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NAVY LIES
MONICA ARYA
 CONTENTS

Dedication
Author’s Note

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54

Author’s Note about Navy Lies

Also by Monica Arya
About the Author
Acknowledgments
 DEDICATION

To Blue. I love you to the moon and back. You’re the reason the stars shine.
You will always have a piece of my heart.

To those who have let their flaws and doubts consume their self-worth, I
hope you’ll remember that even with thorns, a rose is still one of the most
favored flowers. May you always embrace your flaws and find ways to
convert them into powerful strengths. This is our now.
 AUTHOR’S NOTE

Please take into consideration this novel may not be suitable for
everyone and for detailed content warnings, please visit:
www.monicaarya.com
 1
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

G olden embers of the expanding flames prick at my skin, perspiration

forming against my hairline, and the air in my lungs seem to be
dissipating by the minute.
I can’t breathe. I’m obstructing on the copious fog that has my mouth
dry and my eyes burning. My hands are smeared with a crimson substance,
and my shallow breaths are barring the remnants of life I’m scarcely
clinging to.
Looking down, the light wood floor is covered with blood and the short,
once white gown I have on is drenched. My entire body feels feeble from
what it endured a mere three hours ago.
Closing my eyes, I know I’m about to die. I know I won’t be able to
hold on any longer. The tiny cot on the opposite side is already in flames,
and I scurry farther into the corner with the little strength I have. Clutching
the small teddy bear, I let it soak up the tears that trickle out.
I whimper as I look down at my wrists, studying the deep grooves in my
skin. Flicking my eyes to the corner, I stare at the chains on the ground.
Today is the first day I haven’t had them on… yet I’ve never felt more
trapped.
I’ll just go to sleep, I think to myself as the crackling grows closer and
the heat begins to consume any solutions in my mind.
However, just as I’m about to close my eyes, I hear her.
The soft whimper from her perfect pink lips echoes louder than any of
my racing thoughts or the way the fire is growing fiercer by the minute.
I have to live.
 I have to survive.
She needs me.
There aren’t going to be monsters under her bed; the only monsters she
should fear are the ones that will be tucking her in.
I have to save her. After all, she’s mine.
Only mine.

P RESENT D AY
“Navy Mian?” a soft voice called out as I signed the bottom of the hefty
stack of medical documents. Lifting my purse, I smooth my sapphire-blue
dress out and my heels click against the tiles as I move to stand.
“Hi, Ms. Mian. How are you doing today?” the friendly nurse asked me
as she stretched her hand out for the clipboard I didn’t realize I was
clutching.
“Well, I suppose I’m not doing all that great if I’m here.” I try to joke,
but it seems the nurse doesn’t find humor in it. She offered a tight smile and
nodded as we turned into a well-designed office.
“Dr. Sterling had to take a quick phone call, but will be right in. You can
go ahead and take a seat.”
“Thank you.” I wait until she shuts the door behind her before I look
around the space. The walls are a deep emerald-green, and the wall-to-wall
bookshelves are lined with medical textbooks and non-fiction literature.
Insignificant, yet strategic, decorative pieces are carefully placed and on the
opposing wall, there are four framed diplomas.
I sink into the golden-mustard velvet chaise across from the large
mahogany desk. Lacing my fingers together, I’m tempted to lift the brass
picture frame that is facing away from me, though I’m unsure I’ll be able to
keep myself composed for this fifty-minute session if I see the image.
Tapping my nails anxiously against the journal in my hand, I decide I’ll just
take a peek. Holding my breath, I wince as the heavy frame scratches
against the wood as I turn it.
Disappointment forms inside me as I stared at her, yet I couldn’t help
but absorb everything the picture told me. She’s shorter than me, thinner,
with rusty brown hair and pale blue eyes. We couldn’t be more opposite. I
look down at myself, feeling agitated at how tight the Spanx feel
underneath my dress, knowing she probably doesn’t even own a pair. I’ve
seen her countless times in person, except she’s never seen me—at least,
not recently. I’ve watched her lather her endless beauty products into the
hollows of her skin, hoping to bring life back to it. I’ve watched her run and
check her watch multiple times, smiling as she hits her goals. I’ve watched
her laugh and live happily behind the stunning stucco home that has a
neatly trimmed lawn and luxury cars parked in the driveway.
I’ve watched her. I’ve studied her. Memorized her.
The door creaks, and I quickly place the frame down. His heavy
footsteps grow closer, and my heart begins to race. Focusing on my
breathing, I swallow the lingering saliva in my mouth.
“Navy?” he called my name as I lift my gaze from the shiny cognac-
brown shoes up to the light gray fitted suit he’s wearing. I’m taken aback by
how handsome he is. I’ve seen him from afar, but this… him being this
close has me speechless.
His eyes are a soft azure, almost mixed with a hint of emerald. His hair
is dark and slightly splayed across of his forehead, as if he was rushing to
come in here to meet with me. The slight lines by his eyes deepen as he
flashes a perfect smile that matches the white button-down he’s wearing
under his suit.
Brushing his hand across the light scruff on his jawline, he smirks at me
in an almost seductive way. “Hello,” I whispered under my breath. I had
practiced for this moment countless of times, over and over, with my own
reflection.
“How are you doing today?” he asked with an arched brow. Clearly,
he’s pleasantly surprised by his new patient—though I’m nothing like her,
the woman he chose, the woman he worships and adores.
I’m far more of his type. How would I know? Because I’m every man’s
type.
Curvy in all the right places, except for the slight amount of excess
weight I carry on my hips and lower abdomen. My dark brown eyes aren’t
sweet, but sensual and mysterious, while my caramel skin radiates youth.
My long, thick black hair is always perfectly tousled and easily allows him
to envision his hands wrapped around it as our bodies touch.
Even the way I speak is low and raspy, not high-pitched and chirpy like
his overly eager wife. I’m not needy or self-absorbed; I find slivers of
happiness in things that don’t cost a dime. I don’t use sex as a form of
blackmail, although I will turn the lights off because I’m ashamed of the
scars. The wounds… the burns.
Reminders of her.
“Navy?” His smooth voice sliced through my thoughts as I stared at him
with my head slightly tilted.
“I’m doing great, sorry, Dr. Sterling. I…” My voice is soft, as his eyes
fix onto mine and he already seemed to be getting lost inside them.
“Well, if you’re doing great, then I’m not sure I’ll be of much help.” His
laugh is light and the wrinkles around his gorgeous eyes deepen as he
awkwardly hits his desk with the hand that is adorned with a simple gold
wedding band.
I don’t laugh at his ridiculous joke; instead, I bite my sultry, red-painted
lip and offer a small smile of admiration—one that immediately freezes him
as his mouth drops slightly.
Clearing his throat, he quickly pieces himself together, brushing his
hand over his defined jaw again and looking at his computer screen.
“So, you just moved to Indigo Falls?” His voice shifted as he attempted
to emit professionalism, as if he’s reminding himself that he shouldn’t be
trying to impress me.
Men are easily impressionable. They could be happily married or
devoted fathers, yet if the right woman comes at the wrong time, they’ll
easily fold and crumble.
But I wasn’t here to steal Dr. Sterling away from his wife. I wasn’t here
to fall in love or sleep with him. I was here to destroy her. Destroy them.
“Yes, I moved here two months ago.” Lacing my fingers together, I
crossed my ankles and focused.
His forehead creased as he squinted at the screen. “I see you have a
history of depression, anxiety, and insomnia?”
“You should get glasses,” I pointed out as he leaned even closer to read
the words. His handsome face broke into a sweet smile as his eyes locked
onto mine.
“I probably should, but I didn’t want to age myself even more. I just
turned forty-seven and feel like I’m desperately trying to preserve my
youth.” Leaning back in his oversized chair, he fastened his hands together
while resting his elbows on the armrests.
“Age is just a number, Dr. Sterling.”
 “Well, Miss Mian, that’s because you’re only thirty-three.” Mischief and
excitement danced in his ocean-like eyes. “Now, will you tell me how I can
help you or do you want me to do the whole psycho-analysis thing?” he
added playfully.

I NOD . “I have these moments where I feel like I’m choking and my entire
body feels hot… I collapse and go back to a time in my life that I wish
didn’t exist.” I swallow and stop myself from expressing my true emotions
that had started to surface.
Lifting my gaze, I looked at Dr. Sterling, who watched me carefully
with his eyebrows knitted together. “Do you have a history of panic attacks,
Navy?”
I leaned in as the chair creaked slightly. “No, I… I don’t,” I lied,
knowing I couldn’t afford for him to dig into what I revealed.
“Often times a traumatic event in our lives will resurface. It’s as if the
more we tell ourselves to not think of it, we do. For example, if I tell you
not to think of an orange, what do you think of?”
“An orange.” I pinched my lips to the side. This was starting to feel like
a real therapy session.
“Right. So, if you’d like, we can chat about the time in your life you
wish hadn’t existed, so we can find a solution on how to resolve those
negative emotions rather than obsess over them and allow them to consume
you.” Dr. Sterling nodded slowly.
“The only issue is, I already know how I’d be able to stop obsessing
over those negative emotions,” I whispered, and moved closer to the desk
as my breasts pressed against the smooth wood.
“How is that, Miss Mian?” He filled the space between us as much as
his body allowed as curiosity overtook him.
“Revenge.” My lips curled upward as a look of doubt grew on his face.
“Revenge is the only solution…”
 2

