Chapter 4: Breathe

"The garden of Destiny. You would know it if you saw it. After all, you will wander it until you die. Or beyond. For the paths are long, and even in death there is no ending to them."

-Neil Gaiman

It's probably that single word that scared me. Perhaps. What did that mean? This is as confusing for me as it probably is for you, because the stories you might have heard about Kathryn and me haven't delved into this strange area of esoteric magnitude. You've heard of manipulations, betrayals, cruelty, sex, power, wealth, and beauty. Maybe even love, if you've gotten around.

Granted, most of them are probably true and most of them are definitely exaggerated, but this... We're both explorers in this particular type of atmosphere. This is a tale of irony, death, and yes, love in its primeval sense. The kind that makes you bleed until you die, and even when you die, you still bleed some more. The kind that's too special to be blatantly displayed for the entire world to see, but rather, it had to be cultivated secretly, in the deep recesses of one's souls, in that place between reality and illusions, because the feeling, although of Biblical proportions, was as real as the pain Kathryn and I both masked during our life together.

Did I want to be with Kathryn somehow? Fuck yes… It was the question I'd been asking myself ever since I met her, and the answer had never changed.

You'll never stop won't you, Sebastian? No matter what happens?

Never.

But still, the rational part of me wondered. Nothing in the world was ever free, and this, this surely had a catch. But what? Was my mother waiting for me to sell my soul to Satan for a chance to go back to Kathryn? Was she ever my mother at all, or was she some physical manifestation of a demented demon that sought to tear me from this indeterminate state?

My mother reappeared as I stared listlessly at the frozen pond, the coldness not at all bothering me. It was, under any circumstance, a beautiful day; I was alone because nobody else could stand the extremity of the frigid weather. I grew up in coldness. My heart had, for years and years, been clutched by the hands of the proverbial ice princess, the red, raw organ encased in a sheer glass with a thin layer of frost. I lived with Kathryn Merteuil, remember?

If I were alive, I would have had my camera in my hand. Most of my conquests would tell you that I used it as a weapon to get them to take off their clothes, and while this had been one of the purposes of owning it, I usually told them not to flatter themselves too much. I owned it because I secretly searched for the embodiment of beauty, of life, and to just capture a visual sense of what it would feel like to exist amidst a world of contradictions and harsh realities. If you'll go to my house and enter my darkroom (which, until now, remains as I had left it), you'll see that this was beyond seduction. I took photographs of things and people that reminded me of the side I've tried to hide from her for fear that she would deem me pathetic. My eyes see what nobody else sees, be it the great beauty of a simple thing like an empty garden, or the view from my Aunt Helen's estate… Truly a paragon of splendor, I wish you would be able to visit it as well. For the ordinary person, it would have been an awe inspiring sight of colored flowers blooming under the smiling sunlight, spread against the deepest green backdrop of soft grass, the type that softly tickled your bare feet. To me, it was beautiful because of the meaning I had attached there. It was the garden where I spent the betterment of my youth; it was where I'd pondered on many things aside from sex… It was my place of solitude, an escape for the otherwise bleary, colorful world of fast living and meaningless physical connections. It was where Kathryn and I kissed for the first time as stepsiblings, the two of us hating that lurid label. I would have loved to take Kathryn there. I'm sure she would have loved it. Well, she would but she'd first roll her eyes at me and smirk at how pussywhipped I was being. I can't help it. I love her. You might call me stupid if you've read that journal, a moron if you're Annette Hargrove and the countless other nobodies who took joy in her downfall, and downright ridiculous, if you're Blaine Tuttle, who never really understood my fucked up relationship with the elusive Kathryn Merteuil.

Nietschze said: 'There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.' Well, what other reason could I give? You don't see her as I do; therefore it's easy to judge.

"This catch you mentioned…" I started, finally taking my blue eyes off the thick blanket of snow that covered everything else. Have you ever noticed how snow makes everything look so clean? It was almost as if it was a reminder that the world never stays innocent for long, because after the snow melts away, the world is a garish, dark, and dismal place once again.

