AN: I'm so sorry about the delay, I really am—for the length of this chapter as well, but I haven't had a lot of time free lately, and I decided it was best to update with this and delay the plot—AGAIN—than leaving all of my wonderful readers wondering what will happen next.

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Who The Hell Is Bernard?

Sometime in the early morning, when the inky blackness of the night sky was stripped away to reveal a vaguely lighter stripe of indigo, saw me noisily retching behind a small gathering of palm trees. Jean-François had fallen asleep long ago—and yes, he had eventually fetched me a coconut, for those of you cared to know (five, in fact). Now, he was merely lying on his back, softly snoring, dressed only in his breeches and shamelessly displaying a chest that was heavy with the scars of what looked like a violent whipping; the rest of his clothing he had folded to make a pillow.

I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against one of the trees, still gagging, and silently cursed Jack and his spawn. When I'd composed myself, I emerged from the trees, and surreptitiously making certain that my shift was fully buttoned, made my way towards the beach for a late night—or rather, early morning—stroll. For some unfathomable reason, sleep had evaded me, and as far as I was aware, I was the only human being on this entire island conscious at this hour.

The gentle foam of the restless ocean lapped teasingly at my bare feet as I began to trek around this abandoned island. There was something very calming at that hour; that point in the day when the starlight was beginning to dim but the dawn had yet to colour the skies with its warm pastels. I wrapped my arms about myself, wishing I had bothered to dress; despite the fact that the Caribbean was renowned for its warm and humid climate, there were apparently times in the year when the temperature at night dropped considerably. This was apparently one of those times; odd, considering how not so long ago, I was throwing my window wide open and lying on my cheap mattress with absolutely nothing between my skin and the sticky, suffocating night air. Now, here I was, wandering along the beach of an apparently uncharted island, wishing I'd had the foresight to gather my clothing before I went to relieve my stomach from wherever they'd been hastily tossed aside.

This last thought brought back recent memories of the night before, and I wrinkled my nose at the thought. I was actually quite disappointed, but I wasn't really certain why. The only reason I could think of for not being as pleased with the entire… event was that I now had to wait until morning to face the consequences. That, and Jean-François' honest opinion had been… less than satisfactory. I don't want to go into details, but the general gist of was, "It wasn't bad, but you could've been better."

Bâtard. I mean, I know I should appreciate him for his honesty and whatnot, but… My God, what a prick he was. And after saying this, he was arrogant enough to ask me to sleep with him a second time! What did he think I was? He knew nothing about women. That being said, I did have sex with him again, and his evaluation of my technique was better than the last time, but he shouldn't have just said "Sweetheart, you're nothing special" the first time round, should he?

…Alright, to be fair, he didn't exactly offer up his opinion of his own accord. I may have prompted him. A little bit. Well, maybe I nagged him… both times… and I may or may not have insisted he be utterly honest with me… But surely the man was mature enough to realise that actually meant I wanted him to lie as though his life depended on it? How stupid can a Frenchman be? Actually, I don't know why I'm getting so worked up about all of this; I could have sworn I heard him murmuring Flavio's name in his sleep… Which actually rendered the entire situation sick and wrong and disturbing and—My God, am I masculine? I mean, when I first made him aware of my intentions, did he look at me and think, 'Well, she looks enough like a boy, so why not?' Do people mistake me for a man? Am I not pretty in a feminine way?

Anyway, Jack had never been so harsh. Come to think of it, he hardly ever commented on my bedroom technique—did this mean he also thought I could do with improvement, but was too polite to mention anything? No wonder he didn't want to sleep with me as much as I'd wanted—

It was only when I'd come face-to-face with a wall of solid rock that I realised that dawn was beginning to break, and I really should be making my way back. It was a new day, and if what Pearl had told me was true, we were all in for a backbreaking morning. Who knew that my sex life took so much time to process? So I spun on my heel, and had taken only a few steps forward, when I heard something so completely random that it stopped me in my tracks:

"I am masculine."

Well, the voice certainly didn't sound it. But I was quite curious as to who was talking to whom, so I froze completely in my tracks, my ears strained for the slightest indication of life.

"Don't you think I'm masculine?"

