Chapter 2-

The lighting in the back of any theater is usually dark and resonating of all sounds. Its dark humor somehow seems to sing to me, this echo of the paper rustling in my portfolio, the lamp standing in solitude on the stage sending out a sort of encrypted beacon of shine into the last row where I'm currently sitting.

I've been thinking about Olaf and his unfortunate rise to power. About his strange life, his very existence, his sudden absolute ruling over such a diverse group of people. He's killed his way to the top.

At this realization I want so desperately to stop what I'm doing, grab the gun lying in the bottom of my bag, and shoot everyone who's ever gotten in the way. I want to run to the Hotel where I grew up and be a teenager again- but sitting here, crossing and re-crossing my legs, I can only dream of my youth; when things weren't so complicated.

There aren't enough people in the world to kill to regain my innocence, to get back the things I so eagerly gave up for acting and love.

She is, somehow, pregnant.

And the only thing that bothers me is that the Count has no remorse whatsoever to what he's done to her.

I keep on trying to convince myself that what she's carrying is a child, not the spawn of Satan; but the script keeps calling for me to kiss him and all I see is the way his eyes looked when he penetrated her.

And I know he wants her to suffer. He knows how many times she's failed and regained health and failed and regained again and again and he still wants her to endure this same game that has the trick question- how many months will she last this time?

"Writing again?" She's behind me, brushing the hair out of my eyes.

"When do I not?" I try to make my smile appear disarming, attempting to quell this constant worry, this constant want to protect her.

I'm noble enough to be afraid for her, but yet I'm still capable of committing such injustice in this wretched profession.

"Please don't worry about me," She reads my mind, and I'm left opening and closing my mouth trying to find something to say.

But instead, she sits, lying her head on my shoulder and reading what parts of conversation I'm documenting here; but she keeps letting her hair fall onto the paper and asking me about opening night that she missed due to "a more important acting opportunity".

"Your understudy was a fat girl with a lisp," I say blankly, staring down at her beautiful face in question.

"Well, then…"

And she places her bony fingertips on that aggravating miracle, smiling slightly every now and then for reasons so unknown to me.

"Did you not hear me?"

"It isn't my fault, Flo,"

And my codename slices the dankness of this setting, a surge of memories pouring out of my sinuses with such fluidity that all I can say is-

"I'm so worried about you,"

She casts her glance from me to this document, frowning upon the 'fluidity' bit I've just added.

"Why must you dwell on the past?"

"I can't think of anything else,"

She grabs my hand, pressing it against her abdomen with such anger that my eyes shoot up at hers.

"We need to think of our child, not of our unnecessary hazing and our rather questionable theatre resume," She says quietly, smiling for a moment.

"This isn't our child, Tocuna,"

And now you know her name. At least one of them; Lemony. You'll have to work for the others.

She moves her head to a comfortable place on my shoulder, flipping up the armrest.

"But you must be excited,"

"Do you not know what's happened in the past?" My question hangs for awhile, but I never thought I deserved an answer.

I was being judgmental. I was acting so out of my mind due to anxiety and possible sleep deprivation that I can remember not being able to recall what had happened over the past weekend.

It sickens me that all we're referred to as are free prostitutes with intellect.

"You're being selfish, Flo,"

"My apologies,"

And she kisses me, catching my mouth slightly at an angle.

The light bulb in the lamp onstage burns out.

…………..

I remember waking up without coordination and gazing starry eyed at a screaming woman for nearly twelve hours in the middle of the night.

I suppose our love is stronger now, most likely from the squirming child I have in my arms.

She's so pitiful looking, lying in the master bedroom, her face graying. I've told the Count repeatedly to take precaution with her, and now the love of my life is lying at arm's length with death and all I get to remember her by is a skinny little baby with dark hair and dimples.

But I need desperately to say how beautiful she is. The Count's features somehow mitigated; the thing that outshines everything is pure Tocuna.

I push the door open a few inches.