She sat beside me, placing her hand on my own. "Yes?"

"How bad is it?"

She regarded me with caution, her ethereal face suddenly filled with worry lines. "Most people have never taken the risk, Sebastian. The effect itself… It's worse than hell. The others who foolishly take it without hearing the consequences beg for an undoing, or they kill themselves."

"Explain."

"Kathryn has a lot of pain hidden in her, I'm sure you're well aware of that."

"Of course I am."

"Then you must be aware that her father died when she was three and her stepfather molested her repeatedly when she was nine. Kathryn started taking drugs when she was twelve, she's tried to kill herself twice, and have thought about trying again after you were gone."

"What!" I hollered, my voice echoing in the stillness of the world. "She was what! She did what!"

Her blue eyes stared sadly at her hands as she fidgeted, "If you come back, you'll feel the effect of her misery, unbridled and, honey, it will hurt. It's like undergoing the death of thousands of people who are dying in different ways, all at the same time."

"I don't understand…"

"This purpose of returning, it's about her, therefore, you're bound to her. You'll share her pain, feel all the ways she'd been hurt. This will happen every night, and even though it might last for minutes, it would seem like eternity. I've spoken to people who've lived and died through it, and they all tell me the same thing… You'll want to take a knife and cut yourself just so you won't feel it anymore. Most of them did that after feeling it the first time… It's the kind of agony that's soul hurt, a sacrifice that not everybody makes. Your insides explode, your eyes see all that she sees when she's in moments of pain, and you'll scream and yell and curse. It's worse than death, and if you kill yourself, you…" she winced, her eyes pleading me to stay here, to continue this hollow living rather than risking losing me.

"Go to hell." I finished, cringing at the thought of spending eternity there.

"Don't do it, Sebastian." My mother begged, "It's not worth it."

Don't do it, Sebastian.

I-I'm willing to take my chances.

"Yes," I paused, wondering what it would feel like to kiss Kathryn again. There was fear in my instincts and hope in my heart, the latter overcoming the former. "it is. I'll be there for as long as she wants me to."

"There's a purpose about why you're being offered this chance."

I smiled wryly, "Is it because God took pity on my pathetic display of devotion?"

Mom shook her head, looking sadder than she'd ever been. "No. You'll have to find out for yourself."

There it was. That worried look on her face again, but I chose to ignore it. Instead, I did something I'd never done ever since I was a child. I reached over and hugged her, proceeding to kiss her forehead. She smiled through her tears and told me of a man, a painter living in a decrepit loft about to commit suicide. His name was Calyx Damian, a handsome albeit tortured artist who'd spent three years of his life in solitude. His frustration for the utter hopelessness of society had inspired angry paintings and wide notoriety, this Calyx fellow had sold paintings to avid millionaire collectors and had been in the middle of his last one when he was driven by that deep rooted depression and slashed his wrist. He was brilliant, my mother had told me, bringing me to a place where paint was scattered everywhere. A muscular but thin body laid shaking and writhing on the ground, his left wrist open. I averted my gaze to the disturbing sight of the blood mingling with the fallen canvas, watching in perverse fascination as Calyx's green eyes stared blankly at the ceiling while he waited for his life to end. His long, light blond hair was matted with blood, his face covered in a thick beard that made him look old despite his young age… Twenty seven maybe? What kind of stupid asshole, who made millions of dollars just from a single painting, would off himself?

"He's tired." She answered, as if reading my mind. "His views on the world stifle him."

There was a faint form of a man appearing near the painter's body, the shape becoming clearer as Calyx Damian's writhing form slowed its movements. He was leaving his body. I met a pair of confused green eyes, startled at the complexity and brilliance that I saw within them. If this Calyx fellow had died at the same time as I did, I would have wanted to have a conversation with him. I was hungry for all that he knew, because he was obviously very insightful.

"Are you ready, Sebastian?" she whispered, and Calyx cast another look at his now still body before looking back at me.

"You're taking my place, aren't you?"

I could only nod, surprised at his peculiarly sharp comprehension.

The painter smiled, and it was a sad, relieved smile. "I hope you see the world better than I ever did."