I left my first therapy session feeling emptier. I would have never thought
my plan was going to alter as swiftly as it had in the past fifty minutes.
Dr. Decker Sterling and I had chemistry unlike any I had ever
experienced. I’m not some young woman fanning over an older man due to
outstanding daddy issues. Truthfully, I did have daddy issues but I didn’t let
the first man who disappointed me become the reason I needed male
attention. No, this was different. This was special.
Dr. Sterling wants to help me, he wants to heal me. He wants me. While
absolutely professional and clearly hesitant with the feelings that were
swarming inside him, I could feel the tension between us. He could, too.
Even when the word revenge left my lips, he didn’t flinch or judge; he
listened and understood. I can’t believe I ever wanted to hurt him. He’s a
mere victim, just as I am. He’s been blinded by false promises and people
who will only bring him down. And now I am needed even more.
It’s perfect, really. I thought my plan—one I had meticulously crafted—
was flawless and brilliant, but now I see I have a new purpose. I don’t want
to ruin them; I just need to replace her.
Gripping my steering wheel, I tossed my head back and couldn’t help
but laugh. I couldn’t help but feel immense pleasure knowing I was going to
be Dr. Decker Sterling’s wife one day. And that one day would be sooner
rather than later.
A PHONE CALL broke me out of my excitement. “Jax,” I answered calmly to
conceal the knot in my stomach.
“It’s done. He’s gone,” Jax murmured in a hushed tone. Relief washed
over me as I looked out at the stucco home I would soon call my own.
“How?”
“You know how, Navy.” I nodded slowly, brushing my thumb against
the leather steering wheel as the sun beamed down, warming it.
Ending the call, I get out of my car while tugging the oversized
matching sapphire blue hat on. Smoothing my dress out, I began to walk
closer as my heels clicked in harmony on the smooth cement.
I had never seen their daughter up-close. I had tried countless of times,
but she usually got into the car when it was parked in the garage, although
sometimes I could see a silhouette upstairs. Sometimes I could hear her
voice at night, sitting on the porch and talking on the phone to who I
assumed was her boyfriend.
My heart stopped as I was about to turn and leave. I could hear her
voice grow closer. I had to force myself to stop in the middle of the
driveway as the front door opened and she came tumbling out with a young
man.
She was breathtakingly beautiful. Tall, with long, raven-like hair, and
when her eyes found mine, I took a step back.
Her eyes…
The same pale blue as her mother’s.
“Ariana, come on!” The boy beside her clutched her hand and tugged
her to the sports car in the driveway.
Ariana… Ariana Sterling. Emotion overtook me as my eyes stung with
impending tears. She was perfect. I pulled on my sunglasses as Ariana
moved closer to me with curiosity lining her perfect face.
“Hi, are you looking for my mom?” she questioned with a kind smile on
her face. My hand lifted as I stepped forward. Her eyes drifted to it, and she
rolled her lips together as I brushed her hair behind her ear.
A straggling tear escaped as I touched her smooth skin.
“Ari, do you know her?” The boy behind us broke my trance, and I
quickly cleared my throat and moved away.
“I’m so sorry… I thought you were someone I once knew. I believe I
have the wrong address,” I quickly stammered as Ariana looked at me with
curiosity staining her icy blue eyes.
 “It’s okay. I’m Ariana, and this is my boyfriend, Christian.” She pointed
to the blonde-haired teenager next to her, who shoved his hands into his
pockets.
“Nice to meet you both.” I nodded, taking them both in. Ariana moved
closer to me, and the light scent of florals grazed my nose.
Her face brightened as she studied me carefully. “I love your hat and
lipstick.” My nerves were shaking, but the happiness that was building
inside me couldn’t be compared to any emotion in the world.
“Really? Well, here… you should have it.” I quickly tugged the velvet,
deep blue hat off and handed it to her.
“No, I couldn’t possibly take it. I just love it. Most people here in Indigo
Falls survive in Lululemon.” She chuckled.
“Please, it would look so beautiful on you.” I lifted the hat to her.
Reaching, she took it from my hands. “Wow. Thank you… it’s
amazing.” Pulling it on top of her head, she did a quick spin as her
boyfriend clapped proudly.
“It was meant for you…” I said almost inaudibly as her laughter soaked
into my soul.
Suddenly, she stopped spinning and tossed her arms around me. “You
made my day! We’ve got to go now, but I hope you’ll come by again
sometime.” She squeezed me as if we’d never been strangers.
And I hated that we were; I hated that we were forced to be. Blinking
away the tears that stung, I pulled away.
“Wait, I don’t know you’re name…” she said as I quickly turned and
swiped at my cheeks.
“I hope to see you again, Ariana,” I called out, my words cracking as I
raced to my car. Once inside, I sank into the hot leather, grateful for the
tinted windows. Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grabbed the small
teddy bear and cried harder than I had in years.
“I will see you again soon, little butterfly…” I whimpered into the worn
plush.
 3

D riving up the winding, rocky path, I turned and parked in front of the
small white house that was nestled between dense trees. There were
no neighbors, and the only noise was from the stunning waterfall that
emptied onto the oversized boulders below.
Tugging my heels off, I tossed them to the side and opened the small
fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine. After popping the cork, I took a hefty
swing and set it down on the counter. Not even a moment later, my phone
chimed.
A satisfied grin curled on my face as I opened my banking app. “Poor
Jackson.” I sighed. Jackson Carter was my first husband, and I was his third
wife. He was a misogynistic, old-fashioned asshole, who thrived on using
women for their bodies.
Turns out, he hated my body—the one I kept covered from him until our
wedding night. He felt betrayed when he saw what I faced every single day,
and he grew violent and abusive. Luckily, I documented it all and was able
to extort the rich bastard for my share of the money. Except, I knew men
like Jackson. I knew men like him would hunt you like prey when they felt
betrayed, so I did what I had to and removed the problem from my life and
from the world.
Mr. Carter overdosed on his heart medication and died peacefully in his
sleep. Luckily for me, he hadn’t changed his will. With no children, and two
previous wives long out of the picture, I was his sole beneficiary.
With no limit on my funds, I could carry out my plan without worrying
about a job to consume most of my day.
 I thought I was accumulating wealth for her… for us. But instead, now,
I knew I didn’t need to. Decker would take care of his girls; he would love
us and make sure we never had to worry.

P EELING MY DRESS OFF , I stared at myself in the oversized mirror. A medley

of emotions churned inside me as I chewed the cap of the permanent marker
off and spat it to the side.
With my lips quivering, I brushed my hand over the ridges, grooves,
and hideous scars that decorated my body. Looking down, I began to write
over the wounds that never healed properly.
Ugly. Unworthy. Damaged. I traced each word into my flesh. Sinking
into the cold tile, I began to cry. Crawling toward the bottom drawer, I
tugged it opened and pulled out the thin sliver of metal. The edges were
starting to rust, but the pain it caused was fresher than ever. Digging the
metal into my thigh, I pressed harder into the hypertrophic scar until the
deep red began to pool and trickle down my tanned skin. Watching the thin
river drip onto the floor, I pressed harder and slid the blade into a precise
line as I chanted, “Navy is unworthy…” under my breath as tears teased my
eyes.
“I hate you.” I began to cry as I watched the blood spread underneath
my thigh. Clenching my eyes shut, I jerked the blade out and took
disordered gulps of the sour wine until the bottle grew lighter in my hand.
Until I began to hear her cries.
My body ached as pressure began to build in my lower abdomen, and I
felt her in my hands for the first time.
“Please don’t take her… Please…” I whimpered as the physical pain
and mental agony coursed through my entire being. Then he came in with a
sneer on his face that sliced through my soul.
He took one look at me before he tossed his head back with a wicked
laugh spewing from his mouth and kicked me as hard as he could. I
screamed out in pain and held on to my last sliver of hope.
Pressing my face against the small one in my arms, I kissed her soft
cheeks with tears and sweat meshing into my sticky skin. The smell of
purity and heaven intertwined and embedded itself in my mind.
 “We will never be apart, my little butterfly. Never,” I whispered into her
hair repeatedly.
But that was the first lie I ever told her.
A dark, painful lie that would change the course of her life and, most of
all, mine. A white lie is harmless or trivial, crafted to avoid the truth. But
the lies I told weren’t innocuous; they were full of agony.
What I told her wasn’t to avoid the truth; it was told assuming the truth
would become our reality. But it wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
It wasn’t a white lie; it was a navy lie.
Just like that, a second set of footsteps echoed against the worn wooden
floors and her bony fingers ripped the love of my life from my arms. I
glanced up at her as she cradled the little girl I had just met.
The giant ring on her finger reflected the slice of light shimmering
through the door they had left cracked opened. Blood and sweat covered my
weak body. My mouth was dry and my stomach felt hollow—not just from
the lack of food, but from the fact that the one thing that kept me alive was
no longer a part of me.
“Please… I won’t tell anyone…” I sobbed into my hands. Together,
they scoffed at me and left the room. Falling over on my side, I screamed as
loud as I could until my voice went hoarse and the strength dissolved from
my entire body. My eyes caught a small bear that she must have dropped on
the way inside. Lifting it, I hugged it tightly as my cries grew heavier.
“I’m so sorry I’m too weak, my butterfly.” I cradled the small plush in
my arms and hummed through the viscous sobs.
The door creaked again, and I pushed myself off the floor as a flicker of
hopefulness replaced the panic that was tightening around my chest.
Through bleary eyes, I slowly looked from the black heels, up the thin,
pale legs.
When she looked at me, her forehead crinkled, almost as if she were
concerned for me. My heart constricted as my elbows wobbled, and I
offered a small smile. How pathetic, but I’d have done anything and
everything if it meant they’d give me my daughter back.
With one swift motion, she threw something at me, and I quickly
ducked from the shocking motion. Peering out from over my arms, I began
to whimper.
“Do us a favor and kill yourself so we don’t have to deal with it.” She
clicked her tongue and spun on her designer heels. Each step echoing on the
wooden floors stabbed deeper into every ounce of faith I had clung to.
Faith is such an ironic entity. I grew up in a home where my mother
prayed every single night before our meal. A home where, in times of
adversity, she clutched her hands together and talked to an invisible higher
power in hopes she’d be magically provided clarity.
Every single day and night, I plastered my palms together and prayed in
this place I’ve been for the past two hundred and twelve days.
I prayed in hell.
Oh, the bitter irony. I prayed endlessly, even though I had already met
the devil.
Crawling over to the object she had thrown my way, I let out a defeated
cry.
The thin razor blade was a gift, really. Perhaps it was my way of leaving
hell.
The only problem was, I didn’t want to leave now that my angel was
scorching with me.
 4