"Hello?" she's whispering.

I can hear the sheets hiss as she turns in bed, her pained gasps as she sits up to face my figure in the doorway.

"It's me,"

The room smells of birth and stale air, I almost choke with it. But despite this I walk slowly inside, the child crying slightly when I place it in her arms.

"It's…nice of you to be brave enough to come in here," she says quietly.

I crawl into bed, laying her head on my chest. "I know you must be exhausted, but…I couldn't bear to let you go to sleep without seeing her,"

I can feel her words before she says them.

"It's our baby, Flo. It's finally our baby,"

Tears begin to bud in her eyes, whether from pain or from emotion, I can never tell. So I simply sit, holding her for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say.

"Fiona?" she says, looking up at me.

"Fiona," I agree, looking down almost quizzically to this baby, this daughter that feels so much like my own.

Her head hit my chest. I can remember that. It nearly made me cry out, because suddenly a firm knowledge had gripped my heart because I knew I could feel her dead weight on my body. I seriously thought she was gone. I nearly knew that her absence of breath was truly death.

"Tocuna?" I'm whispering, fearing there will be no answer.

Silence penetrates the room.

"Please," I plead to no one. "Please,"

"Don't call me Tocuna," She gasps, the breath catching in her throat. "I'm so tired,"

"That's okay," I kiss the top of her head, my heart and soul bursting. "It's okay,"

And I take the child from her, lying it in the cradle next to the bed.

Sitting here, typing thoughtfully, I oftentimes recall my life as a foggy dream, like this was all a stupid nightmare and I'll wake up eighteen years old again with her arms around me, the arms that are stronger than mine.

But isn't this reality?

I can't remember another time when her face was this cold. I can't remember another time when I've had to cover her with sheets, kiss her and close the curtains; all with no response.

"I really love her, you know," I can hear him whispering across the hallway. "Is she—?"

"She's fine," I'm shutting the door so she can't hear us.

"Flo? Are you sure?"

"If I know anything in this world that's true, she will live, Olaf,"

"I don't think you heard what I said,"

I look up in question.

"I love her,"

"Look," he continues, twisting my wrist up towards his face. "I know what's going on between you two. I know your stupid little secrets,"

"What are you talking about?"

"If you think that I'm going to stand by and watch while you take away the only person I love, you'd better start counting the days left of your life!"

He's letting go of my arm and I feel tears beginning to well up behind my eyes, so I open the door a crack, sliding my body through the gap and into her bedroom, hoping that watching her sleep will comfort me in some way.

Things are so different now.

They say a sort of schism is occurring for VFD. I've been told that Olaf has set a revolution, some sort of awakening that's setting associates into rebellion. What could the Count possibly have in store for us?

Every day his side gets stronger, more people get killed, more libraries get burned to the ground.

He apparently already knows about my "secret relationship".

She sighs in her sleep, her eyes fluttering underneath her dark shroud of hair.

The baby whimpers. Someday, I'll take her someplace safe, where we'll finally be able to love without secrets and coverings to the truth.

We've had to be so cautious that something in my mind wants to take risks, but then I see her chest rising and falling, her vulnerable body lying so peaceful in bed. I know we have to wait.

I know we need to choose the perfect moment to let ourselves free.

So all I can do is fall into bed beside her, wanting so badly to peel apart the lies and the truths about VFD, the Count and the reason my family left me in his hands and lie the pieces in front of me, the answers so clear I can taste them; like layers of an onion.

"People will always think we're siblings," she whispers as she feels my arms wrap around her.

"Yes," I say, smiling. "But they need to know,"

"They do,"

And we sleep.

Reading this, years later, I can see that sliver of hope I had kindled deep in my heart. For my life to finally be able to begin, to leave this cold disaster and work for the right side— it's my one and only dream, Lemony.

To be able to let you know that the infamous white faced women are not who they may seem.

We're as human as you are, Mr. Snicket. We're only as evil as we've been treated.