Dusty furniture. Shady corners. Muggy air.
Inhospitable would have been the best way to describe the little, stifling room.
A gloomy place where no one would have stayed for more than one hour without rushing towards the small, creaky door to fill his lungs of fresh, outdoor air, no one, except the lonely figure who was sitting silently on the rickety stool placed in the middle of the room, an old candelabrum to throw a ghostly light to the pale hand that flickered in the shadow as a broken light bulb that someone was letting sway back and forth through darkness and light like a pendulum.
Terrifying, really.
The current situation was so similar to the coming of a bloodthirsty monster to make you shudder for the hand that emerged from the thick darkness to reach for something before disappearing once again into the void.
A knife maybe, given the circumstance, or an ax. Actually, a chainsaw was even better than that, a real cliché, as it was the sudden creaking of the door someone had just opened slowly, and the intake of air that the unfortunate soul was about on releasing into the most shrilling scream of all times before being beaten on time by something else.
And, surprisingly, it was not an ax, nor a chainsaw, but a brush with the tip painted in red that the lonely figure left in mid-air along with her forearm, now similar to the sliced limb of a statue of marble lightened up as it was by the faint and trembling flame of the candelabrum on her side, the sign that the newcomer had the full attention of the disturbing figure swallowed up in the pitch darkness, something for which, however, the woman at the door did not seem pleased, not even a bit.
Was that blood?
The thought swirled in the troubled mind of the woman when her eyes followed the drop of red on the floor, a tremendous sight that triggered a strong reaction from her body, now stiff as a broom, but the soft voice that followed the sinister "plop" was too silky to belong to some vengeful and cruel demon, and maybe, even the terrified visitor would have thought the same if she had given the time to let the feeble murmur reaching her ears.
A possibility, the terrified woman did not grant as she recoiled with a sob from the entry, swaying a little when she collided with the wall before rushing towards the door that led to the surface, so to put as much as distance possible between her and the "pale ghost".
And pale the young woman who was sitting on the stool was truly, but passing through the stone walls was an ability Seraphine would have liked to have but that, unfortunately, did not own.
A grimace sharpened her already edgy features when the lack of recognition of the terrified woman she heard screaming above her head before hearing a trail of laughter informed her that Genevieve was at it again.
It has always been a pastime of her mentor, scaring the new apprentices with the tale of the terrifying ghost that lived in the Louvre's underground study.
Not that Seraphine felt offended by being called a ghost, people had called her with more outrages names in her life, after all, Genevieve only liked to make fun of people, so there was no harm in it, but what troubled her greatly was the danger the young woman had risked in going down there without a guide.
It was dangerous going through the narrow stairs without a torch or some kind of light to lead the way, something she did not have or need down there.
No electricity, not even an electric bulb, just the candelabrum Seraphine took with a heavy sigh, putting back in place her brush and her palette to cover the painting of a behaded lord she was fixing with a white cloth before going upstair.
Seraphine could still hear the laughter of the museum's deputy director and the other employees of the museum as she climbed the first step.
Genevieve loved to scare her new assistants, to see how much stress they could endure since Genevieve's expeditions could become quite dangerous while trying to rescue world's historical treasures from men's greed and ignorance, and Serpahine did not feel offended by that, after all, it was hilarious to see how fast people could run away from her in fright before even thinking that despite the gloomy place, she was no real threath, only a painter who loved and needed dark rooms to work on art pieces that even a brief ray of light would have ruined utterly.
Seraphine took her time to adjust the hood of her sweatshirt on her head when she reached the door, and it was when she was absolutely sure that every inch of skin was covered by the electric blue fabric that she knocked twice to inform the people on the other side that she was ready to enter the room.
Such an old fashioned act, but Seraphine wasn't trying to be old fashioned, or well-mannered.
She was only preparing herself for any type of light that was waiting for her beyond the door.
Funny, seriously.
She almost sounded like a vampire, but she was no ghost, no vampire, only a human being with the bad luck of having a congenital disorder, because there was a scientific explanation for the white tresses that caressed her waist line. Or the bloody red of the irises hidden behind her thick glasses. Or the ghostly nuances of her skin.
Albinism. And the graver form.
Pitiful, wasn't she?
Of course not.
They weren't in the dark age anymore, where people like her would have been burned to a stick.
Her times were different. People's approach towards what was once considered strange was different.
People, especially teenagers loved things like that now.
Congential disorder, mismatched eye colors, pale complexion, strange features, people had become infatuaded with what could be considered odd, out of place.
Paris itself was crowded with strange people all the time.
