Chapter V: Vide
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There was a subtle click as the door to Poète’s bedroom slowly swung open.
“Poe…? Maman is-”
Othello started to say, clutching his teddy bear, Amour, the sleeves of his pajama shirt and pant legs covering his hands and feet.
Poète slowly opened his eyes.
It took a bit of effort given he hadn't slept much the night before, leaving his eyes feeling dry.
His eyes were glassy and bloodshot.
He was slumped against the left wall of his bedroom, his half-fixed notebook in his lap, still in yesterday's ripped-up clothes.
The blood had dried and where the fabric of his clothes wasn’t torn it stuck to the wounds.
Poète shifted his gaze, slowly lifting his head to look at his little brother, forcing a smile.
“Yes?”
He exhaled raspily.
“...I think you might need him more than I do, grand frère.”
Othello mumbled, handing the plush bear to Poète.
Poète chuckled softly, gently pushing away the cocoa colored plush toy.
“N-No, Amour is yours.”
He said, pulling himself up using the younger boy’s shoulder with a slight grunt.
“Now, what about Maman?”
“N-Nothin’. I’mma just tell her you’re still sleeping.”
Othello murmured hastily as he shuffled out of the room and closed the door.
Outside the window a cloud drifted away from the sun, causing light to suddenly spill into the room.
Poéte inhaled sharply, startled by the sudden burst of light.
He blinked rapidly, suddenly aware that it wasn’t raining any more.
The dust particles drifted through the air like leaves would in autumn.
Memories rushed through his mind, his childhood flashing before his eyes as if it was happening all over again.
He wiped his eyes as he realized that almost all of those memories were with Fidéle, Hervé, and worst of all, Frédéric.
“O-Oh dear…”
He whispered hoarsely, voice cracking.
“I’m all … alone.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?!”
A sharp, hiss-like voice said in a judgmental tone.
Poéte whipped around, tears forgotten.
“Excuse me?!"
A tall, elegantly built figure stood behind him.
They were a very… odd looking being.
They had beady black eyes, like an owl’s, that flowed rather than looking over something and fluffy black hair at shoulder length that covered sharply pointed ears.
They were dressed in a white buttoned up shirt with the right side of the shirt untucked, baggy ash grey trousers that looked like the owner had never heard of an ironing board in their life, shiny black boots and a black neck tie.
“You’re excused, Poéte.”
She purred, sitting down on the chair next to his desk, crossing her legs and folding her bony hands in her lap.
Poéte hesitated, processing what just happened.
“Who… are you?”
She tilted her head at him, confusion and concern flickering in her doll-like eyes, visibly hurt by the question.
“That dog hurt you bad… didn’t he?”
She murmured, more to herself than to him, her face softening slightly.
“Don’t you remember me? I’m the one who stayed.”
He blinked for a moment, cycling through the memories of the night before.
Her face did look… awfully familiar.
“I… yes… I remember you… oh dear… your name… seems to have escaped me… I must have fallen harder than I thought.”
She shook her head slowly.
“Oh dear indeed…”
She remarked.
“I am Vide.”
She said, laying a hand on her collar bone.
“I do apologize for what happened… I tried to get help, y’know… but they wouldn’t listen… especially not Frédéric.”
She whispered, pulling up her boot.
“Well, Frédéric can be a bit… stubborn.”
Poéte muttered, almost defensive of the elder boy.
Vide arched a single angular eyebrow, looking him over judgmentally.
“Pardon me, but I do believe I heard you wrong.”
Her tone shifted harshly on the last word, her eyes narrowing.
“Could you please repeat yourself?”
She added, her voice shifting back to its usual fizz-like sound as she straightened her already rigid posture, her legs crossed into a perfect X shape.
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a skeptical half smile as he advanced forward a quarter of a step, clearing his throat.
“Frédéric is stubborn.”
He repeated.
“Is he not?”
“Indeed he is…”
Vide muttered, pushing herself up out of the chair, her knees unbuckling almost like clock work as she glided over to him.
“But doesn’t “stubborn” mean to stick by something due to determination and spite?”
“Yes, and?”
She stopped, looked down at him like an older sibling would to a younger sibling, almost poking his chest with the long fingernail of her extended index finger.
“And Frédéric ran. I stayed, petit Shakespeare.”
“Yes, you did.”
Poéte murmured more to himself than to her.
He cleared his throat as she drifted back over to the desk chair.
“So… I guess I’m stuck with you until I get better friends?”
Vide sat down noiselessly on the wooden chair, tapping her index fingers together in a moment of contemplation.
“Indeed.”
She said decisively after three seconds of silence between them.
“But… this is only temporary… until you find new friends.”
Poéte extended his hand and Vide raised an eyebrow as she stared at it for a long moment.
“What are you doing?”
“Settling the agreement.”
“The last time you “settled the agreement” you lost two francs and the tip of your left index finger.”
She remarked a bit sarcastically, gesturing with her nose at his index finger.
He slowly lowered his hand into the pocket of his trousers.
“Also, I don’t shake. There are various…”
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking downwards and then back up at Poéte.
“Illnesses… that are… dreadfully easy to contract.”
“Well, you are far more careful than I am.”
Poéte chuckled.
“I’ve noticed.”
She sighed, rubbing her temples like a disappointed parent.
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