J erking my eyes open, dread engrossed me as I looked around like a

wild, insignificant animal in a darkened jungle.
That was how I felt most of my life since meeting the man who
wrecked me. I felt as if I constantly had to be on guard. I had to protect
myself incessantly from the predators who lurked in every corner of our
world. Because I didn’t watch when the shadows grew closer and larger,
and I fell into his trap. Engrossed by his charm, his effect he had on me, his
ability to feign an emotional connection when really, he only saw me for the
physical release he craved. I allowed myself to be trapped in his claws and
gutted.
He came into my life like a storm, completely unpredictable; and just
the way lightning proceeds thunder, I didn’t even have a moment to shield
myself from the destruction that followed.
“Get up, Navy,” I whispered, reminding myself I had to live in the
present. Even though it’s a ridiculous notion, considering our past is the one
aspect that controls the narrative in our present and even future. Our past
shapes us, alters us, wraps us in its wrath and spits us out to figure out how
we should be… who we should be.
Rolling onto my stomach in the darkness, I tap the ground around me. I
prayed I wouldn’t feel the rigid grooves in the uneven wood.
A sigh of relief escaped my lungs. Shaking my head, I grabbed the red
towel from underneath the sink and swiped up all the blood that had seeped
out of my flesh, then lifted the emptied wine bottle.
What time is it?
 Groaning, I gripped the edge of the smooth bathroom counter. My knees
popped as I stood, and a glisten of moonlight shone through the opened
window. Turning toward the mirror, I studied the outline of my body, with
nothing more than the whites of my eyes showing and my thick black hair
straggling around my face.
It was my favorite way to look at myself. I was flawless in this moment.
My body wasn’t visibly carrying my trauma in the darkness. I could be
whoever I wanted to be. I could be beautiful. I could be worthy. I could be
just like her.
I could be a better her.
Natalie Sterling didn’t deserve Decker. She didn’t deserve his love, his
kindness, his body, or his heart.
And most of all, she didn’t deserve Ariana.
She never deserved her.
My head felt full and hazy from the wine. I knew I needed to stop
drinking as much as I did, but it had become my vice that allowed me to
sleep without nightmares. It was a way for me to relax and not obsess and
plot. Sliding on an oversized T-shirt, my stomach rumbled and twisted with
the lack of food and overconsumption of wine.
Gliding my feet against the smooth tile that I replaced the wood floors
with, I made my way into the kitchen. Reaching for a bottle of water, I
twisted the top off and began to drink while carefully examining the limited
options in my fridge.
“Fuck it.” I slid my phone on and quickly placed an order for
McDonald’s French fries and a large diet Coke with ice.
The two things a nice man had purchased for me the night I had
stumbled out of the hospital with nothing to my name except for a plastic
bag with the small bear and tube of red lipstick the friendly nurse had
handed to me as I admired her wearing it day after day.
She said, “You can be in the trenches of life, but if you swipe on a good
shade of lipstick, it melts the pain away slightly.” She laughed as I cracked
a small smile.
Handing me the small tube, she nodded as I glided the stunning deep
red across my lips. Leaning in, she showed me my reflection and tucked the
stray strand of hair behind my ear. “See, you’re a changed woman. You can
be anyone you want to be.” She eyed me carefully, as if she knew I didn’t
necessarily want to be a new woman.
 I had to be.

F ORTY - FIVE MINUTES LATER , the doorbell chimed, and I ducked down from
the couch. I didn’t want to interact with the food delivery person, so like
any mature adult, I hid until I heard the screeching of their tires against my
gravel driveway grow distant.
Grabbing the crinkled, grease-stained brown bag and diet Coke, I
kicked the door shut and the automatic lock sounded. Taking a generous
slurp of the perfectly fizzy soda, I exhaled and sunk into the smooth, deep
blue couch. Ripping the bag open and grabbing a French fry—limp from
the long drive and steam combined—I shoved it into my mouth. “Mmm…”
I let out a satisfied moan and propped my feet up on the marble coffee table
as I cracked my neck from side to side.
“It’s time to check in on you, Governor Winston.” I wiped my fingertips
along the hem of my shirt before flipping my laptop open, instantly having
a perfect view of each and every room in the lavish home of the man who
altered every ounce of my life.
A lump in my throat formed as I watched him lie comfortably in his
bed, next to his wife of twenty-plus years. Popping another cold French fry
into my mouth, I scanned each room—minus his children’s, which I had
blacked out from my feed. They didn’t deserve to have their privacy
infringed upon; they didn’t ask for a monster to be their father. Part of me
pitied his oblivious wife, especially since I watched her for hours on end.
She wasn’t necessarily beautiful, but she fit the role of a political figure’s
wife perfectly. She always kept her sandy-colored hair in a neat bun, pearls
in her ears and around her neck, and wore simple sheath dresses. Unlike
Natalie Sterling, her face was clear. Natalie’s face had a splatter of freckles
that she caked layers of expensive makeup over to conceal.
Both women exuded wealth and the idea of perfection, yet as an
outsider having full access to their lives, I knew better.
They were the most imperfect humans with the most dysfunctional
lives, and I sat here every night, hours on end, plotting and planning to
make sure every single one of them burned into the ground.
After all, that’s what they did to me. Except, unlike them, I rose from
the ashes like a phoenix and had no plan of doing anything beyond soaring
above the fire I set in each of their lives.
 5

M y heels clicked as I walked into Dr. Decker Sterling’s office. He was

already seated and quickly stood when I turned in. Brushing his tie
down, his stunning eyes met mine and a kind smile grew across his
perfect face.
His facial hair had grown in slightly more, and his hair was neatly
brushed. Instead of the sexy gray suit he wore last time, today, he had a
black fitted suit on.
I could feel my cheeks flush and was thankful the melanin in my skin
didn’t allow the tint to show my emotions.
“Navy, it’s wonderful to see you.” His voice was steady and smooth,
with no changes in tone to show any form of a true reaction. I suppose
that’s a quality one must have as a psychiatrist.
“It’s good to see you too, Dr. Sterling.” My tone was hushed as I felt
flustered by being in this close of proximity to a man I had every intention
of pursuing and crafting a life with. The scent of his aftershave floated
between us as I placed my purse on the empty chair next to me.
I couldn’t help but wonder how many of his patients actually came in
with another person. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like to have
another person care enough to come with you.
Brushing my skirt out, I took my time before making eye contact with
Decker.
He was looking straight at me with intent, and the way his lip ticked
upward ever so slightly as he studied my face, while letting his eyes do a
quick sweep of my entire body, made me realize how easy this would be.
 Women are emotionally fueled, and men are physically charged. No
matter what people say, it’s truly embedded in our biology. Women desire
words, and men… well, men crave touch. They are visual creatures who, if
tempted at just the right moment, will shatter the same way the petals of a
dandelion float away with a simple blow. Ultimately, men have two heads
and they often think with just one.
“How has your week been, Miss Mian?” he asked and slumped slightly
in his oversized chair.
I had never felt this nervous around any man, except for when there was
an insinuation of sleeping together—which I usually have no issue with, as
long as it was completely dark and they kept their hands on my breasts and
nowhere else.
Perhaps it was because Dr. Decker Sterling was unlike any man I had
met before. His physical attraction was intense, but I felt that his inner
qualities must also match with the simple way his body moved. He had to
be easily fourteen or so years older than me, and most of all, he was raising
her. He was the man she went to when her heart was broken, or when she
was elated. He was her protector—something she needed more than ever,
considering the woman in her life was a monster.
“Miss Mian?” Dr. Sterling cleared his throat and offered a tight smile
with a slight perk of his eyebrow.
Blinking rapidly, I clasped my hands together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep
too well last night.” I quickly tucked my hair behind my ear anxiously.
“Would you say you struggle with sleep often?” Dr. Sterling asked as he
typed something on his computer. The hurried typing always triggered
anxiety inside me. Click, click…
I began rubbing my temples, and he immediately stopped. Taking a
deep breath in before slowly releasing it, I looked back at him.
“I don’t remember a time in my life that I slept soundly. I fear sleep
because it’s the most out of control I feel.”
Decker tilted his face slightly and nodded. “Is there a reason you fear
the loss of control when you’re asleep? Is someone you live with perhaps
impacting that?” He glanced down at my left hand, where a thin tan line
was fading but could easily be seen against my brown skin.
“No, I live alone. My husband recently passed.” I tried to add a hint of
remorse and sadness to each word, even though I felt neither.
 “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Mian.” He straightened his spine and
hovered his fingers over the keyboard, but stopped as I squinted.
Quickly retreating, he perched his elbows on the armrests. “Have you
ever taken any medication to help you sleep? Or tried to implement some
sleep hygiene techniques?”
“I’ve done it all, minus the medication. I’ve cut out screentime, drank
every herbal tea there is, added white noise,” I listed off the random
strategies I once saw in a magazine article. It was completely natural for me
to lie. At times, I thought it was because of my situation in the attic. Maybe
I lied with ease because it was a protective mechanism I had crafted in
order to survive.
While in the dusty, dark attic all those years ago, it was the lies I told
myself that kept me alive.
And her, too.
But that wasn’t true. I always had to weave lies into a beautiful web that
would keep me safe. My father was an abusive man; violent and degrading
to my mother and me, which, in return, led me right into the unsafe web of
a predator like Governor Winston. It’s quite true, the concept of ‘daddy
issues,’ and how those of us who have them don’t realize the disastrous
impact it has on our lives. Our fathers are the first male figures who set the
standards for what we will place our expectations and bar at for any man
who just as much looks our way.
As a young child, I’d cower under my blankets as my father thrashed
my mother around the small home. I’d whisper lies to myself; I’d tell
myself my dad was a remarkable man, that my mother was courageous, and
that we had it all. Then I’d drift off into a deep slumber with a smile painted
across my face.
I’d always get into trouble for lying at school. My mother used to tell
me that she was fearful of my fixation with lying. She was concerned how,
even as a child, I would tell them with such zest and confidence.
She would say, “White lies can be harmless, but navy lies are
dangerous.” That’s what she’d call it when I’d lie.
Navy lies.
Sometimes I’d lie just to lie. Sometimes I’d be telling the truth, but
fabricated it just to garner the attention of those around me.
I didn’t necessarily enjoy lying, but I also didn’t enjoy my truth.
 “Sleep hygiene is usually my preference, but if that’s not effective, I’d
say we could start looking into an anxiety medication to take the edge off
your fear of losing control. Even then, we’ll really need to dive deeper and
work through the culprit of that as well. And I’d want you to keep up with
your sleep hygiene,” Dr. Sterling said without hesitation. I didn’t hear a
word he said before. As usual, I was lost in my own thoughts.
Reaching for the glass of water in front of me, I squeezed my chest
together. The cream dress fit the curves of my body perfectly and the slight
dip in the front showed just enough cleavage to draw his eyes down.
Taking a sip, I stared at the clear glass that now had an imprint of my
bright red lipstick. Placing it down, I looked at Dr. Sterling carefully. “I
think that sounds like the perfect plan.” I smiled at him and released a long
sigh—one feigned with hope and defeat, designed to tug at his already
softened heartstrings.
“What do you feel is causing your issues with sleep and this fear of
losing control, Mrs. Mian?” His demeanor grew more professional. I didn’t
like the way he was speaking to me; I liked when his tone was softer.
“I’m not a missus anymore. I’d prefer if you’d call me Navy.” I tapped
my long acrylic nails nervously.
“I’m sorry, I…” Dr. Sterling began, but I quickly cut off his apology.
“My father was abusive. He worked long hours and would come home
every night around ten p.m. I’d be long asleep, but then I’d hear pots and
pans clashing, beer cans crushing, glasses shattering, and my mom’s
helpless, muffled screams. I could tell she really tried to quiet her sobs and
fear so I wouldn’t hear them, but our home was tiny. Eventually, their
fighting became the comforting way I fell asleep. It began to soothe me. I
suppose when I lost that, I lost a part of my routine. My very own white
noise.” Tears began to build as I stared at a tiny scuff on my heel.
“Oh, Navy…I’m so sorry to hear that. We can’t always control what is
happening to us, so I’d like you to challenge yourself to control the way you
respond to what’s happening. In your case how you now respond to what
has already happened to you.” The way he said my name at that moment
wasn’t the way a doctor spoke to a patient. It was the way a man spoke to a
woman he wanted to wrap his arms around and protect with everything
inside him.
I had to suppress the smile on my face. Mrs. Navy Sterling had such a
lovely ring to it.
 6

