Jean-Baptiste lifts his first spoonful. He hesitates for a fraction of a second. The porridge passed through his throat like shards of glass clinging to the walls of his oesophagus. His brow furrows and the corners of his eyes twitch as he fights back the tear that began to form. Marie-Anne simply eats her meal, slowly stealing glances at her father. Her eyes visually filled with concern. Noticing his daughter's intense gaze, he lifts up his collar and hides his throat injuries. She shifts her gaze away and to the two empty seats in the dinner table. Jean-Baptiste shoots a glance to Charles' empty seat as he clenches his fist each time he swallows the porridge prepared by Marguerite. Jean-Baptiste stands, kissing his wife on the forehead and leaves the rest of his food untouched as he slowly treads to his study.
He closes the study door, leaning against it. The performance at breakfast falls apart as his body sags with pain and exhaustion. Staggering and Wincing, Jean-Baptiste carries himself to the chair and slowly sits down. Worried that any rash movement might result in irreparable injuries. His desk is by the window and next to filled bookshelves. Jean-Baptiste grabs his hair in frustration and intensifies his gaze towards an empty space by the window. His clenched jaw has a sharp angle that can slice fingers that graze past it. His expression is unreadable. His silvery eyes filled with immense questions and troubles. He glances at the pile of books piled next to him and sees a framed illustration. The illustration was of their family when their children were still quite young. Marguerite held Marrie-Anne in her arms and Jean rested his hand on top of Charles-Henri's head. By Charles-Henri's side there is an empty erased space— a sign of an artist's touch. He reaches for the illustration only for his hand to immediately freeze centimeters away from the frame. The frame is a beautiful golden hue that reflects the sunlight piercing through the crack of the curtains.
As his hand hovers, the sunlight on the flame intensifies, morphing to an identical light to the one that invaded his dream. His eyes widen and he redirects his hand, covering his throat as if protecting himself. His breathing starts to intensify before he breaks into a fit of violent coughs. Blood splattering across the self-written notes on his desk. Tears stream down his face as he tightens his grip around his throat. His cries are a haggard and strained note. The walls begin to shift and his vision begins to blur. His heart is the pounding of raindrops during a storm. The chair stumbles as Jean-Baptiste falls on his bottom on the hardwood floor. The metallic taste of the bloody coughs don't remind him of the golden figure but of his first time. Not as an Executioner, but as a son, maybe when he was ten years old hiding after witnessing his father Jean-Charles take the life of a man. He remembers that cold hand on his shoulder afterward, not comforting but corrective. His father's voice echoed in the entire room: "You must not look away".
"I will not look away. I will not look away. I will not look away. I will not look away."
Jean-Baptiste chants as if in a trance. His mind is back to the time when his father had locked him in the morgue for an entire night. His eyes seeing the corpses of that night staring at him intently. His screams back then, swallowed by the thick darkness. The pajamas he had worn were soiled. The stench invading his nostrils. Jean-Baptiste is taken aback as he hears a loud knock on his study door.
"Honey! What's going on?" Marie-Marguerite shouted.
Jean-Baptiste hurriedly stands and rushes to lock the door. His breathing is heavy and short. The shouts of his wife slowly begin to anchor him as he begins to breathe normally. In shock, he stares at the strands of hair on the floor he doesn't remember pulling from his head.
"Jean-Baptiste! Are you alright?" She continued.
"...I'm doing fine," he softly mutters before mustering courage to shout back. "I am alright! It's okay!"
It's okay. He whispers a second time, seemingly to reassure himself more than his wife. After the shouting, an absolute silence filled the study. He does not turn to gaze at the door, or his wife beyond it. His eyes fall on the blood on his notes. He just stares. Unmoving. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he takes his handkerchief—still stained with blood—and dabs lightly at the fresh blood. He sets up the chair and picks up his hair strands. He holds them in his palm before stuffing them inside the locked drawer. These are the actions of a man putting his workspace in order before a grim task. He steals a glance at the illustration. The frame is back to its normal golden hue and reflects a normal amount of sunlight. He turns to walk towards the door and opens the door to an empty hallway. He walks out, closing the door softly behind him, shutting away Jean-Baptiste the "father".