You could find a young woman with purple hair, or an old man with a tribal tatoo to cover his face, or a teeanger with pointed ears along the path to your favourite restaurant or supermarket.
Abnormality had become a trend, a fashion, and Seraphine had made her abnormality her distinctive trait,
something to be proud of, to show off.
People still gasped on seeing her, but for a different reason, and when she turned the knob, a crooked smile bent her lips when the short, black-haired woman to whom she owned her positive stance squeezed the life out of her when she hugged her form with a strenght unsual for such a petite thing.
- My favourite discovery!
Being compared to a thing could have unnerved some people, someone would have cried out in outrage, but Seraphine could always recognize the fondness in that statement and the affection in her eyes.
Genevieve was a strange, cultured and kind woman, but an odd one, and despite her dark sense of humor, she could be rather serious and realiable most of the times.
Ten years older than her, daughter of art, she was the Louvre's deputy director and a famous archologist, the one who had found her during one of her excursion in a little swedish city that Seraphine had been happy to leave behind at seventeen years old to refine her talent as a painter.
- I am back – the woman exclaimed with a smile, tugging her towards a piece of cloth under which she knew, there had to be some old picture her mentor would have loved to see retrored to its glory – and I bought you a gift.
- Another impossible task – Seraphine corrected her gently, careful not to tread on her feet as the woman literally dragged her through the dark room.
Actually, it was not common for that wing of the Louvre to be left in the dark, but her condition required the minor expotition to the light possible, even with the high sun protection Seraphine usually used on her skin, and Genevieve had always been very mindful of her condition.
Her collaborators were gone too, and she was grateful for that.
She was still a little irritable to have left her job halfway, but Genevieve had been away a long time, and she was happy to see her once again.
- We found it in an abandoned old villa. I think it dates back to the nineteenth century.
She was excited by her new discovery, and even if Genevieve was always like that, Seraphine could feel a little trepidant too.
She could feel her fingers quivering a little as she reached for the white cloth with Genevieve still to her side with a wide smile, and when she saw it slipping on the marble floor, her eyes widened as she watched the old painting in awe.
What beautiful color.
Gently, her fingertips touched the ruined canvas, following the sinuous line of the scarlet curtain that obscured a long, white corridor at the end of which she could see the ruined outline of a man.
She could not see his face, or his hands, another curtain was cutting him in half, and the only thing she could notice was his red robes, and his long, scarlet cloak spread on the floor as a pool of fresh blood.
- Beautiful, isn't it?
Beautiful?
Yes, Seraphine conceded herself with a second glance, it was beautiful despite how ruined it was. The painting had the corners burned, as if it had escaped a terrible fire, and her hands were itching for the need to restore it, to take her brush and to make the colors more vivid, alive, as Genevieve often said after giving her the final result of her sleepless night.
A gift from God.
Her mother Elsa had always described her talent as a painter as a gift from God for his beloved child.
A child born with the appearance of a sinner but the blessing of a saint.
Her fingers left the painting to reach the cross she was wearing under her sweatshirt when the distance but familiar voice darkened her features and soul, an old habit she had even as a child when she felt a little nervous or scared, not that the painting was so hideous to make her shiver, but there was something unnerving in it now.
She could not explain it, but suddenly, she felt a little troubled by it.
God had always been her anchor during her dark times, and despite her young age, Seraphine had already gone through dark times most people were not able to overcome in a lifetime.
And yet, she had not let them bring her down, she had her prayer, she had her faith, she had God on her side.
She will be alright.
He would have protected her from the evil.
He will come for you, Devil's bride.
Shuddering for the unpleasant memory, Seraphine tighenened her grip on her rosary, her lips white for the effort not to let a weep of fright escape her mouth.
She was stronger than that she chastiched herself harhsly, covering the painting with the cloth to escape the sense of disquiet that it transmitted her.
- Mon cher?
When she felt the gentle touch on her shoulder, Seraphine cleaned her eyes from the shadow that had dirtied them, smiling a little when her mentor tried to meet her gaze.
- Are you okay, mon cher?
- I am fine, Genevieve. Only a little tired.
Maybe it wasn't the right thing to say, because, suddenly, Genevieve's green eyes began to shine, and Seraphine knew that it wasn't such a good thing, or at least, not for her need of loneliness when she was troubled.
- I knew what you need, mon cher!
- A good night of sleep ?– she tried with a soft whisper, hoping to be able to move Genevieve to pity, but her mentor was already on her path, and nothing could make her change idea, not even her pleading red eyes.
- I have organized a masquerade ball tonight!
Grunting wasn't very ladylike, but Seraphne did not care about it at the moment.