M y appointment with Decker ran into his lunch hour, though he didn’t
seem to mind. We spoke about my father, and while I never
intended to actually utilize these appointments for healing, he had a
way of sorting through certain emotions that I had locked up. Emotional
damage that had already been burned into my flesh long before the physical
one’s ever did.
As much as what I told him about my father was true, it wasn’t the full
story. I didn’t tell him how my dad would come into my room at night when
I would pretend to be asleep and hold a gun to my temple. He’d reek of
cheap beer, even cheaper liquor, and cigarette smoke, laughing in a sinister
way before spinning the barrel and then…
Click, click…
I remember holding my breath, assuming it was my last and jerking my
shoulders back as soon as the sound echoed. Some dads played board
games with their children, my dad played Russian roulette with me.
But then, I eventually did heal.
I moved out when I was seventeen after my mother signed the forms so
I could be emancipated. I got a job as a campaign assistant for the
prestigious Winston family, thinking it’d look amazing on my college
resume one day. I had always dreamt of becoming an attorney. I dreamed of
helping battered women, taking pro-bono cases and making sure those
without power and money could still have access to proper legal assistance.
Mark Winston was running for state governor at the time. His father,
Robert Winston, was already the Chief Justice of the United States. The
Winston family was the family who graced the covers of magazines, all four
of them. Robert, Laura, Mark, and Natalie Winston were the epitome of the
perfect family. Eventually, Mark Winston married a woman he was
probably not attracted to whatsoever, but she fit the ‘all-American’ fashion
statement that the Winston family was intent to keep up with.
Natalie married Decker Sterling after meeting him in college and
capturing his heart with her quick wit and ability to manipulate him into
believing she was a simple woman with every intent on being the perfect
wife and mother.
It’s incredible how, as human beings, we can be anyone we want to be.
We can pretend to be someone that is the complete opposite of who we
really are. I suppose it’s because, as humans, we are all liars. We are all
fabricators who secretly enjoy telling lies to make ourselves feel better or
perhaps even worse about the actuality.
The trick in telling the perfect lie is believing it yourself. You must
become the lie, absorb it, consume it. You must relish in it, and most of all,
you must forget your truth.
Did Decker know the woman behind the fabric of deplorable lies? Did
he understand the circumstances his entire life and family were built on?
Was he a puppet in a show his wife had crafted and directed, or was he
tugging the strings equally?
No, this marvelous man would never ever be a part of something so
sinister, so painful, so…
My phone shook against the smooth counter, causing me to blink and
swallow. Simple human reflexes I often would forget to do and simply
freeze in the frame of stillness.
It’s a natural response to what happens when you’re locked like a caged
animal for seven months, living in a fear far more enormous than anything
in the world.
I would be terrified to blink in case they came in and I didn’t see them
in the darkness. I would be terrified to swallow the little saliva pooling in
my mouth, concerned that may be the only drop of fluid I may have for the
rest of the day. Not only for myself, but for her, too.
I always knew she was a girl. Always. The way she’d gently kick and
patter inside of me. The way I felt a blanket of peace whenever I spoke to
her. I knew she was my little girl. But I also knew she’d never know I was
hers.
 “Hello?” I answered the call flatly.
“He’s going to be alone in four weeks during his last campaign tour in
Raleigh, North Carolina. I’m sending you the details.”
Four weeks. Twenty-eight days. After fourteen years of waiting,
rebuilding, pining, and aching, it was finally time for the first part of my
redemption plan.
It’s remarkable how life often feels like a novel. The beginning, the
middle, the climax, and then… the end. But ultimately, unlike most novels,
real life doesn’t give us an ending with a perfectly tied bow. Real life
doesn’t give us the inside character development or narration that would
help connect together the bits and pieces.
“Four weeks.” It’s all I say before I hang up the phone. Only one person
calls me; only one person knows what fuels the inner fire that surges
throughout my body.
Dr. Sterling had mentioned his family was going to a party this evening.
Well, he didn’t tell me, but his loud-mouth secretary was gossiping about it
on the phone as I walked out. I decided it was the perfect opportunity for
me to go into my future home and scope things out. The sun was already
setting, and I quickly changed my clothes. Sliding on an all-black fitted
outfit, I tied my thick hair into a neat ponytail before sliding a hat on. I was
fortunate to have natural beauty, considering I didn’t take the best care of
myself. I was also fortunate to know how to apply makeup to perfection.
Makeup was a lie, too. Altering who we are to make ourselves the version
we wish we could be. Tilting my head to the side, I puckered my lips and
painted my signature red neatly over them.
Smacking them together, I smiled. I needed to remember to take some
notes about the interior. I knew I’d want to redecorate a bit, especially since
Natalie and I were nothing alike. I had class, I had a vision; she was simply
trash born into the right family, but chose to mess with the wrong girl.
Wiggling my shoulders, I grabbed my phone and called a car. I wasn’t a
fool. It’s quite simple to follow someone, to watch them, to know them…
all without them seeing you or knowing you even existed.
Thirty minutes later, I slid my thick black leather gloves on and kept my
head down as the driver picked me up from a small coffee shop that was a
mile away from my home. I couldn’t risk him knowing my address.
Pulling a few homes away from the Sterling house, he nodded and
asked, “Are you visiting a friend, ma’am?”
 With a small grin on my face, I shook my head. “No, I’m home. Finally,
home.” Pushing the door open, I waited until the driver left and looked
around. No one was outside, which was a shame. I remember growing up
with children spiriting outside, full of energy and laughter, parents sitting
together making small-talk, and dogs barking. Now, everyone was
consumed by their screens and the ever-present technology. But it also was
a blessing to me. If it weren’t for technology, then I wouldn’t have been
able to know every little detail of every single person who abetted in
hurting me, breaking me.
You see, I didn’t always want to be consumed by revenge. I really
didn’t. Once I escaped, I wanted to forget everything about the Winston
family. But then, one day, I got a cell phone. I got on social media and I saw
them. I saw each of them. The small, square boxes of brightly colored,
edited images full of happiness. So, I made my own page using a fake name
and setting it to private. I began taking photos of myself.
A month later, I looked at my screen and it made me depressed. I went
to Natalie Sterling’s page and saw her smiling and full of life.
She was full of my life.
Then I realized if I only had one chance at this life, then I’d live it. I’d
take back what was mine. And that meant taking her daughter and her
husband and making them mine.
Because, truly, they were mine.
 7

T he night sky was starless, and a copious cloud shielded the crescent-
shaped moon that was desperately trying to shine.
I sucked in a breath of air tinged with the scent of fresh pollen that
lingered in the abundant greenery which provided the most scenic
background in the cookie-cutter homes that lined Wimberly Lane.
Picking up my pace, I tugged the small key from my pocket and headed
to the cream-colored side door. Every single light was off, and I knew they
didn’t have a security system. I knew it because they couldn’t afford to have
one. Not financially, but because they didn’t need to worry about anyone on
the outside—they had too many secrets to conceal. They couldn’t have
footage of who was entering and what was leaving their home. I knew. I
always knew that.
The doorknob clicked, and I turned the brass with my gloved hand. As
soon as I entered the five-bedroom home, the sickening scent of an essential
oil blend slapped my face.
Scrunching my nose, I looked around the well-kept home. The shadows
of furniture and a piano in the corner all looked like it came from a
magazine.
I had never been inside their home, but I had dreamt of this moment. Of
course, I had wished the first time was far more romantic; perhaps with
Decker lifting me into his arms and carrying me over the threshold. But that
day would come soon enough.
Gliding my fingers across the mantle, I looked up at the oversized
family portrait of Decker, Natalie, and Ariana. My blood curdled as I
studied the way Natalie’s arm snaked around Ariana’s back. I grabbed the
small switch blade from my pocket and climbed onto the small brick ledge.
Standing on my tiptoes and clutching the handle as tightly as I could, I
slashed Natalie’s face.
Good practice, I thought to myself with a light chuckle.
Stepping off the ledge, I turned and studied the living area. It was
colorless, just like their lives—grays, creams, and a few touches of beige.
As I made my way toward the stairs, I froze at the end table. My heart
pounded against my chest as it tightened and my breathing grew shallow.
Lifting the small gold frame, I gasped.
It was an image of Natalie pregnant. Decker was cradling her
burgeoning belly, smiling down at the bump proudly.
Shaking my head slowly, I could hear the beat of my heart.
There was no way.
She didn’t carry this child. No… she did not. Shutting my eyes, my
head felt fuzzy. It felt as if the floor beneath my feet was shaking, and my
world was closing in on me.
“Navy is alive. Navy is real,” I chanted in a hushed whisper. Placing the
frame down, I refused to open my eyes and look at it. Turning my head, I
quickly walked to the oak staircase. Gripping the railing, my throat felt dry,
but I was scared to swallow the small amount of saliva in my mouth to help
alleviate it.
“Navy is real. Navy has water,” I murmured before swallowing and
walking up each step. I hated how heavy my head felt, how weak my body
felt. What was that image? Natalie was pregnant? With what child? Nothing
was making sense.
The squeaking rubber from my shoe soles stuck to each step, triggering
something inside me.
I hate wood flooring.
Pushing the racing thoughts from my mind, I climbed quickly and
hummed to tune out the sound.
“Thank you… fucking carpet.” I sighed as my shoes dragged against the
plush carpet upstairs. Each door was slightly opened, and I passed rows and
rows of family photos. Pausing in front of one that only had Decker and
Ariana, my heart felt like it could burst.
They really did look like father and daughter in some ways, though she
had my hair. But I suppose their smiles could match.
 Kissing my fingers, I planted them against their smiling faces. “I love
you both to the moon and back…” I exhaled and walked toward the last
door at the end of the hallway—Decker and Natalie’s bedroom.
Standing in front of the enormous king-sized bed, I leaned and lifted the
silk robe that was neatly draped at the foot of the bed. I wondered how
many times Natalie wrapped her body in it after Decker’s fingers, mouth,
and body collided with hers.
Slanting my eyes, I pinched my lips and tugged open a dresser drawer.
“Bitch,” I whispered, noting the drawer was neatly lined with stunning
lingerie. Shimmying out of my leggings and tank top, I left my gloves on
when I grabbed a cobalt-blue negligée.
Sliding into it, I stepped over my clothes that were piled onto the rug
and went to the floor-length mirror cornered in the bedroom.
Tears instantly stung my eyes. Each scar, each mark, was on full
display. If this was what Decker liked, if this was what aroused him… then
how would I be what he needed?
Hot tears dripped from my eyes as I walked to the small desk and
picked up a straggling pen that sat on top of a notepad.
Angrily ripping the cap off, I dug the tip into my flesh by my belly
button. “Ugly. He won’t love you,” I whispered as I traced each word into
the grooves of my skin and tears blurred my eyes.
“Stop it, Navy. Stop it right now. He will love you. He has to love you.
You gave him his daughter.” I nodded and placed the pen back. Sniffling, I
turned back toward the bed and crawled in on the side I knew had to be
Decker’s based on some of his items on the nightstand. Clutching the pillow
against my face, I kissed it.
“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” Wrapping the blanket around my mostly
naked body, I smiled at the thought of his body pressed against mine and
him inside of me. Letting my finger drop down between my legs, I closed
my eyes and pictured him. The way his dark hair splayed across his
forehead, the way his lips curled upward when he saw me, the way his
hands laced together.
“Ah,” I whimpered as my back arched and a rush came over me.
“Decker…” My muscles clenched and I felt him; I felt him so much that it
didn’t take long for me to be overcome by an intense release.
Shuddering, my knees slapped together as I slowly opened my eyes.
Tonight, he’d come home and peel his clothes off. He’d lay down in the
same spot my body did. The spot my body had warmed for him.
A flash of light splattered across the window and the sound of tires
screeching across pavement caused me to jolt upright.
I hadn’t been here long. I thought they were to be out for hours. Had
something happened to Ariana? Was she not feeling well? What about
Decker?
My body shook with worry and fear as I scrambled off the bed. I had to
go. I couldn’t stay here. No, they couldn’t see me this way. I immediately
tugged the lingerie off and grabbed my clothing. Dressing myself quickly, I
began walking out the door, but froze.
“Mom! I told you, I hate Uncle Mark. He’s a fucking pervert.” Ariana’s
voice chimed through the house before additional footsteps followed and
the door slammed shut.
“Ariana, mind your language, young lady!” a sharp voice warned.
Thudding grew closer as I assumed Ariana was storming up the stairs.
Slapping my hand over my mouth, I stumbled backward and eyed the room.
Walking toward the oversized window, I peeled the curtains back and grew
even more wary.
There was just a small strip of roofing and nothing I could possibly
climb down. A cold sweat broke across my body as panic began to build
inside me.
“Navy, you’re a stupid, stupid woman.” I shook my head as I heard
creaking outside the door. I couldn’t hide in their closet and I couldn’t hide
in their bathroom, knowing they’d use both before bed.
Glancing at the bed, I looked at the gap underneath. Sliding onto all
fours, I crawled over and gripped the wood frame, pulling myself below.
The blush pink chaise in front of the bed would cover me enough.
At least, I hoped so.
 8

