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Coccinelle
❝ his undoing and mine ❞
It is dead.
This house that has seen me through almost my entire life.
It is known for its frivolity and ebullient spirits, its mirth, laughter and brightness.
Was. I keep forgetting, although I pick my way through the destruction.
A child, when I first came here. A child who only wanted a home.
“I’ll take care of you,” whispered Marie as we sat together, bones protruding at every angle. We’d been malnourished from the last house. The people locked us up in rooms that had a distinct stench of human faeces, urine and sweat. Often, days went by until the little girl finally managed to persuade her mother to open the door and free us.
I’d shuffled closer to my brother, who’d said nothing. If my brother was quiet, it was serious. I could feel the pulse of his emotions, every ache in his heart. It was special, our bond. Mama used to say we were inseparable. Two boys so closely knitted together. One wild with an untameable spirit, one destined to never be anything except for his shadow.
Twenty minutes older, Julien was, and those twenty minutes had defined my entire life.
I didn’t believe Marie’s promise. But the woman did everything in her power to care for us as did the rest of her family. Like the chocolate - a rare treat that Marie’s husband, Henri would often pull out of his pocket, twinkling at us.
They had a daughter too. A miracle, a chess-playing miracle, after three tiny white crosses in the graveyard.
I cannot cleave the longing that is engraved on my very bones at the thought of her.
And she knew it.
She always did.
“Checkmate,” Elodie said, moving her bishop.
Julien was stranded. Nowhere to go and nothing to turn to.
“Admit defeat. Julien, you are more proud than your father.”
They laughed simultaneously, but there was no mirth in it. Elodie sighed softly.
“I am sorry. I should not have said that.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” one side of Julien’s mouth turned up in a half-smile, making Elodie’s heart beat a little faster.
“Coccinelle?” She asked, not quite believing this display of nonchalance.
Coccinelle meant no secrets. No lying through your teeth and every guard down. At least, that’s what Julien told me.
“Why ladybug? It is a strange word.”
Julien shrugged. “It is her favourite.”
I watched them, day after day, observing the slight flush in Elodie’s cheeks. How Julien’s gaze lingered on her face a little too long, and the prolonged touch of their fingertips every time their hands brushed.
***
“I think I love her,” Julien told me one summer.
We had just turned seventeen. Both tall, broad and strong, drifting apart slowly but surely.
This day felt different. Like nostalgia and hazy memories, our childhood friendship clung to the air as a reminder of what had been.
I turned away from the sunlight, letting the darkness hide my anguish.
I did not trust myself to speak for a couple of moments.
“I know.”
***
I started spiralling from that moment onwards.
Un monstre. Un monstre, Un monstre, Un monstre.
But most wounds stitch themselves back up.
I'm not sure where the threads that were meant to hold me together went.
***
When my brother had fled town, rolling in debt and embroiled in scandal, I paid off every last penny. Like the man I was meant to be, the man he would never come close to being.
I’d gone around soothing indigent villagers, comforting troubled Marie and broken Elodie.
Marie clutched at my hand. Marie, strength and kindness incarnate. Marie, who rescued birds with broken wings, Marie who nursed us through scarlet fever and almost died, Marie who treated us as if we were her own.
“Julien,” she said, sobbing. Her frail body was shaking.
Elodie lifted her head from the table, her red-rimmed eyes the only sign of grief.
“Why must we go on, Maman? When the villagers spit and gossip at us, all for one boy.
She spoke bitterly but I knew she was nursing a broken heart. Her room was next to mine and I listened to tortured cries in her sleep. He haunted her at night, haunted all of us.
He’d left indelible marks on every inch of this house.
***
I gave her the one thing a boy like me can.
Friendship, offering her a hand to hold amid his absence.
But the old cordiality began to pale in comparison to what was blooming.
The early days of us were fluttering, crisp and golden. Even April rain showers could not marr the beauty and the fragility of our love.
One precious year, of us and everything in between.
And then.
*
Him, like a hurricane on a gentle spring evening, when the hum of nature filled the air. A tidal wave in a calm ocean, thrashing with rage.
“Betrayal,” he hissed in Elodie’s ear. He made no attempt at hiding the venomous hatred he felt towards me.
He brandished a knife, threatening me to come closer. Restraining Elodie by the waist, holding her hostage.
“Enjoy your happiness. May your days be fruitful, bright and abundant.”
He struck a match and set fire to our house. I lunged for the door, only to find it locked. My brother had taken our only key.
Bolted every window with a vengeance.
