This is the second part of In Absentia, so you might want to read that first for this to make sense. I hope I still get this right. Here goes--
--
The first time I saw you,
You were chasing down
A cyclone
All alone in the field
With rail yards and clovers
I kept rolling on and never thought
You'd wind up chasing me.
-Getaway Car by Audioslave
The following letter was found in Kathryn Merteuil's mailbox somewhere in the south of France:
My dearest, dearest not so departed sister,
Please hold the applause. I know you're not going to be surprised if you ever found a letter from me again, because you and I both know that the reason why you sent that letter was because you missed me. Two years was a long time, you know. Admit it.
(Oh, please. Spare me the smirking, scoffing, and sarcastic remarks). You know you missed me.
It took a while to find you. Seven months, to be precise. I'm not going to discuss exactly how I managed this admirable feat because you really wouldn't care for details like that now, would you? Knowing you, (I'd like to think that I do in fact still know you even though it's been ages since we've actually spoken) you're probably expecting me showing up in person unannounced. In fact, here is what I think would have happened if I had been here instead of this letter:
You would enter your house, all perfect tanned legs and arms and mischievous but bored face framed by the particularly beautiful sunlight. Mmm. If you must know, they've sent photos of you but I haven't looked at them yet. Why, I don't exactly know. Maybe I'm still a little pissed at you for what you did. Maybe you've turned into a fat whore (as opposed to a thin whore, which is excusable since you were already one during our time together) and maybe if I found out how ugly you've become, this letter would lose its wit and affection. Or maybe I just don't want to look. I find that there is greater anticipation in keeping things a mystery.
And then, I would make myself very comfortable. You'd hear the television on and you'd frown. Tiptoe, those little painted toenails of yours such works of art. Quiet quiet annoyed yet scared Kathryn. Who is watching TV? Or if your boyfriend the predictably handsome yet exciting as charity work is free to come in and out of your house as he pleases, you would also get a little annoyed but maybe not so nervous. Either way, you'd still tiptoe and be quiet. Is your hair longer now, or did you cut it? I know you'll just tell me to grow a pair and stop acting like such a fag and just look at the damn 'stalker' photos (I'm sure you'll refer to them as that) already. I told you. I have my reasons for not looking.
By now your hands will be cold. You will think about calling security when you hear a deep voice that is obviously not your boyfriend's. It's a low, low chuckle. Too low for you to tell whose voice it is, but you are very sure that it isn't Mr. Boring's. So of course, you will just take a peek at first.
And then, then, then—
You glimpse that very familiar thatch of blond hair. The curls. And by now maybe you feel angry and yet secretly pleased that I am here. Same blue eyes, same everything. I will look at you, still with that faint smile that borders on a smirk. I imagine how my smile will look. I think it will be warm and fond, still so fond of you after all this time. Still so fond of you even if you put me through hell.
Words get stuck in your throat. So we just stare and stare and stare, absorbing each other's differences. I will turn the TV off and say:
"You fucking evil bitch."
I will say this in a way that shows I am merely stating a fact. I will stand up and put down my drink (I think it will be easy finding where you keep the alcohol). I wipe my hands.
You will maybe reply with a smile, once that shocked look disappears from your face. You want nothing to faze you, so you will try to hide the fact that I've surprised you and maybe cock your head. Maybe you will notice that I am wearing a silver ring on my left finger. Uh oh. If you do notice that, I think it will bother you but again, you won't let me know that it does so you just pass over it and instead make an offhanded comment like:
"How was your flight?"
Then maybe I will shrug. "So how'd you do it?" I will ask. I really am curious how you pulled it off. Bravo. Score one for the Manchester Prep's Leg Spreader of the Year.
But no matter how much you want to gloat, you won't tell me how. Why? Because I asked, and we both know how you like depriving me of things. What you will do instead, is look at my empty glass and you will ask me if I wanted a refill. Because you are still such a good polite and gracious hostess, right?
"Thanks," I will reply. I am after all born with manners. I will follow you to the kitchen or bar or whatever set up you have there. You will take out a glass for yourself. We won't talk. We only hear the ice tinkling and the liquid being poured out. When you give me my drink, I wait until you drink yours first.
Well, I do know you're capable of a lot of things. Who knows, there might be some sort of chemical in that bottle or something.
You know what I am thinking and you just roll your pretty green eyes. Then you'll sigh, "Sebastian," my name. You will say my name before you drink it. You fix your eyes on mine as you drain the glass.
Silence again. I drink, too.
Finally, the curiosity will get the better of you. It will suffocate you, and you can't help but glance at my ring again. It isn't a Valmont heirloom or anything like that. And it is worn on a very suspicious finger.
"Who's the unlucky Mrs. Valmont and how long before you dipped that fickle dick of yours into another perky breasted whore?" You sneer.
Then it is my turn to sigh. "Kathryn, some people do change, you know."
"Right."
"It's true. I have a kid now."
Then your eyes will widen. Didn't see that one coming, too? I bet.
"I don't suppose you've turned into one of those father who keep photos of the family in your wallet." You laugh, mocking me. You refill your glass again. More this time. You also drink it faster.
"No," I reply. But then I take out my Blackberry and press a few buttons and I show you—
A little boy, just a month old. Alexander Valmont.
By now you'll just be incapable of words. Really. Because this version of me, you weren't prepared for.
"What are you doing here?" You ask. Your voice is tired now. No more mocking, no more joking.
"Isn't it obvious?" I reply. "To see you, of course. I had to make sure you really weren't dead."
"Well, now you've seen me." You will point to the door. "Now go."
"That's it?" I ask. "That's all there is? No epic battle, no clashing of swords?"
"What do you want?"
"I want to end this."
Your eyes cloud over. "It's over. There's nothing to end."
"Nothing?"
"Yes." You reply. "Have a happy life. Goodbye."
Then I will stand up.
"Hey, Kathryn?" I will look at you.
"What?" You reply. Your voice sounds kind of soft. Defeated? Hurt, that I had replaced you already?
Well, you are technically dead. Even though I did technically love you. One can't simply expect me of all people to wait forever, you do know that, right? Darling, I'm certain you would've been a hot fuck but really. Don't think too highly of yourself. I don't think you're worth the wait.
"Things change." I say. Or I might tell you the other stuff, too. About you not being worth the wait. Will it be painful to hear? I don't know. I don't know you that well. Of course, you're not exactly Ms. Feelings, are you?
So you will just swallow everything you really want to say and instead come out with:
"Fuck you, Sebastian. Get the fuck out of my house."
"All-righty." My voice will sound too chipper.
But then again,
maybe if you let me.
I'll kiss you.
Before I go.
The end.
That's how it goes.
Bye, Kathryn.
Sebastian
PS. The entire bullshit about me being married and having a kid is something to fuck with your head. I am now enjoying the thought of your initial discomfort and dismay, but not as much as I'm enjoying the anger you must be feeling right now knowing that I just screwed you over. Moron. I can't believe you fell for that. How gullible are you these days, you deceiving whore?
PPS. You still owe me the fuck of my life. I still intend to collect on my winnings. I hope you're still very flexible.
A/N: I might have said I was going to post this after I finished DC. I've gotten requests to write a sequel for In Absentia. It did seem to be like more of a cliffhanger though, yes? I'll keep this one very short.