He strides to Charles-Henri's room. The pain he feels is still visible from his gait but more controlled. He marched not to a confrontation; he is proceeding to a necessary lesson. Jean-Baptiste faced the door and on the other side of that was his mission. Not to him, but to his family's survival. He reaches for the handle and sees his reflection on the polished brass doorknob. For an instant, he sees his father's face superimposed over his own. He does not knock, he turns the knob and enters.
…
At the edge of the bed, Charles-Henri's empty gaze fell directly on the man that stood before him. His lips begin to quiver, his eyes slowly widening in horror as tears leak from the corners.
"I understand your mother chooses your clothing for you so I will call her to come and dress you. After that, you and I will study," Jean-Baptiste's stern voice put forth.
A soft and strained voice began to seep from Charles-Henri's throat. He watches as the man leaves the room leaving the door agape. Minutes later, his mother and sister enter the room. Marie-Marguerite began to undress Charles-Henri and he did not even muster a breath of protest. She helps Charles-Henri stand as she reaches for the clothes held by Marie-Anne. She first took a white linen shirt with wide, cascading ruffles at the cuffs and a high, gathered neckline that fastens with a single pearl button. Marie-Anne handed the trouser to her mother. They were a slithering weight in her hands. She made Charles-Henri step into them, and the silk washed over his legs like a cold waterfall. The sensation was alien— a silk, cold second layer of skin that felt both indecently intimate and stiffly formal. He felt horribly seen, even though fabric covered him.
"You liked darker colors, right?" Marie-Marguerite whispered. "And now my wardrobe is filled with dark clothes that I don't even like to wear".
Marguerite then took the hair comb and stood behind him. Her fingers, gentle as always, pushed through his white hair. The comb's teeth scraped a cold, precise line from his forehead to the nape of his neck. Charles-Henri stared ahead, feeling the path being carved into his scalp, as his hair was split in two. She then took the first large strand on the right side of his face.
"And you'd always throw a fit when your father suggested cutting your hair," her voice lowered in volume, trembling. "You've always liked longer hair and your father also grew his hair out because he wanted…"
Marie-Anne, who was sent to the living room, returned holding something sizzling hot with a protective cloth. This was a pair of metal tongs that were heated in the embers of the fireplace. They sizzled as she carefully brought them near. An intimate scent of scorching hair was followed by a wave of heat radiating against his cheek and ear as she curled the hair strands. Not enough to burn, but enough to feel the change. She held the curl, let it cool, and released it. It is a perfect spring-like coil that now frames his face. She repeated it on the left strand, making a matching set.
She gathered the remaining mass of his long, white hair at the back of his head. Her fingers worked quickly, twisting and weaving. She secured the hair with pins. Then a black ribbon tied at the base of the bun in an elegant knot. Marguerite stepped back, placing the metal tongs far from her children. She proceedS to cup his face, her eyes filled with a hidden sorrow.
"Violà," she whispered, her voice cracking as she held back tears. She saw in front of her, not the solemn youth, but the child that always ran to her mother asking to wear her dresses. "Le petit ange de maman."
His blank stare reflected his mother's silhouette. Rivers forming in the corner of his eyes, falling and passing through his white lower eyelashes as they rush down his face. Marie-Anne watched the scene in silence and bit her lips. Her eyes twitching as she tightened her hands around the hem of her dress. Marie-Marguerite's tears fell down her rosy cheeks, his child reflected on her dark silver eyes. A pathetic plea of a smile plastered on her face.
"Tu ne me fais pas un sourire?"
The silence that answered her was followed by the sound of a door closing heavily downstairs. Then boots approaching Charles-Henri's room followed by a knock. There, in the entrance, stood the Monsieur de Paris.