I used to think I was hiding from the world because I wondered if I was
even someone worth looking for.
It’s actually quite disheartening to think about. The first time I
disappeared, and not by choice, my mother looked for me. She really did.
But just like death, there’s an initial shock and eventually, everyone moves
on. Everyone pushes forward, and you’re just the dust that settles in the
aftermath of a long-lost memory.
Maybe I never reappeared; maybe I stayed hidden away. I was a
shadow, an echo, a mere afterthought.
And now, here I was, laying underneath my psychiatrist and his wife’s
bed. They didn’t speak much, just a few mumbles and sighs here and there
as they scurried around the room, preparing for a blissful night of sleep, not
knowing that right below them laid a woman who had nothing else
sprinting through her mind except annihilation.
Of their perfect lives.
As humans, we get into this routine, this schedule. It’s all to comfort us,
really. To keep us running around like a hamster on a wheel. Predictable.
Foreseeable.
My lips curled as Decker climbed into his side of the bed, and I knew he
was lying where my body had been just a few moments before. Slowly
lifting my hand, I brushed the wooden beams, knowing only a few layers of
foam separated our bodies.
The beat of my heart was elevated as temptation began to overtake
clarity. How easy would it be to just crawl out and climb into his arms? His
strong, toned arms that were meant to hold me.
How easy would it be to take the switchblade and slice the woman lying
next to him, just as easily as I did to her photograph? They must not have
realized the hint of destruction in the heat of a family argument. A small
laugh escaped my lips as I pictured Natalie’s face, pale with shock, as she
eyed the expensive portrait in the morning.
“Do you want to…” Her voice pulled me from my thoughts.
“I’m exhausted,” Decker replied instantly, with a hint of irritation
sprinkled in. He didn’t ever speak to me like that.
“It’s been three weeks.” Natalie pouted as the bed creaked and my chest
tightened, knowing she was shifting closer to him.
No means no, bitch. I lifted the thin knife from my pocket and slid it
open. Rolling toward the middle of the bed, I was thankful the whir of a
tower fan had muffled my movements.
“Decker… please. I need you. I need you to touch me,” Natalie whined.
As I lifted the knife toward the grooves of the mattress, I heard lips smack
together.
A knot twisted in my heart.
He was kissing her. He was giving her what she wanted. He was going
to sleep with her.
He was cheating on me...
With her.
An internal voice screamed in my head as everything closed in on me. I
couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was suffocating in a tiny space that was
covered in flames. I was back to being a prisoner, but truthfully, as of late
I’ve learned something.
Sometimes the worst place to be is in your own mind. I closed my eyes,
pressing my thumb into my palm—a trick my previous psychiatrist taught
me. He said when you do that, it reminds you to focus. To just breathe. To
center your attention on reality—even an ugly reality.
I don’t know how much time went by; fatigue was hovering over me as
each creak and moan slashed into every single wound on my body. I
repeatedly jammed my thumb into my hand, blowing out puffs of air until
the noises stopped and the only thing moving were the thoughts in my
mind.
When the stillness was kept with certainty, and a light snore sounded, I
knew I had to leave. I couldn’t be here. Gripping the plush carpet, I yanked
my body out from under the bed and remained flat. Rolling onto my
stomach in the pitch-black, I slithered out of their bedroom.
Thankfully, the door was left cracked from when Decker got up to get a
glass of water after he had to fuck the woman next to him—even though I
knew he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to touch that wretched witch.
Pushing up, I tiptoed down the hall and saw a small monogram on the
door on the opposite side of the hallway.
AVS.
What did the ‘V’ stand for? My body felt cold as I stared at the door. It
was the one thing that was keeping me away from the one person I thought
about every day, every minute, and every second of my life.
I closed my eyes and clutched the stair railing, thinking about her
beautiful voice. I wondered if she wore my hat. If she felt the intense
connection between our bodies that I did when she was right in front of me.
I forced myself to resist the urge to open the door, to convince her she
should leave with me and get away from the woman she called mom.
But then, what about how she spoke about her so-called uncle? What
did he do now?
Don’t worry, my butterfly … in four weeks, the trash will be taken out.
The world will be a better and safer place for you, and we will be one step
closer to being together again.
I made my way down the stairs, each step squeaking louder than the
previous. Once at the side door, I unlocked it, shutting it carefully behind
me.
The air was warm and muggy, with a light breeze rippling through. The
outlines of the dense trees decorated the street as I made my way down the
sidewalk. Each house had a perfectly tailored lawn, the large windows
darkened, and the individuals inside probably deep in their dreams.
My life had been a series of unfortunate events ever since I was born. I
was the stereotypical story of the broken girl with broken dreams. We lived
a life of poverty, and endless struggles. I thought about my parents and how
I wish they never had met one another. I wouldn’t have been born into this
life of pain. My mother could have had a better life without my father and
definitely without me. She was mostly wonderful. My father chose to make
sure we never had happiness. A lazy, abusive, and toxic man. When I was
forcefully taken and disappeared there wasn’t any noise surrounding it. It
didn’t matter.
 I was the girl who disappeared. The distraught teenager who must have
gotten mixed up with drugs or the wrong crowd.
Did they know that the beloved family of their town was behind it all?
Did they know what I was forced to do? Who I was forced to be?
Did they really even investigate Mark Winston and his family? Of
course not. I heard the detectives had swarmed the Winston family home—
the same home I was locked in the attic for months on end.
Of course, they didn’t. Who cared about a teenage girl who worked for
a well-loved governor and his political family?
They feigned concern, and the detectives believed every ounce of the
production. But they didn’t realize an innocent nineteen-year-old was two
floors up, fighting for her life.
Because no one was fighting for her.
 9
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

“M ark, please…” I sobbed into my palms as he sat on a black

leather chair in the corner of the cramped attic.
The chains around my wrist clanked against the twin
bedframe as I tried my best to sit up. Angling my body made my ribs hurt
even more.
“Mark, why are you doing this? Please, just let me go…” I whimpered
as the malodorous smell from the neglected attic felt overpowering.
There were lingering cardboard boxes, some plastic storage totes, an
oversized mirror with material draped over it, and a small window that had
been covered with an opaque felt-like fabric.
“Just look at me… please,” I begged. At nineteen, my voice was full of
false hope and eagerness.
They say youth is wasted on the young, and it’s true. When you’re
young, you’re impressionable, you’re foolish, and you think the actions you
take will have no consequences.
I didn’t think twice when the ever-so handsome governor flirted with
me during all those late nights as many of us hovered over phone lines and
social media pages to promote his campaign.
I didn’t think twice about the way he snaked his arm around my waist
over stacks of papers or the way he lied to me about his marriage.
He said they weren’t even living together, that they had been separated
for a long time and were simply putting on a façade for his campaign.
I didn’t think twice, but really, I didn’t even think once.
 If I had, my life wouldn’t be in shambles. I wouldn’t be in hiding, or
pretending to be a woman I never wanted to be.
“What?” he spewed as his fingers rapidly clicked against his laptop. The
repetitive sound of the keys made me even more anxious.
He didn’t stop typing; of course, he was working while I was chained to
a bed in the attic of his parents’ home.
“I won’t tell anyone. Please, just let me go, Mark.” I cleared my throat,
hoping the fear I felt couldn’t be heard in the shaking of my voice.
Click, click, click. His fingers moved faster over the keyboard. And
then, he slammed the laptop shut and lifted his eyes to mine.
“You’re lucky Natalie is so damn set on having this…” he started, but
then rolled his eyes and scanned the small space as if he’d never seen it
before.
“I’m not giving my baby away. You need to do the right thing. Please,
just let me go. What do you think is going to happen to your political career
and family when I leave here? When I tell the world how you stole my
child?” I whimpered but steadied my tone.
A wicked laugh left his pale pink lips as he stood and walked closer to
me. “Who said you’re leaving?” Shaking his head, he dropped his hand to
my exposed leg. My belly was still mostly flat—it looked slightly bloated—
and between the nausea and lack of proper nutrition, I didn’t look all that
different yet.
“How can you do this? This baby… this baby is…” My eyes burned as I
looked up at the man who was once someone I admired, adored, and
respected. A man I loved.
I eyed the worn silver band on his wedding finger. “Does your wife
even know?” I seethed through clenched teeth as nausea caused a metallic
taste to build in my mouth.
Mark traced his finger across my thigh, and even though I had no
emotion left for this man, my body betrayed me as chills chased after his
touch. Clenching my legs together, I slammed my eyes shut.
“Don’t touch me.” Anger replaced the fear I felt.
“Look at me,” he rasped, the way that always made everything in my
body melt together.
Placing his hand on my stomach, he added softly, “I never meant to hurt
you.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of those six words.
 Here I was, a nineteen-year-old with so much hope and ambition,
chained up like an abandoned dog. With the days that felt never-ending, I
often thought about the relationship that contributed to my demise. At first,
I lied to myself; I pretended that I wasn’t in love with Mark Winston, and
that I was merely infatuated by him.
Looking at him now, it was easy to understand. Tall, gorgeous, pale blue
eyes, dark hair, and powerful. He was the man you cleared the aisle for, and
the man people stood up for as soon as he entered a space.
He was the kind of man you listened to because you wanted to, not
because you had to. “This will all be over soon.” He gave the groove of my
stomach a quick pat before spinning on his heels and grabbing his laptop.
He was leaving me here, alone and in the dark. He was leaving me alone
with nothing beyond the haunting thoughts scrambling my mind. But then
just as he was leaving, he paused. For a brief moment, I thought he had
changed his mind. He was going to come save me.
Instead, he unzipped his jeans, smirked at me and pushed apart my legs.
My heart pounded rapidly against my chest as my breathing started to grow
shallow.
“No! Don’t!” I screamed as I wildly beat my chained wrists against the
frame.
“You’re so beautiful, Navy. And with you tied up like this…makes me
think of how you used to beg for me to tie your wrists with my silk ties.
Always such a needy slut, weren’t you?” He plunged inside of me as a
shriek left my lungs. My body was significantly more sensitive with
pregnancy hormones surging through it. He pounded his body into mine
over and over again as tears dribbled down my cheeks and I choked on my
sobs.
Moments later, he filled me with himself and released a sigh of
satisfaction. I kept my eyes closed as he moved off of me and I heard him
tug his zipper upwards. The hardest part of survival mode is having to lose
all self-respect. My stomach was in knots. His footsteps moved away and I
knew he was leaving. It could be days before someone else came in here.
“Don’t leave! Please! I’m hungry,” I cried out. Dropping my eyes to my
belly, a small tear rolled down my cheek.
He slammed the door behind him without a second thought.
“I’m so sorry, butterfly.”
 I prayed for sleep, because my dreams were the only place I could stay
safe.
Where she could stay safe.
 10