Now the distinctly feminine voice sounded uncertain of itself, as though it needed reassurance. It was coming from a little point beyond the rock I'd nearly collided with. So I turned and stealthily made my way back, pressing myself against the cold rough stone in case peeking around the corner would give me away to this apparently masculine individual.

"Well, I'll have you know, Bernard, I am masculine! Extremely masculine! Why, I've lost count of the number of individuals telling me how excruciatingly manly I am!" The voice was now high and shrill and deeply offended—but who the hell was Bernard?

"Well, I am. So there," the voice told Bernard confidently—except I didn't hear Bernard say anything.

"Well, that hardly matters," the voice that was certainly beginning to ring a bell scoff. I furrowed my brow in confusion; I was beginning to feel faintly worried about all of this; talking to yourself wasn't exactly a symptom of perfect mental health, was it?

His next words confirmed my suspicions: "An illogical phobia of breasts is a normal part of being a man, Bernard!" the voice yelped. "How dare you insult me!"

Flavio was beginning to scare me. I think I was beginning to understand Cate's shame in having him as a close blood relative; not only did he spend a high percentage of his waking moments believing he was a member of the fairer sex, but it had now emerged he also possessed a multiple personality disorder, and his alias was christened Bernard. Now I could fully understand her humiliation: Bernard was a horrible name.

"I hadn't actually thought of that…" Flavio confessed. "But—But—But—But I have lots of pretty dresses… What do you mean, 'what's that got to do with anything'? I'll give then to her, of course… Silly Bernard…"

Still, the fact that there was a raving maniac conversing with himself and trying to prove to his Bernard that he was the epitome of masculinity did very little to stop me from stepping around the large and inconveniently-placed boulder.

Sure enough, there sat Flavio—dressed in a shirt and breeches instead of the wedding dress that I'd expected. Not that that lovely piece of clothing had gotten very far; actually, there was a small pile of gorgeous silken gowns carefully folded next to him, and his hand would occasionally pat them of its own accord.

Flavio's back was to me, his blond hair spilling gently about his shoulders, which were slightly hunched as he leaned forward, apparently talking to Bernard—so he didn't notice my quiet and steady approach.

"Of course she'll like them… They're just as pretty as her… Well, almost…" He paused, lowering his ear, apparently listening intently to Bernard's input. "Yes, the breasts do detract considerably from her charms," he agreed, and I felt my eyes widening as I realised he was talking about me, "but besides those two hideous miscalculations of nature, she is quite lovely…"

"Um…" I began stupidly, feeling more than a little flattered by these compliments, "excuse me but… May I ask, exactly who are you talking to?"

Flavio visibly jumped; his hand shot forward to scoop something up from the sand, and I assumed he shoved the object down the front of his shirt in panic before scrambling to his feet and turning towards me, a wide smile gracing his features. That grin visibly shrank as his violet eyes fell to what he himself had declared as 'hideous miscalculations of nature', and I saw him swallow before he completely composed himself.

"Hello," he squeaked before immediately cringing, golden eyebrows furrowed as he evaluated the undignified pitch. So he giggled nervously at me, a hand reaching up to smooth back his hair. Then he cleared his throat rather obnoxiously, and tried again, in a voice several hundred octaves lower and almost as deep as Jack's own seductive drawl, "Good morning."

It seemed to cause him actual physical pain just to get those two little words out. I smiled gently at him in response, and—do you know, I think he actually swooned?

There was a pause in which Flavio actually began to drool over me (not literally). It was very sweet—yet at the same time, rather unhygienic.

"So, um… Flavio… How are you?"

There was another long pause as he processed my words, mouth working like a fish out of water.

"Hello," he said again, "I'm manly—actually, I'm not, I'm Flavio—but I certainly don't mean I'm effeminate."

Another pause.

"Alright…" I smiled encouragingly, and he ducked his head shyly, apparently blushing. It was on the tip of my tongue to enquire after Bernard's well-being, but I decided that would be tactless; so instead, I introduced myself, reaching out for his hand, which he shyly took.

"My name's Flavio," he stuttered once more, "and I don't like men." He giggled nervously, and I saw through his mass of silky hair his reddening cheeks.

I raised my eyebrow. "Oh, really, Flavio? You don't like men?"

