Chapter Six: Demented
She felt as though her brain was being cleaved in two... How could she have dreamt such a dream of the man whom frightened her so...?
She threw her red cloak on over her still trembling shoulders, and shuddered as the wind seemed to whisper "La Petite Rouge..." she was almost sure that her mother would scold her for leaving the house during such early hours of the morning, but she did not care...
Before she knew it, the clock had struck seven times in succession, and she was rushing down the narrow cobblestone path that led into town, It's Sunday, she reckoned, They won't even miss me...
But this statement wasn't necessarily true; ever since she had dreamt the dream that had caused her to throw a fit in her sleep, her parents had been watching every move she made; inquiring as to whether or not she was feeling well at least five times a day; their sudden protectiveness of her was almost driving her mad, in a way... for they did think her mad; They act as if I am some drooling maniac-- If they think of me as such a creature, perhaps I would be better off in an asylum in England.
She shook her head, gently, and tried to focus on the beautiful shops that made up the streets that she was entering; she marveled at how the streets were so empty, but then she realized that it could not possibly be, for the wonderful smells that were entering her nostrils from the corner Baker's shop were telling her otherwise; I wish I'd brought a few coins, she thought, pressing her nose against the glass that made up the window of the shop, and staring into it, longingly; her stomach growled, feebly, and her thoughts-- for no apparent reason returned to the dream she had just had. It had been so frightening; His face, she shuddered, remembering the look on Phillipe's face when he had discovered the dead dog-- or wolf, or whatever it was...
Stop it, she thought, after all, it was just a dream...
"Morning, La Petite Rouge," a voice suddenly whispered; interrupting her thoughts, and before she had the chance to wonder who it was, the distorted image of his frightening face appeared in the glass of the window, and she spun around to find Phillipe clutching a bouquet of flowers in his rough hands.
"Good morning, sir," she whispered; addressing him informally-- not wishing to give away that her frightened heart was racing in her chest...
"I was just on my way to see you," he whispered-- At this time?-- his voice was hoarse, as if he'd been up all night screaming... she remembered the dream, and shuddered, as she excepted the flowers from him, and held them to her chest, "I wish I could stay and visit with you, but my grandmother is expecting me," she nodded her head to the nearby forest, and offering him an apologetic smile; she had never been a great liar, and both of her grandmothers were dead, but he wouldn't-- couldn't know that.
He slowly nodded, and Marie-Christine turned, "Goodbye, friend," she whispered, and with a slight wave, she turned her back to him, and began walking one again.
And although she had not planning on making a journey into the other side of the forest, she knew that anything was better than remaining all alone with Phillipe in town.