Chapter 5: Deep Within The Corners Of My Mind
i.
He starts writing letters to her, letters he would never send.
Monday:
I dreamt about you last night.
You were only ten when we met. Yet I remember everything so clearly, as if it was only yesterday. I knew you were something special – something too special for me to love. Oh, how I miss you, Rachel! I feel the warmth of your body when we kiss! I still do. You've bewitched me. You've had me.
Can I love you? Will you let me love you?
Tuesday:
You left your "Lolita" here. I finished it in a day.
I can't decide if I like Humbert Humbert or not. I pity him, mostly. But then I pity myself. You're so beautiful, Rachel, so beautiful I dread the day you realize that. When you do, you'll see me differently, won't you?
Wednesday:
I went out for coffee today. I need to get back on writing soon – but I can't write without you near me. I could write meaningless words – sad, pathetic, dull, empty words that could easily be sold to any publishing company. But I can't be that kind of man. I want to create, I want to live my words and inspire readers. I have a responsibility as a writer. Literature can only mean something when it reflects life and makes people better, kinder. But then again, I find myself writing pages of easy, ordinary stories.
When will you be back, my love?
Thursday
I can't shake off the weight of my guilt. I feel the burden on my shoulder. I should never have kissed you, or let you kiss me. I feel disgusted with myself. I have to stop.
Friday
I received your postcard. I opened it with shaky, trembling fingers and utter excitement. Your handwriting is as neat as always. You sign your name with a star – no star is as bright as you are. Paris is so beautiful, you say, full of les amateurs and la lumières. You don't know much French but you remember what I taught you. You're going to school and you met a boy, a true French boy in every way, you mention.
I felt sick with jealousy; I felt its claws ripping through me. I can't tell you that, I'm not allowed to, because you're not mine. I'm yours, though. I could only be yours.
Saturday
It's raining so hard outside. You hate the rain; you always say you hate the rain. You'd furrow your eyebrows, your lips'd set in a straight line, you'd tap your fingers against my window pane and tell me about the story between you and the rain. You'd say you don't like it because your clothes would all get wet and dirty( I didn't think of anything inappropriate, if you should ever wonder), you hate the "squishy" feeling in your shoes (you say "squishy" with an expression as if you just ate something horrible). But I know you don't like the rain because when your mother died, it was raining so hard. You'd ask me to sing for you, when I do, you'd say I have a nice voice but not a perfect pitch. "Practice makes perfect", then you'd rest your head on my shoulder as I sing.
"Well I met you at the blood bank
We were looking at the bags
Wondering if any of the colors
Matched any of the names we knew on the tags
And I said I know it well
That secret that you know
That you don't know how to tell
It fucks with your honor
"Finn!"
"What? It's just the lyrics!"
And it teases your head
But you know that it's good, girl
Cause it's running you with red."
I missed a part of the first phrase, I always forget that part.
It stops raining now.
You'd always go home.
Sunday
In the artistic hours of my life, I'd be bold enough to attempt to write a song, for you. But all the sweetest melodies I know are your laugh, your voice when you sing, and your shriek when you see Andrew Gardfield in a magazine. All the most gorgeous notes are your light breathing and the gleam in your eyes. You always have such sad eyes. Beautiful but sad eyes.
"My life, sooner or later
Your life, sooner or later
Will drift away from us in a bittersweet flow to the end of the world"
It's only been a week.
Monday
Will you learn how to love me? I may have the kind of look that awakes certain attraction from you – young girls at your age. Strong jaw line, broad shoulder, built body, pale skin and the romantic sadness in my eyes - pathetic sadness, in my mind. What will you see in me, Rachel?
Tuesday
I miss you.
Wednesday
My step brother came to visit me today; he's getting married to a Doctor. I'm so happy for him. He chats in his animated manners as always, his eyes shine as every time he's happy. He asks me to bring a date to his wedding, apparently being single at a wedding is "absolutely unacceptable" for me – as Vogue Fashion Editor's brother.
He tells me I should love someone. I say I am loving someone; it's just that I'm not allowed to.
"Says who?" – he asks.
ii.
He finds her lying on her stomach in his living room, reading a book, wearing skinny jeans, a cropped T -shirt and a huge cardigan sweater.
She always does this to him. Randomly appears out of nowhere and gives him a heart attack.
