He had a lot of enemies, You tell me, in an attempt to explain it.
It means nothing to me.
Caleb is dead. I do not weep, after that moment in the car. I don’t know how. I think I have cried all the tears I possess. For you, Caleb, I do not mourn. I relive your death, over and over and over.
And I relive every moment we ever spent together. All the moments I spent naked, waiting, coming, being taken, being owned, being used. Every moment where you looked at me in that inscrutable way you had, giving nothing of your thoughts away. How you would fasten your pants: left leg first, always, then the right. A slight hop to tug them into place. Button-down next, fingers nimbly fitting each button into place. Tucking the tail of the shirt into the pants. Zip, fasten, buckle the belt. It took less than a minute, all total.
And then you’d be gone.
And I’d be alone.
Until the next time you showed up. At midnight, or between clients. Hands possessing me, as if my will had nothing to do with anything, as if my desires meant nothing. Stripping me, positioning me. On my hands and knees, or face to the window, as you were so fond of. On my knees, for a swift moment of oral pleasure, at my expense of my abused gag reflex.
Day after day, night after night. I was your sexual possession. You rarely spoke to me, except to order me to my knees, or to strip, or to go to my room and wait, or to tell me about the next client. We never just... talked. You appeared, commanded my body, and left.
And my bodyobeyed. That’s what mystifies me, even still. That I always obeyed. That my body responded to your commands, that I seemed to have no will where you were concerned. As if you possessed some secret method to control me, to elicit responses from me.
Am I mourning?
Perhaps I am.
I don’t know.
I know nothing.
Did you tell me the truth, that day in the empty building? Four years, three months, and nineteen days? Or six months? How old am I? Are the memories I’ve regained real? I remember sitting in the museum, in front of theMadame X, and then going with you to seeStarry Night. I remember it. I feel it. The floor under the wheels of my wheelchair. The lights, dim, spotlights bathing each piece of art, islands of beauty in oceans of darkness. I remember you behind me, hands on the handles, pushing slowly. Pointing out pieces you know, telling me their names, carrying on a one-way conversation. Turning left, and then right, going down long hallways, and then finally coming to a stop at theStarry Night. Irememberthis. It isrealto me.
But it isn’t possible. TheMadame XandStarry Nightare at different museums.
My memory is a lie.
Humans can invent memories from whole cloth. We can convince ourselves a lie is truth, and truth is lie.
So then, in the absence of memory, what do I believe?
In the presence of contradiction, what is truth? You told me yourself, Caleb, that you lied. So then how do I know anything you told me, ever, is true?
Am I even Isabel de la Vega? If you can create Caleb Indigo from scratch, could you have created Isabel?
What if I am just some victim you saw, and wanted, and took? What if nothing I think I remember is true?
Your name is Madame X. I’m Caleb. I saved you from a bad man.
I own your past. I own your soul.
You are mine.
I am on the terrace. Hands on the grit of the ledge, staring out at the night, at the city as it breathes and lives and moves, reliving you, doubting you, doubting myself. Doubting everything. Doubting my name, my past, my memory.
Nothing is real.
Nothing is true.
Then, oh, then I feel You.
You lean on the ledge beside me, except You lean backward, ass to ledge. Cup Your hands around Your mouth, flick a flame into life. Smoke curls, billows. You inhale.
You’ve left me alone, for the most part. For days. I’ve been ruminating and stewing and floundering for days. Lost in memory, lost in thought.