A masquerad ball.
She wasn't so thrilled at the idea like Genevieve.
Of course she wasn't concerned about the attention or the look she would have attracted, but she wasn't a good dancer, she had two left feet, and she knew how horrible she was at dancing.
She was a little too tall for a woman, she would have standed out even more, but even if her looks would have attracted the attention of many, her clumsy attempt to sway without falling would have been the real reason why people would have looked at her oddly.
- I don't think I-
- I won't accept a no from you, mon cher. I have already sent to your home your costume.
Genevieve had already cornered her, and Seraphine was too grateful to the woman not to please her, even if she knew, deep down, that she would have regretted her decision soon.
But alas, Genevieve maybe was right.
She needed to have fun, to distract herself, and even if Seraphine knew, as she took from the floor the paiting to store it in her study, that Genevieve's ways of having fun had always been a little too extreme for her, willy-nilly, she would have tried to have a positive attitude until the end.
- So… Is there a comic-com or something like that nearby?
Blushing a shade of red she could not even have recreated on her palette, Seraphine prayed that the taxi driver could have read in her silence her wish not to talk with him about her, well, particular attire, but when the man threw at her a curious gaze through the rearview mirror, something told her that the man would not have let the matter slide away as she hoped when he parted his lips to speak again.
- My daughter loves mediaval stuff like this – he confessed with a smile, ignoring her growing discomfort as his eyes landed on the gorgeous crown of red diamonds on her elaborate braid – where did you get it ma'am? It seems so real! I would love to buy it for my daughter and her cosplay.
It didn't seem real whispered her troubled mind while her gloved hands tried to hide the showy necklace on her throat.
It was real, but obviously she could not say it if she didn't want to find herself with a knife in her side.
Not that the taxi driver seemed able to do something as horrible as that, but money could make people do bad things, and if he had known that each jewel on her head, wrists and neck had been borrowed by the Louvre, then, she wasn't so sure that the man would not have tried to rob her.
Really she huffed angrily, smoothing the silk of her white and obviously borrowed dress.
How could Genevieve be so irresponsable?
The museum could have fired her, even if she was the director's niece.
- You look stunning by the way, ma'am. I like your dyed hair and the contact lenses.
- Thank you – she whispered softly, a little ashamed of herself to have thought that he could harm her.
He seemed a gentle man, and the way he spoke about his daughter was sweet, obviously he wasn't able to do something like that, but Seraphine had learned to expect anything even from who seemed harmless or gentle on the outside.
People were capable of horrible things, after all, and she could not forget it.
She had learned her lesson once, and she wasn't so foolish to fall for it once again.
- Here.
Handing him his money, Seraphine tried to get out of the taxi on her own, and even if her gown was so full of flounces to suffocate her, she managed to stand on her feet with a labored breath.
- Have fun ma'am.
I will try.
She did not say it aloud of course, but the taxi driver didn't seem to mind her silence, scouring on the road as Seraphine tried to reach the Louvre's door without falling.
Walking was difficult with all that silk and soufles, and she was out of breath when she finally reached the door.
Smoothing her gown and fixing her hair, she entered the building without really knowing where to go next.
Genevieve had said to wait for her in the hall, but judjing by the lack of noise and people around her, maybe she was too early.
Well, if she really was the first, then maybe she could go in her study and wait for them to arrive.
After all, she had time to spare, and if she really had to go through a night full of social interaction and dances she usually preferred to avoid, maybe she could do something she liked in the meanwhile.
A tiny bubble of guilt burst in her stomach as she began to descend the stairs, careful not fo fall.
It was alright, she would have painted only for ten minutes. It was still early, after all. Trying to be fast with that dress wasn't so easy, but Seraphine reached her study after a couple of minutes, painting, but proud to be still standing.
Trying to find the positive aspect in things, even the smallest ones, was something she had learned to do since coming to Paris ten years ago.
She was a quiet person who had always loved silence and darkness. Anonymity. Something that, however, her appearance had never granted her.
People tended to stare at her a lot, and even if she did not mind it now, she could not still understand why people looked at her with envy.
People were envious of her looks, of her being so pale and ghostly, but they did not know how hard had been for her to have such a pale complexion.
The sun could really make her blind if she had looked at it for too long, and even if she had her sun protection, the sunlight still troubled her greatly.
She could not go to the beach, or walking without wearing a hat or long pants and swirts during the day.
It was tiring be careful of anything, of something people had without knowing how luckly they were on having it.
However, even if the people who lived in big cities like Paris were more understading about her complexion, she knew that ignorance was still strong, just like in small cities like her own.