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first thing I saw: a rolling pin. I smashed the window, glass shards shattered and decorated the floor. Elodie screamed, and stumbled. The soles of her feet were red, tender and swollen.
“I cannot make it through the window,” she whispered, “Not with my feet like this.”
“You must. I beg you, please. Please, Elodie.”
“It is not only that.”
She removed the hand pressed to her stomach, only to reveal a large, gaping wound. The tyrant had been threatening her with a knife. How had I not noticed my wife cry out? How could I be so uncaring, so selfish?
Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps. I could see her lips beginning to turn white.
“No, no, mon amour, it can't be, ” I took my wife into my arms, gently rocking her back and forth.
The flames built around us.“You have to leave.”
“No,” I shook my head, “not with you like this.”
“You will die.”
“There is no me without you, Elodie.”
“I know. I know, but you must go. Please. Please. For me.”
I hope you will never know the anguish it takes to leave someone you love in a burning house.
***
I live in pain, and not only for Elodie.
You shouldn’t believe everything you read, dear reader.
I was the one who ran away from town.
He stayed behind and married Elodie.
I started the fire, with the cowardly rage that was always hidden away.
Although, I have always loved Elodie. Longer than even him, perhaps.
And maybe, reader, I have lied to you. Maybe I have blurred the lines between truth and reality, so much so you begin to question who speaks to you.
Is he feral or is he broken?
***
I forgive you, he said to me when I tried to stop him from turning himself in at the station.
Coccinelle? I whispered, like a small, frightened child.
The waves of memory hit us both sharp and stinging.
A ladybug alighting on Elodie’s finger, the musicality of her laugh. The way he and her swayed together, at the evening dances in the village hall. Their fingers, always so tightly interlaced. How the old lady at Misa Cara had read their calloused palms and told them they defied the stars.
One girl, his undoing and mine.
I knew she was flitting across his mind as well.
Two brothers, once so closely knit together.
“Maman never told us this,” I said weakly, “I am afraid.”
What a coward, what a coward, what a coward.
“Blood is blood,” he replied.
“We are family.”
And sometimes, family can mean terrible things.
+1345 words
❝ his undoing and mine ❞
It is dead.
This house that has seen me through almost my entire life.
It is known for its frivolity and ebullient spirits, its mirth, laughter and brightness.
Was. I keep forgetting, although I pick my way through the destruction.
A child, when I first came here. A child who only wanted a home.
“I’ll take care of you,” whispered Marie as we sat together, bones protruding at every angle. We’d been malnourished from the last house. The people locked us up in rooms that had a distinct stench of human faeces, urine and sweat. Often, days went by until the little girl finally managed to persuade her mother to open the door and free us.
I’d shuffled closer to my brother, who’d said nothing. If my brother was quiet, it was serious. I could feel the pulse of his emotions, every ache in his heart. It was special, our bond. Mama used to say we were inseparable. Two boys so closely knitted together. One wild with an untameable spirit, one destined to never be anything except for his shadow.
Twenty minutes older, Julien was, and those twenty minutes had defined my entire life.
I didn’t believe Marie’s promise. But the woman did everything in her power to care for us as did the rest of her family. Like the chocolate - a rare treat that Marie’s husband, Henri would often pull out of his pocket, twinkling at us.
They had a daughter too. A miracle, a chess-playing miracle, after three tiny white crosses in the graveyard.
I cannot cleave the longing that is engraved on my very bones at the thought of her.
And she knew it.
She always did.
“Checkmate,” Elodie said, moving her bishop.
Julien was stranded. Nowhere to go and nothing to turn to.
“Admit defeat. Julien, you are more proud than your father.”
They laughed simultaneously, but there was no mirth in it. Elodie sighed softly.
“I am sorry. I should not have said that.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” one side of Julien’s mouth turned up in a half-smile, making Elodie’s heart beat a little faster.
“Coccinelle?” She asked, not quite believing this display of nonchalance.
Coccinelle meant no secrets. No lying through your teeth and every guard down. At least, that’s what Julien told me.
“Why ladybug? It is a strange word.”
Julien shrugged. “It is her favourite.”
I watched them, day after day, observing the slight flush in Elodie’s cheeks. How Julien’s gaze lingered on her face a little too long, and the prolonged touch of their fingertips every time their hands brushed.
***
“I think I love her,” Julien told me one summer.
We had just turned seventeen. Both tall, broad and strong, drifting apart slowly but surely.