“C an you believe it? I would never have pegged Dr. Sterling as the
cheating type.” The young receptionist, who was blowing a
bubble with her bright pink gum, chattered away with her back
turned toward the front desk.
“Mm-hmm… apparently, his wife found a strand of black hair on his
pillow.” The bubble popped obnoxiously. “Girl, I’m tellin’ you, it’s always
the young, hot doctors cheating…”
My heart raced as she spoke. But then I heard another voice. One I was
familiar with; one that haunted the deepest depths of my nightmares.
“Get the fuck off the phone, Laykin! There’s a patient standing there.”
She waltzed in, and I quickly tugged the brim of my hat lower as my chest
heaved rapidly.
Did she see my face?
Natalie Winston Sterling. The one woman I hated more than anyone in
the universe was sharing the same air as me.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The receptionist in front of me cleared her throat
and quickly spit the wad of gum out.
“Hi there, name please?” She quickly altered her voice after placing her
phone on the desk.
“Navy Mian,” I whispered, keeping my head down, thankful for the
oversized hat that covered my face.
I glanced to the corner and saw Natalie storm out through the doors
behind the desk.
 “Ms. Mian, Dr. Sterling is slightly delayed, but if you want to go take a
seat in his office, he should be there soon.”
Nodding, I quickly clutched the handles of my purse and paced down
the hallway. Hearing her voice, seeing her this close to me when I was
completely unprepared, both terrified and enraged me. When I was under
their bed, it didn’t feel real. I didn’t see her. I only heard a somewhat
familiar voice.
Was I a fool for coming here? Was I a fool for thinking that by snaking
through Decker Sterling, I could inflict the most pain?
What if she saw me? What if she recognized me and told Decker?
But then again, Natalie couldn’t tell him how she knew me. She
couldn’t tell him that his entire existence was a life she and her family had
meticulously created and crafted by destroying another human.
I twisted the knob of the door and walked in. The familiar scent of
sandalwood and a hint of citrus provided a feeling of harmony inside me.
Glancing around the gorgeous office, I stared at the back of the second
frame that sat perched on his desk.
“Navy is strong,” I whispered to myself under my breath.
My nails were perfectly manicured and the click against the steel had
me second-guessing if I should look at the image.
Flipping it around, I sucked in air while my heart constricted.
“Butterfly…” I whimpered as my eyes instantly began to water. It was a
gorgeous image of Ariana in a pair of denim overalls, giggling. She had to
be around five in the picture and her shiny black hair was in neat curls.
Curls I never got to see or experience. Innocent giggles I never heard.
“That’s my daughter.” A voice behind me sliced through the intense
emotion that rocked through me. My mouth felt dry and suddenly, I was
nervous. Panic began peeking through me.
“Don’t swallow, you might not get water,” I murmured as flashbacks of
the intense dehydration plagued me.
My fingers shook against the metal frame. “She’s no longer that sweet
little girl,” he added before his footsteps grew closer to me. “She’s now an
incredible young woman.” The words that came out of Decker’s mouth had
every ounce of sadness flee from my body.
I swallowed the tiny pool of saliva in my mouth and lifted my gaze to
his.
 The beautiful blue in his eyes sparkled as the lines by them deepened
with his smile. “Water?” He nodded and handed me the glass.
Reaching out with my free hand, I took a long sip before setting the
glass on the small marble coaster in front of me.
I brushed my index finger across her face and looked at Dr. Sterling.
“She’s beautiful.” I smiled with a soft sigh. He opened his palm and I
tilted my head, lifting my hand up.
“I’ll put the photo back.” He smirked at me, causing my cheeks to flush
as I handed it over to him.
“Does she favor you or your wife?” I rubbed my lips together, spotting
the red stain left on the rim of the glass.
Decker paused and looked at the image of Ariana carefully, as if he
were thinking about the question for the first time.
“She has my black hair…” He brushed his jawline and planted the
frame on his desk. “I have blue eyes and so does her mother, so perhaps a
mix?” His eyes met mine, and I shook my head.
“Your eyes remind me of indigo blue… almost navy.” I pinched my lips
to the side as he smiled with amusement.
Clasping his hands together, he leaned in. “I really like you, Navy.” He
shook his pointer finger at me and sank back into his seat. “So, how have
you been sleeping?” Dr. Sterling quickly altered his tone and shifted his
back to sit straighter.
“Some nights are good and others are not. Sometimes I think my mind
doesn’t want to allow for sleep because it doesn’t want to witness the
nightmares.” I crossed my ankles and smoothed out my pale pink dress.
“Hmm… but nightmares are simply figments of our imaginations
coming to play in an altered state of our minds. So, even if you have a
nightmare, you just have to remember it’s all fiction.”
Letting out a small laugh, I pursed my lips. “You couldn’t be more
wrong, Dr. Sterling. Our nightmares are based on our reality. Our
nightmares are what our reality has forced us to bury away, only for them to
seep into depths that are far darker and more consuming. When we sleep,
we give up control, and when we give up control, that’s when our worst
fears come out to play. Our worst memories come out to steal any shred of
peace we may have internalized.”
Dr. Sterling slowly blinked a few times with his perfect pink lips parted
in what seemed to be both disbelief and fascination.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sous les
marronniers en fleurs
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Sous les marronniers en fleurs

Author: Henri Bachelin

Release date: October 8, 2023 [eBook #71831]

Language: French

Original publication: Paris: Société littéraire de France, 1920

Credits: Laurent Vogel (This book was produced from images made
available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUS LES