The door opened and a woman is staring at the lifeless body with the color drained from her face, but before I could ask Calyx who it was, I felt myself getting sucked in by this fierce whirlpool of howling winds and I was plunged into darkness.

---

I woke up five hours later and the sight of a hospital room greeted me. Swallowing thickly, my eyes blink rapidly and I take a moment to try to calm myself despite this urge to yell and scream and let the world know that Sebastian Valmont had surpassed death in his own fucked up way. The sensation of being alive and feeling again, at that moment wasn't all that pleasant. My wrist was heavily bandaged and my speech was slurred as I called to the nurse, this obviously was from the drugs. My face itched from all that facial hair and I was just about to reach out to the mirror when the door opened and the same woman who'd found me, or rather, Calyx's body, came in with a worried look on her face.

There was the smooth feeling of air going through my nostrils and into my lungs, the air was my drug, an aphrodisiac of the living... How great it felt to be looked at again.

She wasn't extraordinarily beautiful like Kathryn or any of the other conquests I've had was, but it was the warmth in her voice, the kindness and worry in her dark irises, that immediately made me trust this woman.

" Cal," she said softly, "How're you holding up?"

She was treating me like I've tried this before, and maybe Calyx Damian had. But I was through with that, consequences of my return be damned, I wasn't going to let my life get stolen from me again. Suddenly, my (now) green eyes closed and I felt as if I were sharing the body with Calyx's memories. I suddenly knew everything about him, and this woman before me was his agent and long time friend, Rita Wills. He trusted her with his life, and she'd helped him with his career even when he was living on the streets and painting murals on the walls as a teenager.

"Rita," my voice wasn't snide or condescending in its lilt, but then again, it would definitely take a lot of getting used to. "I can honestly tell you that I'm never doing that again."

"That's what you said in the five successive times you've tried." She sighed, taking a seat beside me. Her short hair was spiked up, black eyes narrowed in concern. I suspected she might have been attracted to Calyx Damian in the past, but now only worried about him. "You have to attend that tonight, remember? It's in your honor because you've sold more paintings than any other artist for the past year."

"How much?"

"Thirty million dollars."

Thirty million dollars. Hmm… It wasn't exactly my trust fund or my inheritance, but it would do. I had wanted to go to Kathryn's house, but thought against it. What would I tell her anyway? It's not like I could come up to her and kiss her and tell her that I was Sebastian. No, I had to get used to this first… Which is why, after dismissing Rita's completely bewildered look, I went home, bandages and all. Painting was something I wasn't used to, but parties, however, were.

Hold on, Kat. I'm almost there. I'll come get you, I promise.

---

I was late for the party because I had spent hours on a painting. My wrist hurt like hell and I had chosen to wear a Rolex (after a little shopping trip to replace the disgusting threads the former inhabitant wore) to hide the gash on my wrist. My mind still went back to the particular mixture of hatred, green, brown, blue, yellow, and red that had been spilled on the canvas, so this was how much he'd obsessed over his work. As soon as I spotted Rita, I smiled cockily and raised my hands, quite enjoying the utter shock on her face when she saw how different I appeared. I had on a suit, my hair cut and my face smooth, free of that disgusting beard Calyx had had. In fact, right now, the body of Calyx Damian now looked like it belonged into Sebastian Valmont's world, a world of power, beauty, and wealth.

"My God, is that a suit?" she said slowly, coming up to me and using a hand to place on my shoulder, checking to see if it was indeed real.

I shrugged innocently, "You told me it was a formal party."

"Did you bang your head while you tried to off yourself, Calyx?" she stuttered, her small mouth opening and closing. "You look…"

"Hot?"

"Well, yes. You seem different somehow… Freer in a way… It's like you lost something that's been bothering you." She laughed at her own words, not knowing how close she'd been to finding out. Grabbing my hand, she led me through a throng of people and we had to stop every once in a while because a lot of people wanted to congratulate me and to order more paintings. "I'll introduce you to a client." She called out and I complied obediently, my cheeks flushed from the vibrancy of being alive and acknowledged again.

