was located on my block, only three doors down from my own, and less than five minutes later - and only slightly damp - I had settled into the #507, about halfway back where, for want of anything better to do, I was reading the graffiti that liberally covered the back of the seat ahead of mine.

Soon finding none of the scribblings to have any literary merit, I then turned my attention to the left and sat watching the endless procession of raindrops that were rolling down the glass pane until, suddenly, the bus came to an abrupt stop...

...but not at an intersection. Besides, I realized, we had only traveled two blocks.

What was going on?

I soon found out.

Looking forward, through bus's front window I saw, about twenty feet ahead and just past the the road works barricades that lined both sides of the street, a crew of four construction workers trying to move a bulldozer from one side of the narrow street to other. Apparently, the engine had stalled out in the middle and the driver was having trouble getting it started again.

Leaning back, I sat watching, barely interested and wondering how long we'd be stuck here, as I listened to the incessant tap of rain on the roof of the bus...

...until the relative silence was suddenly and loudly punctuated by the sound of fists pounding on its closed door.

Looking highly annoyed, the bus driver opened it...

...and my already-low heart sank even further when I saw who ascended the steps: the two knuckle-dragging creeps from the park.

Great.

Just what I need.

"Fucking rain," Marc announced, to everyone in general.

As water ran in rivulets off his scuffed leather jacket, he shook the black, greasy-wet hair out of his eyes and, after shoving his bus pass within an inch of the driver's nose, retracted it just as quickly and then headed down the aisle...

...but stopped abruptly.

Pointing at the outfit of a female passenger four seats up from me, he remarked, "Wow, Henri, the Salvation Army really has a nice selection these days!"

Henri replied with a snort.

Assholes.

As they approached I, not wanting to become their next target, slumped down in my seat and looked at the floor...

...breathing a silent sigh of relief as they walked past me...

...but a second later I was silently yet lavishly cursing under my breath...

...because even though the bus was nearly empty, they had decided on the seats that were directly behind mine...

...and, as they sat down, one of them belched loudly and then laughed.

Fuck.

It was way too early for this.

They, however, obviously believed otherwise...

...because in less than a minute Marc was bragging, in explicit/excruciating detail, about some girl he had (allegedly) shagged the night before...

...a lengthy tale...

...until finally, as I rolled my eyes, fervently wishing that he'd get to the end of his crude (and no doubt utterly fictitious) narrative, he stopped abruptly and exclaimed, "Hey look! The dyke is back!"

With a rush of indignation I, flushing angrily, immediately and reflexively turned in my seat, ready to confront him...

...only to see him pointing - and the two of them looking - not at me, but out their window...

...toward the park.

Quickly, I settled back into my own seat and then, mildly curious, I looked out my own rain-streaked window of the still-immobile bus...

...squinting past the wrought-iron park railings...

...down the grassy slope ...

...and across the lake...

...to its far side...

...where sitting, with back leaning against the same tree and elbows on knees, was the person I'd noticed yesterday...

...huddled inside the same blue jacket, which I could see - even from where I sat - was drenched with rain.

Why would anyone (except an idiot like me) want to be outside in this weather?

X

The beach sucked.

Thanks to the unseasonably cold temperature, the unrelenting rain, and the unwelcome surprise wave that flattened me from behind as I waded knee-deep in the surf, I arrived home that evening with teeth chattering and drenched from head to toe; freezing, clammy, and utterly miserable.

Ignoring my growling stomach, I (uncharacteristically) passed right by the kitchen and made a beeline for the bathroom.

While wrestling my way out of my soggy, uncooperative clothes, I listened with growing anticipation to the gushing hot water that was loudly and rapidly filling the bathtub behind me until, finally naked at last, I climbed in gratefully and then lay back and closed my eyes...

...and then, far too tired to even attempt to resist the urge, I proceeded to indulge in my (second) favorite pastime: feeling sorry for myself.

"Why me?" I asked, suddenly and loudly, listening as my voice reverberated repeatedly off the faded tile walls.

I liked the sound.

I said it again...

...thinking with satisfaction that its hollow tone perfectly captured the essence of the utter emptiness of my existence...

...and, needing no further encouragement than that, I launched into the following, lengthy soliloquy:

"All I wanted was one pleasant day...just ONE! A few hours where I could forget the completely fucked-up tragedy that is my life! That's all! Is that too much to ask?!" (I didn't bother pausing to listen for an answer; I was on a roll.) "That's ALL I wanted...but did I get it? Noooo! No fucking way did I get it...because God forbid I should have even ONE MORE tiny bit of enjoyment before I die!

"Just a little sunshine is all I asked for...and what did I get instead?

"An iron gray sky!

"Above a steel gray sea!

"It's summer, for God's sake!

"The weather should be warm...

"...and the sky should be blue...

"...and the water should be blue...

"...and the jacket should be blue...

"...and the...

"...and...

"...the..."

And I sat up with a jolt.