MARRONNIERS EN FLEURS ***
 COLLECTION “ESSAIS ET NOUVELLES”
1920

Henri Bachelin

SOUS LES
MARRONNIERS
EN FLEURS

PARIS
Société Littéraire de France, 10, rue de
l’Odéon
Tous droits réservés.
 I

Quand j’essaie de jeter un regard en arrière sur les premières

années de mon enfance, elles m’apparaissent comme un pays
merveilleux qu’en pleine nuit j’ai traversé, bien avant le lever du
soleil sur les champs et sur les maisons. De ci, de là, pourtant, un
souvenir brille comme la lanterne qu’un homme d’équipe balance sur
le quai. Partout ailleurs c’est l’ombre, c’est un brouillard que creuse
le vent de la mort sans réussir à le dissiper. Des vieux et des vieilles
dont j’avais peur quand je les rencontrais ont pris depuis longtemps
le chemin du cimetière, des hommes et des femmes aussi que j’ai
connus dans la force de l’âge, et encore des jeunes filles qui avaient
dix-huit ans lorsque j’en avais quatre et que je considérais comme
de grandes dames très importantes. Il me semble parfois que de loin
ils me fassent signe. Qu’attendent-ils de moi ? Que je leur crie de se
lever en les appelant par leurs noms ? Comment le pourrais-je, ne
les ayant jamais sus ? Ils sont pour moi des anonymes dont au
cimetière il ne reste même plus une pincée de cendre.
Jusqu’à ce que j’eusse l’âge de raison je fréquentai l’école
maternelle qu’on appelait la salle d’asile et que dirigeait sœur
Marthe. C’était à cent pas de notre maison, mais chaque fois que j’y
allais il me semblait partir pour un pays très éloigné. Quand il y avait
de la neige, mon père me portait sur ses épaules. Je longeais la
douzaine de sapins plantés au-dessous du petit arbre de la Liberté,
regardant avec crainte les trois ou quatre chemins qui
s’entrecroisaient dans ces parages ; si je ne suivais pas le bon, Dieu
sait où je finirais par m’égarer !
A sept ans on m’envoya à l’école des frères. Et ce fut à dater de
cette époque que ma mère commença à me reprocher de n’être pas
comme les autres.
Ils aimaient les jeux bruyants, saluaient jusqu’à terre les
messieurs et les dames qu’ils rencontraient, étaient obéissants au
point de prévenir les ordres et même les désirs de leurs mères.
Je préférais, le jeudi, m’acagnarder à lire. Je n’aimais pas à
courir dans les bois : des bêtes terribles y devaient habiter. Et je ne
pensais ni aux renards ni aux loups. Mais les grenouilles, les
crapauds, les lézards, les serpents, d’autres bêtes encore dont
jamais je ne saurais les noms, qui remuent dans les ténèbres, au
fond des eaux croupies, avec des yeux à fleur de tête, des membres
inachevés, et qui venaient me visiter dans mes cauchemars ! Tout au
plus allais-je jusqu’aux premiers arbres du bois de la cascade.
Quelques minutes j’écoutais l’eau tomber dans le ravin ; je regardais
s’étendre devant moi la vaste plaine qui me résumait le monde, et je
me hâtais de rentrer, apeuré de sentir la solitude me happer de
toutes ses tentacules.
J’avais contracté la manie de disséquer et mes sentiments et
ceux que je prêtais aux autres. Il m’en coûtait d’être poli avec les
gens que je croisais dans les rues ou trouvais à la maison, et
d’exécuter les ordres que me donnait ma mère. J’eus mon orgueil
d’enfant, qui me fit me croire pétri d’une autre pâte que ceux de mon
âge et même que ces vieilles filles dont les manières et les cancans
m’exaspéraient, que ces graves messieurs dont la suffisance me
paraissait ridicule.
Je devinais que si tout à coup j’étais redevenu pareil aux autres,
— il en était peut-être temps encore ? — c’eût été une trop grande
satisfaction pour ma mère : de ce revirement elle n’aurait pas
manqué de s’attribuer le mérite ; je ne l’aurais dû qu’à l’efficacité de
ses prières et de ses gifles. Et je m’obstinais. Plus j’allais et moins je
ressemblais aux autres dont rien, jusqu’à l’âge de sept ans, ne
m’avait distingué, et moins je ressemblais à celui que j’aurais pu
être. Je me déformais à plaisir et pour ma joie personnelle, une joie
plus âpre encore que la saveur de ces grains de raisins que je
dérobais à notre treille dès les premiers jours de juillet. J’étudiais
mon rôle jusqu’au jour, qui ne tarda guère, où je fus, non plus
l’acteur, mais le héros de ma propre vie.
Quelquefois, les jeudis d’hiver, quand je me tenais derrière notre
porte, un livre à la main et le nez contre la vitre pour profiter d’un
reste de lumière, j’apercevais un enfant de mon âge qui rasait le mur
des promenades et regardait du côté de notre maison. Il avait une
grosse tête aux yeux étonnés, aux oreilles écartées. Il marchait en
battant le briquet, et balançait ses mains comme des choses molles.
Je me retirais vite. Sans savoir pourquoi, j’avais aussi peur de lui
que d’une bête des bois.
Un jour qu’il rôdait selon son habitude, ma mère à qui je refusais
d’obéir s’écria, en me le désignant du doigt :
— Tiens ! veux-tu que je te dise ? Tu n’es qu’un original. Tu es
encore pire que lui, car au moins il « écoute » sa mère, lui !
Je ne protestai point, blessé dans mon amour-propre : je n’étais
donc pas seul à n’être pas comme les autres ? A huit ans à peine
commençais-je à prendre contact avec ma petite ville. Certes, j’allais
maintenant un peu plus loin que la salle d’asile, mais les quartiers
voisins du nôtre m’en paraissaient effroyablement distants, et je
n’osais point traverser la grand’rue. A l’école des frères j’étais
encore parmi les petits, et me tenais à l’écart des grands. A plus
forte raison ignorais-je les élèves de l’école communale.
En même temps que le nom de mon rival je finis par apprendre
qu’il fréquentait cette école et que ses camarades l’y avaient
surnommé Berlâne. Je m’applaudis de ce que l’on ne m’eût pas
donné d’aussi ridicule sobriquet.
 II

Le lundi matin en arrivant à l’école, il fut étonné que l’on y récitât

la prière. Quelques-uns d’entre nous étaient agenouillés pour de bon
sur les bancs qui font corps avec les tables, mais le bois rude, bien
que poli et luisant, leur meurtrissant les os, ils ne cessaient pas de
remuer. D’autres, ceux du fond surtout, n’étaient agenouillés qu’à
demi. Deux grands en blouse, qu’il trouva très crânes, n’hésitaient
pas à se tenir debout, la jambe gauche à peine repliée sur le banc.
N’ayant pas encore de place il resta près de la porte.
Comme nous nous retournions pour le voir, il jugea bon de
regarder les cartes et le plafond pour nous bien prouver que la
religion ne l’intéressait pas : venant de l’école communale d’où l’on
avait retiré tous les crucifix, il savait à quoi s’en tenir. Son père, que
tout le monde considérait comme un libre-penseur, étant mort, sa
mère n’avait rien eu de plus pressé que de l’enlever à l’instituteur
pour le confier aux frères.
Il laissait là-bas des habitudes, un ou deux camarades. Peut-être
pensait-il y laisser aussi son sobriquet.
Dès que la prière fut terminée il entendit chuchoter :
— Berlâne… C’est Berlâne…
L’école des frères et celle de l’instituteur avaient beau être
situées à une certaine distance l’une de l’autre : le jeudi, les gamins
de la ville se réunissaient pour jouer ; chaque matin et chaque soir
ceux des villages venaient et s’en retournaient ensemble, sans
distinction d’opinions religieuses. On n’ignorait pas dans l’une ce qui
se passait dans l’autre.
« Si c’est pour que l’on m’embête ici comme là-bas, pensa-t-il,
maman aurait mieux fait de me laisser où j’étais. »
— Dumas, lui dit le frère, mettez-vous là, en attendant.
Il lui désignait la dernière table.
A la récréation de dix heures nous n’eûmes pas plus tôt rompu
les rangs que quelqu’un cria :
— Berlâne ! Berlâne !
Nous fîmes cercle autour de lui. Je l’examinais avec curiosité.
Pour la première fois nous nous trouvions en face l’un de l’autre.
Tout de même, pensai-je, j’ai l’air moins bête que lui. Bien qu’il
tremblât, il essaya de nous intimider. Nos regards se croisèrent. Il
n’eut plus l’air que d’un pauvre animal qui implore secours. Je
tressaillis et, le premier, me détournai. Mais ils étaient trop contre lui
seul : il dut baisser les yeux. Le frère arrivait, le pouce et l’index
plongés dans sa tabatière. Nous nous dispersâmes pour jouer.
Je venais de passer dans la première classe, celle des grands
qui, d’abord, aux récréations et à la sortie du soir, m’en avaient fait
voir de rudes. Mais il leur fallut bientôt me prendre en considération,
tant j’eus vite fait de les rattraper et même de les dépasser en leçons
et en devoirs. Je jouais comme eux et avec eux, tantôt contre mon
gré, tantôt m’oubliant jusqu’à y prendre goût.
Il fut facile de voir que Berlâne n’aimait pas prendre part à nos
amusements. Pourtant, aux récréations du matin et de l’après-midi, il
fallait bien que, comme nous, il sortît dans la cour. Mais il
commençait par aller aux cabinets, cédait son tour, puis cherchait
des yeux le groupe le plus pacifique. Jouer aux billes lui plaisait ; on
ne se bouscule pas, on ne crie pas. Bien qu’il ne gagnât pas
souvent, c’était toujours lui qui proposait une partie.
L’hiver, à cause du froid, il essaya de se terrer dans un coin du
hangar. Mais le frère le rejoignait en se frottant les mains :
 — Allons, allons, Dumas ! Vous avez l’air gelé ! Voyons, remuez-
vous ! Jouez avec vos camarades !
Ses camarades ! Dans la neige il enfonçait ses doigts gourds.
Sans force, au petit bonheur, il lançait ses boules mal pétries : à peu
de distance elles s’éparpillaient en poussière blanche. Les autres —
ses camarades, — serraient les leurs entre leurs genoux pour
qu’elles fussent plus dures, — moi je me contentais de faire
semblant, — et c’était lui qu’ils visaient en criant :
— Sur Berlâne ! Sur Berlâne !
Chaque fois qu’on l’appelait ainsi — et il n’y avait à ne le point
faire que le frère, qui lui donnait son vrai nom, et moi, qui ne lui
adressais point la parole, — il pâlissait comme s’il avait reçu au
cœur un coup de couteau. J’étais égoïstement heureux qu’il fût là.
Sans lui j’aurais pu, comme cela m’était arrivé quelques fois malgré
mes bonnes places, servir de cible. A la fin, le frère était obligé
d’intervenir. Pour lui, je voyais qu’à grand’peine il retenait ses
larmes. Il ne nous avait jamais fait de mal : pourquoi donc avions-
nous l’air de lui en vouloir ? Ah ! le pauvre risque-tout qui nous était
venu de l’école communale !
Il essayait surtout de se rapprocher de moi. Il devait aussi me
connaître de réputation, et sans doute ne s’expliquait-il point que je
ne lui eusse pas tout de suite tendu la main. Mais j’avais déjà bien
assez de moi-même et mettais tous mes soins à l’éviter, tant il me
semblait voir en lui mon double déformé et caricatural. Ma répulsion
instinctive de naguère s’était changée en curiosité inquiète. A la
dérobée, je l’observais continuellement. Sans en avoir l’air, j’étais au
courant de tout ce qu’il faisait. Le moindre indice me suffisait à
reconstituer ce que j’ignorais de sa vie. Nous étions semblables à
deux jumeaux qui dès la minute de leur naissance ont été séparés et
qu’un hasard rapproche plusieurs années après. Je le regrettais. Lui,
je devinais qu’il en était heureux. Je n’avais plus, pour me protéger,
le rempart des murs ni de la porte de notre maison. Dans la salle de
l’école nous étions à plusieurs tables de distance l’un de l’autre,
mais il m’arrivait, malgré que je prisse toutes mes précautions, de le
coudoyer dans la cour. Sa grosse tête aux yeux étonnés, j’aurais pu
la toucher. Il s’arrêtait, attendant que je lui parle : je me hâtais au
contraire de m’éloigner. Je n’aurais pas voulu le faire souffrir
directement à l’exemple des autres, et j’étais peut-être plus cruel
qu’eux.

Quand le printemps fut venu, il trouva la paix sous les

marronniers en fleurs. A mesure qu’il faisait plus chaud, notre besoin
de mouvement et de jeux parfois brutaux s’apaisait. Dans la
poussière nous nous asseyions le dos au mur. Lui, tout seul, faisait
des petits tas de sable et de belles fleurs rouges qui,
prématurément, à un souffle de brise, tombaient des branches.

Son écriture était anguleuse et nette. Ses livres, soigneusement

recouverts de ce papier glacé dans lequel on enveloppe les paquets
de biscuits, n’avaient pas une tache. Mais, quoiqu’il fût plein de
bonne volonté, il comprenait difficilement les données des
problèmes et n’avait pas beaucoup de mémoire. Même lorsqu’à
force de s’appliquer il avait fini par apprendre sa leçon, il ne pouvait
la réciter. Dès qu’il voyait arriver son tour il se mettait à trembler.
D’habitude, il bégayait un peu, mais alors son émotion était si forte
qu’il ne pouvait prononcer trois mots de suite.
Le frère disait à Mme Dumas :
— C’est sa timidité qui lui fait le plus de tort.
Il ne pouvait pourtant pas ajouter :
— Et surtout il n’est pas intelligent.
Mme Dumas se serait sans doute fâchée. Il faut connaître les
parents et ménager leur susceptibilité.
Il ne quitta point la dernière table. Tous les samedis, d’après les
notes de la semaine, nous changions de places, le premier occupant
le bout de la première table, près du bureau du frère. Les plus
dissipés, qui avaient les moins bonnes notes, étaient les plus
éloignés de toute surveillance. Quel supplice pour Berlâne d’être à
côté d’eux !

