Page 74 of Downfall

“I see.” She says. “Well it’s definitely quaint.”

That makes me laugh. ‘Quaint’ is my mother’s way of saying unfashionable. “I like it.” I state hearing the defiance in my voice as it rings out.

“It is very you.” She says.

I raise an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“Oh come on, all that minimalism was stifling. Your house should be a reflection of you. And you Rose are not cold glass and polished surfaces. You’re vibrant. You’re electric. You walk into a room and it comes alive.”

I snort. “I am not those things.”

“Maybe not now. Maybe not with everything that is happening but that’s who you are Rose. You’re a Capulet after all.”

I give a half smile and take a sip. Maybe one day I’ll be that again. Maybe one day I’ll remember what it’s like to be excited, to be happy, but right now everything just feels so flat, so grey, so utterly pointless.

She stays with me, chatting in the way we used to for a few hours. It feels comforting. It feels good. She even seems to take more of a liking to Bella though I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s become a dog person but still, this moment feels cathartic, it feels like what I needed.

When she leaves I curl myself up on the couch, put a movie on and find myself balling my eyes out, crying for the person I was six years ago, crying for the person I’ve become too.

The twisted, bitter, angry shell of a human being that exists more than lives in the body that is Rose Capulet.

Roman

She’s moved out. She’s gone.

I don’t think she knew I was here, that I was watching, but when I returned this evening everything was dark. I thought at first it was her response. To hide. To shut herself away. She’s been pretty much living as a hermit this last week; I thought this was just an extension of that.

But as the sunlight started to streak across the glass I realised the house is not the same. Things are missing; the most notable being her.

She’s packed up.

She’s gone.

It takes me a day to locate her, to find her in the Old Town area of all places. In a place that feels far more hipster than the great house she shared with Paris.

Paris. He may be dead but that man still has a lot to answer for. His whole family do.

I slip past the men at the front entrance, creep up the drive, and when I’m there stood outside her door I pull the rose from its casing.

Silently I lay it on the ground.

She might remember it. She might not. Either way this all part of the game. Our new game. One of hunter and prey, cat and mouse.

And then I hide. Lurking in the bushes and I’ll stay as long as it takes till she appears. I want to see her face, to see her confusion when she finds it.

It’s like she’s upped the stakes but I’m all for it.

And when she finally does appear the look of abject horror makes it so worth the wait.

* * *

When I get backto our house it’s a fine thing to walk through my own front door. To not have to sneak in. Cameras are there, flashing. I’m front page news and though a part of me likes it, likes that this city has finally remembered me, it’s more than a little wearisome.

Because I’m not some returning hero. I’m not some god damn lost son.

They kicked me out. They exiled me.

And now they want to welcome me back with open arms? Well, I guess they don’t know who they’re welcoming anymore but that’s okay, I’m all for showing them. Piece by piece.

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