Disregarding the wide sheet of bathwater that had just shattered against the well-worn checkerboard tiles of my bathroom floor, I sat, elbows on knees and head in hands...stunned.

While at the beach, my mind had been every bit as foggy as the sky that had surrounded me, here, in my tiny bathroom, I'd suddenly had a momentary burst of (possible) insight...

...but...it couldn't be!

Could it?

I quickly dismissed the thought. After all, lots of people have blue jackets...and blonde hair. Besides, what the hell would she be doing over there? All the way over on the other side of the lake; the area where, less than a year ago, four women had been brutally killed?

No.

It couldn't be.

Unless...?

Seconds later, I shook my head.

The day's exertions had left me delirious. Besides, I reasoned, there was no way it could have been her because, after all, I'd never ever seen her in this neighborhood...

...or even in this city.

Quickly dismissing the idea for the second time, I drained the water from the tub, then stood up and, turning the shower on...

...turned my attention to washing the sea out of my hair.

Still, try as I might, I couldn't shake the idea completely. It lingered, hanging with infuriating persistence onto the outer edges of my consciousness until, finally, I realized that it wasn't going to go away on its own.

I had to prove to myself that I was wrong.

And there was only one way to do that: tomorrow, rain or shine, I was going to be back on my park bench...looking across to the far side of the lake.

Now thoroughly scrubbed, conditioned, brushed, and smelling like coconuts instead of salt water, I sat huddled inside my white terrycloth bathrobe on the upholstered seat of my apartment's huge front bay window; with my knees drawn up under my chin, and my right cheek resting against the glass; staring out at the colorful, shimmering patterns the street lamps and illuminated store signs were throwing onto the wet pavement in front of my townhouse...

...while a single question burned in my mind: how had I even come up with this idea...and why was it so persistent?

(Okay, maybe that was two questions.)

Well, at any rate I was thrilled to have something new and interesting to occupy my mind...even though at the back of it I realized that I was only desperately clutching at straws...where none actually existed.

Nonetheless, I spent the next ten minutes wracking my brain; trying to make at least some sense of it. I'd been sitting on that bench every single morning for the past two and a half weeks...so, during that time, had there ever been anyone over on the other side of lake?

I wrestled with the question valiantly but, finally, I shook my head, realizing that it was an impossible one for me to answer since, during at least 98% of the time I'd spent at the park, my attention had been turned completely inward.

However, less than a minute later - and without really knowing how I got there - I found myself sitting at my computer...

...and, wondering if she and her girlfriend were now living anywhere near here, I reached for the mouse...

...but I quickly stood up.

Bad idea...for so many reasons. Besides, I was no longer able to ignore my stomach's incessant demands, so I hurried to the kitchen where, despite my (pointless) nervous excitement at what the next morning might bring, I somehow managed to devour half a pound cake before heading off to bed.

X

I awoke around five-thirty and, rolling onto my left side, looked, through heavy-lidded eyes, out the window.

Still too early - and too dark - to tell what kind of morning it was going to be...

...but either way I knew how – and where - I was going to spend it.

Stopping only to take a fast shower and dress, I was soon rushing out the front door...

...running down the front steps...

...and sprinting down the street...

...hurtling straight toward the park...

...but suddenly skidding to a halt in front of Cafe 24.

I'm a creature of habit.

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle; a large raspberry, with three sugars?" asked the smiling, middle-aged lady behind the counter.

As I said, I'm a creature of habit.

I nodded, and in less than five minutes I was, with full cup in hand, once again rushing toward the park.

Tearing through its front gates - and now completely winded - I stumbled over to my usual bench, flung myself onto it and, quickly setting the cup aside (my mind definitely not on tea), I peered across the lake, toward the ancient, currently-invisible oak tree...

...and, squinting intently into the dense wall of fog...

...and with heart still hammering...

...I waited.

For nearly an hour.

Until, gradually, the haze began to lift...

...and, finally, the devastating reality set in.

She wasn't there.

And now I knew, beyond a doubt, that she wasn't going to be...ever.

I had been wrong...about all of it.

The entire idea had been an absolute delusion, not to mention a complete waste of my (already scarce) emotional resources...

...and now, somehow, I had to come to terms with the fact that my overactive imagination, which I'd tried so hard as a writer to cultivate, had brutally betrayed me.

With a sigh of disappointment, I got to my feet.

It was time to leave.

Seconds later, lifting my eyes from the trash can where I'd just thrown my still-full cup of tea, I cast a final, defeated, parting glance across the lake.

Even though more than half of the early morning's mist still remained, I now had a relatively clear view of the other side...

...and it was easy to see that there was No One under the huge tree...

...and that the area surrounding it was completely deserted...

...except for the guy in the baggy trench coat, sitting on the far bank's only bench, reading...

...who suddenly, inexplicably, ducked behind his open newspaper...

...and pulled his blue cap lower over his eyes.