Le jour de la distribution des prix fut un beau Dimanche d’été

comme je n’en ai jamais vu que dans mon pays, un Dimanche qui
sentait la résine des sapins, le parfum des tilleuls, l’odeur forte des
marronniers : on aurait même dit qu’il sentait le soleil. Dans la cour
de l’école avait été dressée une estrade en planches recouvertes de
tapis apportés de l’église ; de l’église aussi on avait descendu des
chaises et des bancs aussitôt après la grand’messe ; des chaises,
c’était à qui en porterait le plus sur sa tête, accrochées les unes aux
autres par les pieds : les plus grands et les plus forts disparaissaient
presque sous l’enchevêtrement des sièges de paille et des
montants. Berlâne, qui n’était ni grand ni fort, voulut tout de même
en descendre quatre ; à mi-chemin il fut obligé de s’arrêter, tellement
il était las et en sueur.
C’était un beau Dimanche et un grand jour que nous attendions
tous depuis longtemps. Nous chantâmes des chœurs ; des discours
furent prononcés ; il y eut des récitations de monologues comiques,
et surtout la lecture du palmarès. Berlâne eut le prix de bonne
conduite et n’eut que celui-là. J’avais été appelé bien avant lui, et
j’avais regagné ma place, tremblant encore d’émotion pour être
monté sur l’estrade où recevoir ma couronne et mes livres ; mais
enfin, j’étais débarrassé, et je me réjouissais à l’idée de voir
comment lui se comporterait. Il se leva, s’imaginant lui aussi que
tous les regards étaient fixés sur lui. Comme l’assistance était
nombreuse ! Il y avait dans la cour certainement plus de la moitié de
la petite ville, et beaucoup de paysans étaient tout exprès venus de
leurs villages. Il trébucha en montant sur l’estrade, reçut sa
couronne et son livre, et, suivant la coutume, descendit pour aller se
faire couronner par sa mère. A ce moment, il devint écarlate de
honte, parce qu’il lui fallut traverser une partie de la cour pour
atteindre sa mère. Je la vis qui l’embrassait en s’essuyant les yeux.
Mais ce n’était sans doute que de joie qu’elle pleurait, parce qu’il
avait le prix de bonne conduite.
 III

Elle était propriétaire, dans la grand’rue, d’une boutique de

mercerie à devanture blanche. Elle y gagnait assez pour elle et pour
lui. Ils n’avaient ni l’un ni l’autre de grands besoins, et jamais il ne lui
demandait d’argent pour les fêtes ; le bruit, d’où qu’il vînt, la foule,
quelle qu’elle fût, l’effrayaient. Elle le trouvait plus docile que
beaucoup d’autres et disait :
— Moi, madame, je fais de lui tout ce que je veux. Je ne me
rappelle pas qu’il m’ait désobéi. Quand je lui dis : « Albert, va me
chercher deux sous de lait », s’il est en train de jouer devant la
maison ou dans la cour, il rentre tout de suite. Il prend la boîte. Il
part. C’est dommage qu’il soit si timide. Le cher frère me le disait
encore l’autre jour en propres termes. Mais il faut espérer qu’il
changera.
Il allait souvent chez les Chovin dont la boutique n’était séparée
de la mercerie que par la largeur de la grand’rue. Derrière les vitres
de la devanture, des sabots de toutes dimensions étaient accrochés
par le talon à des fils de fer tendus. L’atelier, glacial en hiver, prenait
jour par un vitrage fait de morceaux de verre tant bien que mal
adaptés. Glissant entre leurs jointures, la pluie tombait sur les
copeaux. Là Chovin travaillait avec des lunettes bleues, un tablier de
cuir, et la chemise ouverte sur sa poitrine velue. Le jeudi, ses devoirs
terminés, Berlâne arrivait à pas de loup. Bien qu’il eût l’habitude de
la boutique, il ne se décidait pas tout de suite à entrer. Il passait et
repassait d’abord sur le trottoir, s’arrêtait un instant à regarder les
sabots comme s’il ne les avait jamais vus, disparaissait et
réapparaissait.
Quelquefois il fallait que Mme Chovin ouvrît la porte pour lui dire :
— Eh bien, tu n’entres donc pas ?
Alors il avait envie de lui répondre :
— Oh ! non, madame ! Ce n’est pas la peine. Je vous
dérangerais.
Mme Chovin et sa fille cousaient, leurs boîtes à ouvrage posées
sur une chaise basse aux pieds rognés. Marie était une grosse petite
fille à peu près du même âge que nous deux, mais plus intelligente
que lui. Chez les sœurs, elle avait toujours les premières places. On
ne pouvait savoir si plus tard elle serait laide ou jolie.
Il prenait un petit tabouret et la regardait coudre, tout en
surveillant la grand’rue.
En hiver personne ne passait. Ou bien c’était une bande de
gamins, ceux-ci encapuchonnés, ceux-là les oreillettes de la
casquette rabattues, qui couraient, les mains dans les poches. S’il y
avait de la neige, ils faisaient une glissoire le long de la rue qui
dévale de l’église au Bout du Pavé. De la boutique on les apercevait.
Mme Chovin disait :
— Tu ne vas donc pas jouer avec les autres ?
Il répondait :
— Non. Pour attraper du mal !… Et puis il ne faut pas que j’use
mes sabots.
Mme Chovin n’aurait pas demandé mieux, puisque c’était chez
elle que se fournissait Mme Dumas.
Quelques gamins s’arrêtaient pour souffler et s’amusaient à faire,
du dehors, de la buée sur les vitres. Quand ils l’avaient aperçu sur
son tabouret ils chantaient :

Jean-fillote
à la grolote…
 Que voulait dire « à la grolote » ? Mais « Jean-fillote » signifiait
clairement leur mépris pour ce garçon toujours fourré dans les
jupons des femmes. Il s’occupait même à de menus travaux
d’aiguille et confectionnait des fleurs artificielles.
Il ne courait pas davantage avec les autres dans les bois, ni sur
les routes, ni sur les bords de l’étang du Goulot : pour se noyer il
suffit d’un faux pas sur la chaussée. Il se tenait dans leur jardin où il
se distrayait en creusant la terre molle avec une pelle en bois. Dans
le sable il plantait des fleurs dont il arrosait les tiges cassées ; au
coucher du soleil elles étaient flétries.
 IV

Ces détails, je les avais recueillis l’un après l’autre ; chaque fois
c’était comme si j’eusse découvert dans un miroir grossissant des
traits que j’ignorais de mon visage. Mais c’était aussi pour me dire
tout de suite :
« Moi, tout de même, je ne vais pas jusque-là ! »
Je m’en serais voulu de passer des après-midi dans la boutique
des Chovin. Pas-comme-les-autres tant qu’on voudra, mais « Jean-
fillote », non. Berlâne n’avait pas un vrai seul camarade, j’en avais
quelques-uns, et je ne m’ennuyai point durant les vacances qui
suivirent ce dimanche où il n’avait eu que le prix de bonne conduite.
Certes, il m’était agréable de rester à la maison, soit que la
fraîcheur des matinées s’y réfugiât, chassée du dehors par le soleil
qui montait vite, soit que l’après-midi même y fût moins brûlante que
sous les tilleuls des Promenades ou sur les routes poussiéreuses.
Couché sur les carreaux froids, assis sur un fauteuil dont je tâtais
machinalement le velours râpeux, je lisais des récits de belles
aventures et les tranquilles histoires de la Bibliothèque Rose. Ou
bien j’écoutais et regardais autour de moi. Savez-vous que les
meubles et les cloisons vivent ? Las d’être toujours à la même place,
fatiguées de porter le poids du plafond, ils font craquer leurs
jointures, elles s’étirent. Les carreaux rouges ne se ressemblent pas
entre eux. Chacun a son visage particulier. Il y en a d’intacts, de
cornés, de fendillés, de fendus. Celui-ci est traversé du nord au sud
par une ligne droite, celui-là de l’est à l’ouest par une ligne brisée.
L’un a des hachures ; l’autre, usé en son centre, fait penser à un
petit réservoir. Les fleurs du papier collé au mur ne sont-elles pas
changeantes comme les nuages ? Selon que je les regarde de mon
lit, ou debout près de la fenêtre, ou assis dans mon fauteuil, la
même représente un oiseau le bec ouvert, un homme la bouche
fermée et le nez en trompette, une poire entaillée. Aux approches du
soir, la maison s’agrandit. A mesure qu’elle entre, l’ombre semble
repousser cloisons et murs. Les fleurs disparaissent. Je n’ose pas
me lever pour marcher les mains en avant, comme un aveugle. Je
sais que j’irais trop loin dans la nuit.
Mais, si bien que j’y fusse, je ne pouvais passer toutes mes
vacances à l’intérieur de la maison. J’affrontai les ardeurs de l’été.
Je me souviens de ces journées brûlantes où regarder le ciel était
une souffrance, tellement il semblait que l’azur lui-même fût embrasé
par le soleil. Pas un souffle d’air. Les feuilles étaient desséchées et
l’herbe roussie. Tantôt, à deux ou trois, nous nous amusions à
creuser des trous dans le terreau de notre cour, à faire des bulles de
savon que nous regardions disparaître ; tantôt nous descendions
aux moulins pour voir tomber l’eau sur les roues massives ou pour
pénétrer dans la chambre des meules puissantes qui nous auraient
écrasés comme des grains de blé.
Tantôt je m’en allais rôder seul autour de l’église. Il y avait sur les
pelouses des touffes d’absinthe à odeur forte. Je contemplais toute
la petite ville à mes pieds avec ses arbres dans les jardins, avec ses
maisons que tuiles ou ardoises coiffaient de rouge sombre ou de
bleu, avec ses petites rues, ses chemins et ses routes qui la relient
au reste du monde. Plus loin et tout à l’entour c’étaient les bois
monotones dont la sombre verdure demeurait immobile. J’écoutais
des tailleurs de pierres frapper de leurs maillets de bois sur les
ciseaux de fer. Puis j’entrais dans l’église par une des portes
latérales. Le soufflet du tambour se rabattait avec un bruit étouffé.
J’ôtais ma casquette et je marchais sur la pointe des pieds, de peur
de troubler le silence, mais j’ouvrais tout grands les yeux pour mieux
voir la lumière plus délicate et plus belle de filtrer à travers les vitraux