Interlude: Fated Rain
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The ceiling fan whirred its way around monotonously. Mireille's eyes went in circles, following a dust ball caught on one of the blades. She lay splayed out on the bed, sweating into the sheets, as the air conditioner in the window strained ineffectively to combat the oppressive summer heat. Across the room, the untouched Chinese food she had ordered last night stewed in its semi-congealed sauces.
It was a cheap motel. Exactly what she had wanted. The expensive hotels had begun to bore her. Here it was not impeccably clean and the service was poor. It had cable TV, but few other amenities. A cheap motel in the outskirts of the city. It fit her feverish mood perfectly.
Away from the downtown core, away from all the bustle, it was quieter. So much more peaceful, so much easier to dwell on the past. And here, there were no maids and bellboys waiting to clean your room and take your bags, no taxis waiting to drive you when you were too lazy to walk. Here, you could be alone.
Alone? Is that what you really want?
No.
She sighed. Of all the places in the world, she had come here. Quebec. Montreal, specifically. Where it was agonizingly cold in the winter, and horrendously hot in the summer.
Why?
The language. It reminds me of home.
The people here speak French differently, it is not home. The pronunciations were different, the expressions different. Her accent, no matter how subtle, instantly marked her as a foreigner.
You miss home.
Corsica? Never.
The sunny beaches, the temperate climate, the smell of the ocean. None of it mattered. Those were all things that could be found elsewhere. Things that, while nice, did not define the place that she called home. She had once lived there, in Corsica, a long time ago. She had even gone back to visit, just once. But, no, it was not home. That was not where she had grown up, not where she had become the woman she was now. When she left Corsica she had been a little girl, clinging to her teddy bear and to her uncle's hand. Uncle Claude, because her parents were dead.
Assassinated.
Kirika.
The name wormed its way into her head. There were no barriers against this. She didn't bother fighting it. It flowed through her: the memories, the regrets, the fear. Always the fear. She had once been the most dangerous assassin in all the world, save for one. Maybe two, but Chloe was dead. Most likely, she still was a deadly killer, but there was no point anymore was there?
Why do you kill?
Because there's nothing else I can do.
In truth, Mireille didn't know. That would have been Kirika's answer, not her own. She found herself wondering how the girl was now, where the girl was now. Because, in the end, all the killing, it had been for Kirika's sake. Maybe it had started out selfishly, but it had always been tied to Kirika. Mireille was not a killer out of necessity, nor did she have a pure desire for murder.
Why do you kill?
Revenge. Hate. Retribution. Soldats.
Words. Meaningless words. Those were not reasons. Not her reasons.
Soldats. Mireille hated them. At some point, it had been all about them. Soldats had become the world in which she lived. Soldats had always been involved in her life. She hated them for it, hated them for taking away her parents, for taking away her Uncle Claude, for taking away Kirika. Most of all, she hated them for ruining the life of that girl. The girl who had become so special.
That girl? When was the last time you were afraid to name her?
I was never afraid.
The thought sounded hollow to her. As if to impress the point, the ceiling fan suddenly clunked to a stop, then began yet another wobbly dance, this time noticeably slower. A fly passed over Mireille's face, its flight deflected by the erratic fan. A strange smell wafted to her nostrils and made her nose itch, but she was reluctant to budge, didn't even crinkle her face.
She was going insane. It must be the heat.
Of course. The heat.
There's no other explanation.
You're crazy.
Heatstroke.
You're crazy.
Fever.
You miss her.
. . .
The fan continued its pointless winding, every now and then displaying a sudden subtle variation that only Mireille noted. She lay there the rest of the day, and into the next. And though the night was cooler and much more comfortable, her eyelids never closed for anything more than a blink. The sun rose, but the heavy drapes over the window kept it out of her little room.
She didn't know how long she stayed in the bed. Eventually her body drove her from it. Hunger and thirst cried out. She stood up quickly, an animal-like intensity in her eyes.
The old Chinese food was still on the table. She ate it, every single scrap, gorged herself until there was nothing left. The fact that it had been sitting out in the open for more than two days never occurred to her. She even drank the warm cola that had originally come with it. Then she went back to bed. And this time Mireille did sleep.
* * * * *
She woke less than two hours later, scrambling to the bathroom, where she was violently ill. Her stomach cramped, forcing out the putrefied food she attempted to keep down. It tasted even worse coming up than going down. Disgusted with herself, she stepped into the shower, not even bothering to remove her clothes. The cold spray calmed her, removed the filth from her spirit as well as her body.
Mireille spent a long while in the shower, under the pure cleansing water. She turned her face up towards the showerhead, like a child playing in the rain for the first time. The streams of water plastered her hair to her head. Her clothes soaked through completely, clinging to her form. She rejoiced.
The fever had passed. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she felt much better. Refreshed. Awake. Alive.
Water from her hair and clothes dripped onto the second-rate carpeting. She walked over to the bed and sat down, leaving a puddle that seeped rapidly into the sheets. There was a phone there, next to the bed. Mireille scanned the list of phone numbers conveniently provided by the motel.
This one.
She took the phone off its cradle and dialed. Immediately after the first ring, the call was answered by the automated computer system. Mireille went through the menus, compliantly pushing the buttons on the phone until she was finally greeted by a human operator with a bright cheery voice.
Her voice rang loudly in the empty apartment. "J'aimerai aller à Paris." (1)
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(1) "I'd like to go to Paris."