"No, not at all," he agreed. "I'm a manly masculine—a masculinely manine—I'm a man," he settled for desperately, "and most certainly not a woman. Which is why I don't like them—because I am one." He then ducked his head, and I heard him mutter under his breath, "Stop it, Bernard."

I reached out to gently cup his cheek, and his head snapped up. He stopped, staring deeply into my eyes—apparently, the man found them hypnotic.

"So, Flavio," I began softly, for fear of sending him into a panic attack, "who do those dresses belong to?"

"Well, they are most certainly not mine!" he protested indignantly. "I mean that they—they—they—they don't belong to anybody," he assured me. "So—so—so—you can have them…"

And he turned abruptly away, probably to hide the tears springing suddenly up into his eyes, I assumed.

"Well, you know…" I started, moving so that I was meeting his eyes once more, "I didn't think they belonged to you."

He sniffled, looking at me curiously. "D—Didn't you?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Nope. Not once."

"Why not?" He sounded more than a little offended.

"Because, Flavio…" I said, leaning in a little closer to further accentuate my point, "from the very first moment I laid eyes on you, I thought to myself, 'My, what a fine specimen of a man. If only more men were as masculine.'"

His tears immediately vanished as his eyes lit up, apparently unable to see through my tiny little white lie. Forgetting my obtrusive proximity for the moment, he looked down into his shirt, and proclaimed triumphantly, "See, Bernard? I am the epitome of manliness after all!"

"Yes, darling," I agreed, "you really, truly are."

"Thank you," he said to me, before adding sulkily to Bernard, "No, of course not—Shut up, Bernard… No, she's not just humouring me… Why would you be so cruel?"

I couldn't restrain myself any longer. "So, Flavio," I said innocently, "now that we're acquainted… Can you please introduce me to Bernard?"

Flavio's eyes widened comically. "B—B—B—Bernard?" he parroted fearfully. "B—B—B—Bernard who?"

"Bernard Bernard," I stressed. "Your little friend that's living inside your shirt." Because, sure enough, there was a bulge—a very slight, very small bulge, but a bulge nonetheless—that was moving of its own accord.

He immediately wrapped his arms protectively about himself—and Bernard. "No such creature exists within the contents of my clothing!" he snarled in fear.

"If you deny the existence of Bernard one more time, I will strip you in search of him," I warned.

There was a pause as Flavio considered this scenario before reaching a decision. "No such creature exists within the contents of my clothing!" he said again, allowing his arms to rest at his side.

I laughed at the blatant invitation, and made to grab at the creature moving against Flavio's skin—my fingers barely brushed against the shirt before his hands had suddenly grabbed my arms and he had pushed me down onto the soft sandy surface. I pouted at the immature tactic, but continued to bat against his chest in an attempt to lure out Bernard.

We were only wrestling for five minutes or so—and for the entirety of the time Flavio had used his body weight to pin me to the floor—when a few carefully chosen words destroyed our newfound comradeship.

"So, whore—two men in one night, eh? You're worse than Flavio," a malicious female voice commented, clearly delighting in catching us in what I suddenly realised could have, to the casual observer, been a rather compromising position.

I stiffened, turning to face Cate with a snarl on my features, more than ready to bite back. My tongue froze as my eyes took in the full sight.

Not only was Cate standing there, smirking down at me in that arrogant, scornful manner of hers, but she was doing so dressed in what I immediately recognised to be Jack's shirt from the night before. Her hair was tousled, her violet eyes were bright, and there was something in her demeanour that instantly told me she was recovering from what was apparently one wild night of sex. With Jack, of course. But these… cold, cruel facts weren't what made me freeze.

Standing slightly behind Cate, her beautiful face wrenched in betrayal, was Pearl, looking as though her little heart was breaking inside of her in that very moment. Even as I watched, I saw tears springing into her big blue eyes as she processed what her eyes saw—me scantily dressed in only my undergarment, being crushed by some gender-confused maniac—and combined it with what Cate had loudly declared.

Before I had a chance to say anything, she'd spun on her heel, and darted swiftly back from whence she came. And it didn't take a genius to work out that she was running to Jack.

-x!x-

AN: So, the question that is the title of this chapter still remains unanswered: anyone like to take a guess as to who—or WHAT—Bernard is?