Dream the Third
So small. So helpless. Little Joanna Beaubier.
His daughter.
He held her close, in the dark, let her rest her head on his shoulder. The weight of her in his arms was reassuring, the warmth of her seemed to reach into the deepest part of him, parts of him he'd thought died years ago. Parts of him he hadn't known existed. She cooed, softly, in her small, charming voice. The smell of baby lotion and talcum. So soft, needing him so much.
Yes, he was happy holding her, though it made him shake with anger to think that someone would leave her. Such a small, helpless human being. Alone, in a back alley, as if she should be thrown out. It made his head hot, made his eyes burn.
Made him cry.
Yes, he'd cried many times, holding her like this, although it made him happy.
Another small noise from her, a noise of utter contentment.
He had not known he was capable of such love. A love that choked him like this, that reduced him to nothing but emotions. Certainly, he loved his sister. And he had been in love before, both with men who'd loved him back, and men whom he could never allow to see it.
But this… this was different. He wasn't entirely certain why, of course, except that she needed him. But it was more than just that. It wasn't because she was born sick, HIV positive, it wasn't because she was left alone, it wasn't because no one else wanted her.
It was the way she looked at him. Just a baby, yet she seemed to know him. The way her eyes lit up, eyes that had only recently settled on blue, a cloudy, steely blue. The way they would automatically seek his face. It was the way her hand wrapped around his finger automatically, trusting him, beguiling him. Such openness. Such innocence. He knew when he looked at her that he would never again see something as beautiful.
Ah… but… how did he know? Perhaps she would live a full life. There was that chance, non? It would never be normal, no, but she could live for years, decades, and the disease might not progress. It happened sometimes…
No.
Crushing weight, in his chest. Like someone sitting on his lungs, like an iron fist wrapping around his heart.
Oh god… no. No.
He knew though. In that moment, he knew. Joanna Beaubier… she would die. She would die just like this, in his arms…
Her breath, soft and sweet, on his neck. Her little hand clutching at the fabric of his shirt fitfully.
"No… why do you make me re-live this? Ce n'est pas vrai.... This is not real, why do you do this to me?"
It was more of a sob than a shout. He couldn't shout. He couldn't wake her. Dieu, just let her sleep. Let her sleep…
"Because, Monsieur, I can."
He spun now, to see who it was. Even though he knew. His stomach turned to stone and he knew.
His daughter was gone. His shirt felt warm, where she had been. But the warmth inside, it was gone. And he stood, in the dark, looking at her. Dressed in black, beautiful golden skin, and those eyes.
"I know you, Jean-Paul. I know everything about you." She told him, her voice cold enough to match her eyes.
Red rage swelled up inside of him, melting the fear away, melting the pain entirely. He wanted nothing more than his hands around her throat. Nothing more than to feel the life leaking out of her as he choked her, to see her turn grey in the face… like she had made Jeanne-Marie…
But he could not move. And he could not speak. All he could do was stare.
Impotent. Weak.
She was near now, and she brought cold with her. She moved like a snake, hissed when she spoke. She raised a hand, a purple nail trailing the line of his jaw. She looked into his eyes, right through him . Chilling and violet. "So," she said, "I do it, because I can."