Yes. Small cities had been less sympathetic and harsher towards her odd appearance.
Devil's bride.
The first time she had heard that horrible word had been when she was fifteen years old, still too little to know how human's heart could be tainted by lust and madness.
It was a rainy day.
She had taken shelter in the church, the only place where she could feel safe, at ease. Understood.
Elsa, her mother, was a very devoted woman, and she brought her every Sunday to the church to listen to the sermon.
Seraphine had always loved the idea that someone else would have loved her unconditionally, that someone other than her mother and father would have always forgiven her.
It was reassuring, knowing that God would have looked out for her, that, no matter what she would have done, he would have always loved her.
Even if she looked like that.
People had burned woman like her in the dark ages. They had called them witches, but Devil's bride had been the word she had not read in a book, but a word that, instead, she had heard from someone who should have helped her, someone who should have given her faith instead of despair.
Her eyelids fell heavily upon her eyes when she felt the stinging in them while the hand she had stretched towards the new painting began to tremble a little.
It was not her fault, if she looked like that.
A trembling breath escaped her lips as she felt the cloth sliding through her fingers and her eyes focused on the white corridor and the red cloak that her fingertips touched gently while a cold shiver ran through her spine.
She had not looked at him that way, that day. She had not asked to be touched like that, to be touched at all.
Suddenly, Seraphine hugged her waist with a trembling hand, just as she was trying to keep herself whole, not to break and fall to the floor while her throat began to burn.
She had not tried to lure him, to seduce him, to let him fall into Devil's temptation as he had told when the nun had found them behind the altar.
- He will come to get you, Devil's Bride.
Spinning on her heels so fast to make the world in front of her dancing wildly, Seraphine's wide eyes searched the darkness with the fear to see something emerge from it to grab her, her chest that raised under the heavy breathing and her trembling hand tightened now on the rosario she had pulled out from her corset to raise it in front of her glossy eyes, as if she was tryin to exorcise the evil, to banish a demon.
But she was alone.
No she corrected herself, chanting under her breath the prayer her mother had taught her to keep the devil at bay, to ask for God's help.
God was with her. She was never alone.
Her mother had called her Seraphine to be the closest to God. To be his dearest child.
The grip on the rosario hardened while her eyes scanned frantically the darkness in search of something, anything that could try to reach her.
A gasp escaped her lips when a loud sound made her take a step back, her free hand snapped on the candelandrum that she raised in front of her face with a shaky breath, her right hand closed around the cross, her breath heavy, her eyes glossy with tears.
Panic attack.
She was having another panic attack. Nothing was real.
No one was there with her. She was alright. She was just…imagining things. Again.
There was no incoming danger. No whispering.
No one was going to grab her from nowhere, and yet, she could still feel it on her.
A gaze.
Hard. Haunting. That hurt.
Someone had always watched her, but from where, how, she never knew that.
She had never been able to expain it even to herself, not even to her mother, her most trusted confidant, the only one who believed that an obscure presence was hunting her, wanted her, but despite what her psychiatrist had said or what others believed when they accused her to be an attention seeker, she knew that someone was watching her, always, before and now, and light, light made it worse, because she could discern the spot where he could hide, while, when she was in complete darkness, she could feel safe, because she could hide.
When the flame went out, Seraphine tightened the lips she had just hatched to blow out the candelabrum, her eyes now more at ease in the darkness rather than in the light.
Maybe she could go upstairs. Maybe Genevieve had arrived. Maybe she was even searching for her.
In fact, to her relief, she could hear the sound of footsteps above her head now.
Yes. She had to go upstairs. Straightway.
Taking the first step towards the door was easy enough, but when she tried the second, something froze her breath and the beating of her heart.
It was not real.
No she chocked, tightening her eyelids, it was not real.
Her hair had fallen on her naked shoulder because she had just moved, not because a cold wind had howled in front of her like the breathing of a best hidden in the darkness.
Nothing was in front of her, she was sure of that, and yet, she did not try to go forward, not even a step.
- Seraphine!
Genevieve 's sudden call startled her, but when Seraphine lifted her chin to raise her eyes on the ceiling, something flashed in the corner of her eyes while a low growling began to rumble in the air, and remaining calm and still was impossible for her.
When the candelabrum fell to the ground, a sharp screech followed it, while Seraphine's feet retreated clumsly and the door's knob began to turn, however, when Genevieve entered the room, her concerned eyes found no one, only a ruined candelabrum on the floor and a tiny, white shoes forgotten on the ground along with the painting she had given to her pupil that noon.
- Seraphine?
Oc x Erik! Thanks for reading!