This day felt different. Like nostalgia and hazy memories, our childhood friendship clung to the air as a reminder of what had been.
I turned away from the sunlight, letting the darkness hide my anguish.
I did not trust myself to speak for a couple of moments.
“I know.”
***
I started spiralling from that moment onwards.
Un monstre. Un monstre, Un monstre, Un monstre.
But most wounds stitch themselves back up.
I'm not sure where the threads that were meant to hold me together went.
***
When my brother had fled town, rolling in debt and embroiled in scandal, I paid off every last penny. Like the man I was meant to be, the man he would never come close to being.
I’d gone around soothing indigent villagers, comforting troubled Marie and broken Elodie.
Marie clutched at my hand. Marie, strength and kindness incarnate. Marie, who rescued birds with broken wings, Marie who nursed us through scarlet fever and almost died, Marie who treated us as if we were her own.
“Julien,” she said, sobbing. Her frail body was shaking.
Elodie lifted her head from the table, her red-rimmed eyes the only sign of grief.
“Why must we go on, Maman? When the villagers spit and gossip at us, all for one boy.
She spoke bitterly but I knew she was nursing a broken heart. Her room was next to mine and I listened to tortured cries in her sleep. He haunted her at night, haunted all of us.
He’d left indelible marks on every inch of this house.
***
I gave her the one thing a boy like me can.
Friendship, offering her a hand to hold amid his absence.
But the old cordiality began to pale in comparison to what was blooming.
The early days of us were fluttering, crisp and golden. Even April rain showers could not marr the beauty and the fragility of our love.
One precious year, of us and everything in between.
And then.
*
Him, like a hurricane on a gentle spring evening, when the hum of nature filled the air. A tidal wave in a calm ocean, thrashing with rage.
“Betrayal,” he hissed in Elodie’s ear. He made no attempt at hiding the venomous hatred he felt towards me.
He brandished a knife, threatening me to come closer. Restraining Elodie by the waist, holding her hostage.
“Enjoy your happiness. May your days be fruitful, bright and abundant.”
He struck a match and set fire to our house. I lunged for the door, only to find it locked. My brother had taken our only key.
Bolted every window with a vengeance.
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first thing I saw: a rolling pin. I smashed the window, glass shards shattered and decorated the floor. Elodie screamed, and stumbled. The soles of her feet were red, tender and swollen.
“I cannot make it through the window,” she whispered, “Not with my feet like this.”
“You must. I beg you, please. Please, Elodie.”
“It is not only that.”
She removed the hand pressed to her stomach, only to reveal a large, gaping wound. The tyrant had been threatening her with a knife. How had I not noticed my wife cry out? How could I be so uncaring, so selfish?
Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps. I could see her lips beginning to turn white.
“No, no, mon amour, it can't be, ” I took my wife into my arms, gently rocking her back and forth.
The flames built around us.“You have to leave.”
“No,” I shook my head, “not with you like this.”
“You will die.”
“There is no me without you, Elodie.”
“I know. I know, but you must go. Please. Please. For me.”
I hope you will never know the anguish it takes to leave someone you love in a burning house.
***
I live in pain, and not only for Elodie.
You shouldn’t believe everything you read, dear reader.
I was the one who ran away from town.
He stayed behind and married Elodie.
I started the fire, with the cowardly rage that was always hidden away.
Although, I have always loved Elodie. Longer than even him, perhaps.
And maybe, reader, I have lied to you. Maybe I have blurred the lines between truth and reality, so much so you begin to question who speaks to you.
Is he feral or is he broken?
***
I forgive you, he said to me when I tried to stop him from turning himself in at the station.
Coccinelle? I whispered, like a small, frightened child.
The waves of memory hit us both sharp and stinging.
A ladybug alighting on Elodie’s finger, the musicality of her laugh. The way he and her swayed together, at the evening dances in the village hall. Their fingers, always so tightly interlaced. How the old lady at Misa Cara had read their calloused palms and told them they defied the stars.
One girl, his undoing and mine.
I knew she was flitting across his mind as well.
Two brothers, once so closely knit together.
“Maman never told us this,” I said weakly, “I am afraid.”
What a coward, what a coward, what a coward.
“Blood is blood,” he replied.
“We are family.”
And sometimes, family can mean terrible things.
+1345 words
Author's Note: (not included in word count)
Thank you so much to everyone who helped me with this. Thank you especially to Sienna who critiqued this for me, May and my irl friend “A” for their thoughts + opinions on this piece. Every bit of encouragement has been invaluable to me <3