When she sees him, Rachel immediately runs up to him and wraps her legs around his waist, peppering his face with kisses. Their lips meet, and he feels the melting innocence under the pressure of his fiery lips. He tentatively raises his hand to hold her back – trembling fingers feeling the movements of her spine. She wraps her arms around his neck and rests her forehead against his shoulder blade. He gestures them to the couch and sits down, with her still in his embrace.
He's trying to process what is happening, he's trying to absorb the fire from her body to his own, he's trying to calm his heartbeat – the palms with his hand are still keeping the warmth of her body.
"Rachel?"
"Why didn't you write to me?"
"Because I want to stop loving you." – He says without thinking.
"Liar."
"It's true."
"How did that work out for you?" – She tightens her grip on him.
"Not very well."
iii.
The grandeur of the setting sun sends warm orange streaks of light into the room, illuminates the sad and desperate corners filled with dusts. He still has her in his arms – she has fallen asleep, her light breathing calms his heartbeat.
He's about to stand up when she tugs at the front of his shirt:
"Where are you going?"
"I'm gonna let you sleep for a while."
"I want to go out to get some ice – cream."
He finds himself sitting in a crowded Haagen – Das ice cream shop minutes later – with two scoops of cinnamon ice – cream in his glass.
Rachel's joyously eating her scoops of ice cream across the small table – her knees slightly press against his while reading an article in a magazine.
"So, how's France?"
"It's okay." – She answers without looking away from the papers.
"Okay? I beg to differ, it must have been wonderful."
"Okay, yeah, it's just magnifique!" – She lifts her hand and makes a gesture in the air, eyes still on the pages.
"Can you be more specific?"
"Jesus!" – She closes the magazine with annoyance and looks at him – "I don't want to talk about it, okay? I'm trying to have some ice cream and read a fucking magazine, is it so hard to understand?"
He winces from her words – she can throw a tantrum when she feels like it – but seeing her being so angry and annoyed by his presence snaps something in him.
He puts the money on the table and stands up.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
He walks as quickly as possible out of the place, but before long he feels an arm looping around his.
"I told you, Paris's full of les amateurs and la lumières."
He looks down and sees Rachel looks up at him – her face softens and he reads the words "I'm sorry" in her eyes.
He takes her hand in his and kisses it before listening to her talking about how beautiful Paris was.
"Have you ever been to a foreign country, Finn?"
"I was born in Paris and raised there until I was 10."
"Wow, really?"
"Yeah, we moved a lot back then. Somewhere back in my mind, I see images of Belgium too."
"Hence your French."
"Exactly."
"I wish I were as half as good as you are."
He stops and cups her face with both of his hands.
"Rachel. You are so much better than anyone else."
She looks at him with adoration in her eyes then chuckles, "I was just talking about learning French, drama queen."
They both laugh and he's mesmerized by her laugh. It sounds like a symphony to his ear – innocent and care – free.
"Do you know what's tomorrow is?" – She leans her head on his shoulder as they continue walking.
"Your birthday, I remember."
"My 18th birthday, to be exact. Can I crash your place tomorrow's night?"
"Aren't you throwing a party at your place?"
"Actually, my parents are throwing one for me, but it'll just be this grand, ridiculous and boring party full of their dull colleagues." – She suddenly stops and moves to stand in front of him – "You should come over! With you there, it won't be so bad anymore! Please!"
"I don't know, Rachel."
"It's okay, you just have to show up for about 15 minutes then we can just sneak out."
She looks at him expectantly with her gorgeous brown eyes – the eyes he has missed for so long, the eyes he has always dreamed about.
How can he possibly deny her anything? He would jump in front of a train for her if she asked him to.
He just smiles at her and nods. She squeals and jumps up to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, then hails a cab.
"I can't wait to see you when I'm 18." – She whispers in his ear before getting into the car.
tbc
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A/N:
So, let all of us Monchele fans have a moment to squeal together to celebrate the latest and perhaps biggest Monchele riot so far (I'm still praying for their wedding and their baby's birth). I couldn't stop myself from rolling around and laughing and crying on my bed when Monchele candids pop up on my iPad screen!(〃)八(〃〃)八(〃)
I hope you guys haven't lost interest in my story – I'm losing reviews and views (TT^TT). Please leave your thoughts and I'll be more than happy to read them all.
As some of you may guess, stuff is going down in the next chapter (〃￣ω￣〃ゞ.
As always, my most sincere thank you to all of those who have read and reviewed my story. Seeing your reviews makes my day! Long live Finn and Rachel! Long live Monchele!
Song: "Blood Bank" by Bon Iver