We stopped before a man with a thick shock of dark hair and kind brown eyes, and my heart rate sped faster than it had ever been in my life, or rather, lives. I knew this man… I had possessed him when he made love to his wife.

"Mr. Preston, this is Calyx Damian."

Her voice was now unheard of, and I didn't even feel him shake my hand. I shook, no, trembled in anticipation at what I knew was coming next…

And then, there she was. Kathryn Merteuil-Preston, as beautifully shattered and poised as she'd ever been, owning the entire room with her poise and incredible confidence. As her husband called to her, our eyes met, mine now a different color but the meaning that was held in it was the same. She looked back with that unreadable look of hers as I did in my own brand of indifference; it was what we did even before I died. Rita and Blake weren't aware of this, but I certainly was. I felt like I wanted to jump out of this body and touch her, but I held myself back.

"Calyx, meet my wife Kathryn." He said proudly, taking pride in the fact that he was married to the most beautiful woman in the room that night. I didn't object to that fact.

My heart pounded while I grasped her dainty hand gently, never at all taking my eyes off her. She looked stunning, and there was a slight frown on her forehead, that pursed pout on her lips only meant that she was thinking deeply about something.

"Have we met before?" she asked, trying to look at me closer. "You seem familiar."

Rita and Blake wandered off to talk about completing his collection of my work and thankfully, I was left alone with her. I longed to be back in that place of bitchy remarks and bantering with my stepsister, but I had to tread carefully. As the music slowed down to a soft, classical tune that lingered in the entire room, I held out a hand, smiling at her.

"Dance with me."

Her eyebrows rose, obviously surprised. "You seem assured that I'd agree."

"Well, you would."

"Why is that?"

I smirked and I could see how the familiar smirk unnerved her a bit. Her gaze wavered for the merest seconds before returning to its usual apathy. "Because you're attracted to me."

"Why," she snapped back, glaring at me, "would I be attracted to bullshit painters who are obviously disturbed enough to try to commit suicide?"

"For the same reason that I'm attracted to the bitchy socialite trophy wife of some loser." I grabbed her hand and led her to the dance floor, grinning like an idiot when she didn't pull away. I could tell she missed this, this witty repartee that she'd shared only with me.

"I've met you before." She told me again slowly, my hands finding its way to the familiar slope of her bare back. The sensation of our skins once again touching made me deliriously happy, and while I know that this might seem trivial for you, it held so many more meanings for me. She placed her hands on my shoulders, her face tilted up to look at me.

"Maybe you have." I said, losing myself in her inquisitive gaze.

"Where?"

"In another life."

She laughed at this, and while it wasn't the real laugh she used when I had been in my own body before, it was a start. Her long brown hair hung in loose curls, her large dark emerald eyes the muse for my new work. Her hands traveled to the nape of my neck and before we both realized it, she was playing with my blond hair and I wondered if she maybe saw me as me at that instant. I froze for a moment and she quickly pulled her hands back, "Sorry," she muttered, "I used to do that to someone… Force of habit."

"Who?"

"My stepbrother, Sebastian." How sad her eyes were at the mention of my name… Her mouth drooped a bit and even though it had been nearly a decade since my demise, the sadness remained fresh in her. "He died."

"I'm sorry about that." I answered, wanting nothing else but to kiss her.

She smiled politely, "Thank you."

This was not her. This was not Kathryn Merteuil. For her, there were two kinds of people, the ones she was polite to but mocked and loathed behind their backs, and the ones she loathed and bitched at but loved all the same. I used to belong to the latter… And I couldn't stand this fake manner now.

"You look beautiful tonight, Kathryn."

She was surprised at this, once again looking at me closer to see if we knew each other. "You seem comfortable with me," she observed, raising an eyebrow. "Too comfortable. Most of Blake's friends would call me Mrs. Preston."

"I'm not your husband's friend." I said, pulling her closer until she had no choice but to wrap her arms around my neck. Her dark olive eyes widened once again, and she could be thinking that this brazen painter full of surprises. The song ended, but I never let go, and she never stopped looking at me. She recognized the touch, but not the one who had initiated it, recognized the tone, but not the one who said it… She was so close.

"Whose friend are you, then?"

"Yours."

Her lips parted slightly, and I could almost feel myself kiss her. We were no longer related now, but there was still something that confined us both. There it was, that almost mocking smile, "I have no need for friends."

"What about Sebastian Valmont? Do you have a need for him?"

At the mention of that name, my former name, she visibly shook. The politeness of her features was now suddenly fiercer, angrier, and sharper. Her claws came out and she looked ready to scratch my eyes out. "I never told you his last name." she hissed, glaring at me. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Meet me tonight."

"What?"

I looked at her, memorizing the delicateness of her profile, almost laughing and crying out loud because my frustrations at having to touch her had been minimized. Still, there was another matter. I was not dark blond, my hair wasn't curly, I didn't have blue eyes and a full mouth. I wasn't born and raised in the Upper East Side elite, I wasn't educated in Manchester Prep, and I had never read about Plato or Kafka, or Nietsczhe. Not when I was Calyx Damian, who'd been orphaned and forced to live on the streets after his uncle almost killed him. But if you'll know me, then you'll know that life would never stop me from getting what I wanted. I had displayed that trait as the first incarnation of Sebastian Valmont, with many conquests to support that claim.

"I need to talk to you, Kathryn."

Her pale hand took mine, leading me into an empty hallway. My hand was too rough for hers now, the fingers too long, and it was not immaculately clean due to the paint stains that would never come off. When we were alone, she withdrew her hand and crossed her arms over her chest, frowning slightly. I could tell she was alarmed, but the mystery that surrounded Calyx Damian was too great for her to dismiss.

"Talk." She spoke finally.

"I—"

"Kathryn?" Blake Preston's voice echoed in the hallway and we both turned at the sound of his voice.

We looked at each other, Sebastian Valmont and Kathryn Merteuil standing so close when death had separated them in the past. The next thing I did, I did out of madness, of intoxication from her touch, and for the sheer reason that I'd wanted to do this ever since I saw her.

Before she could react, I kissed her, hating my unfamiliar mouth and hating that she was pushing me away. I grew more insistent, tasting her and finding that like fine wine, she grew sweeter as she'd aged. Perhaps it was the way she was being kissed, with such unconcealed ardor, or perhaps she felt me speaking through this green eyed man, the familiarity of the right amount of connection between our orifices scaring and arousing her at the same time, but either way, she found herself responding.

Blake's footsteps were growing louder and I had to pull away. Her eyes were half lidded, her mouth exquisitely swollen and her hair slightly disheveled from our tryst. "Meet me later. At your old house, in the room across yours... You remember it well, don't you?" I whispered, almost as out of breath as she was. "There's more to be said."

I walked away, my mouth slightly open, and I had never felt more alive at that moment. Kathryn brought her fingers to her lips, her eyes dazed and ears deaf to her adoring husband's deep voice.

"Sebastian." She said softly, and I turned around. Her irises were slightly damp, and she looked as if she was rooted on her spot. Blake touched her cheek worriedly, but she never stopped staring at me. I was hidden in the obscurity of the large hall, but the distance didn't seem to bother us. I gave her one of our secret smiles, the real one that I could only hope she too recognized.

I raised a hand in acknowledgment, that arrogant smirk suddenly back. Was I insane for leaving her like that? No, because I knew that she'd be at my old house later. My father and Tiffany had sold it after Kathryn got married and I wasted no time in acquiring it... It made sense to be there, at that place where everything started and ended.

A/N: Surprise. Yes, I'm technically on leave but I wanted to get this out. Sort of a... temporary reprieve? Lol (in reference to my beloved AIE story) I've been trying to write BGA but am failing miserably. I wanted to write something that's never been tried before... Testing the boundaries and all. So yes, the AIE sequel is still on hiatus, but what I can tell you is that Belinda and Nikolai are... Hmm... Tell me if this storyline's too ludicrous. You can probably see Neil Gaiman's influence in this. Haha