REST YOUR BONES

[ALEC BLAISE SOULLIERE]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background: #000033, border: solid #ffffff 5px; width: 400px; height: 500px;] The sun was up, but not obnoxious. The heat that it gave the day was not an assault, but a leisurely hug, the light seeming to float down to the earth. The garden looked glaringly green, the light reflecting perfectly off of the vegetation that inhabited it. The fountain that sat, centered in the garden, was not turned on yet in this early morning. Somewhere in the distance, the birds around the estate were chirping loudly, signaling the morning. It was quite a serene picture and one that Alec hadn’t seen in years. That was what made this so peculiar. He had dreamed of it before, but he never appeared in the dream his current age. He was always younger, freshly into the double digits. Now, however, he was at his normal height, staring into the garden of his home in France, listening to his father. His father spoke to him in French, their native language, but Alec could not understand him. He continued to listen unknowingly for a few seconds, and then spun towards the voice, alarmed. How could Alec not understand his father? Alec blinked at where the voice was coming from, but he also couldn’t see his father. The dream was turning dark fast, the sun being replaced with near black clouds of fog. The last sight that Alec’s eyes took in was the garden, growing quickly as if being fast-forwarded and then dying. The fountain dried out and became cracked, and then crumbled into a useless pile of rocks. The birds fell silent. His eyes shot open, and his heart beat sped along, and for a second he was unable to catch his breath. He blinked into the darkness of his bedroom, until he could make out the neat bookshelf, the neat desk, the neat closet which was visible through one of the open doors. Alec pushed himself up on his elbows, and reached over to his bedside lamp, tapping it on the side to turn it on. He let his eyes adjust again to the sudden light, and calmed down his breathing. A quick glance at his clock told him it was barely three in the morning, and Alec sighed. What was he doing awake after having crazy dreams like that? He fell back on his bed with a huff, and lay there, silently. The dream confused him, as he normally dreamt it but never as a nightmare. It was always a peaceful memory, his father chatting to him in French as Alec sat, a ripe ten or eleven years old, listening intently. But that… that had been entirely different, dark and, quite frankly, frightening. To reassure himself, Alec spoke French in his mind, recalling the fluid words with ease. He pictured his father, too, and heard him say, ”Je crois qu'il est de votre coucher, Alexis.” With a fast movement, the lamp was turned off, and Alec lay with his eyes closed, almost angrily, until he finally felt the pull of sleep again. The next morning came quickly, started slowly, and didn’t last long enough. Everyone was flying about, the maids cleaning, the cook preparing whatever meal was requested, his mother talking sharply into a Bluetooth receiver. His grandfather was in the back, having a nice target practice, as anyone could tell from the gunshots that could be heard. Alec stayed in his upstairs study, doing nothing of importance. His summer work was completely done, with ample time until the school year started. The violin sat on a stand, untouched for much too long, next to the equally abandoned piano. The bookshelf that held all of Alec’s overused books was collecting dust (he never let anyone clean his spaces) as it had also been ignored. In fact, the entire study looked positively unlived in. The only thing that looked touched was Alec’s desk; it was a mess. There were papers strewn across it haphazardly, a laptop perched uneasily on the edge, and an English to French dictionary opened on one side. Alec stood, dressed plainly and wearing his glasses in place of his contacts, staring out of one of the windows into the view of the back garden, watching his grandfather shoot into the air. The garden in Maryland was, in some ways, the same as the one back home. It had beautiful, green flowers and plants. It was manicured perfectly, and it was a pride of the estate. But, of course, it wasn’t the same. Alec felt a bout of homesickness overpower his mood, much as it had been for the last week. His dream the last night had only fueled it, also inspiring him to thoroughly check his French, hence the disarray that was his desk. That Alec should know English better than French was preposterous, ludicrous even. He’d been taught English at an early age, but he grew from a small child into the French language. There should have been no doubt in his mind of his hold on it. The faint click-clack of his mother’s heels that Alec could hear grew louder, and louder still until a knock sounded on the closed door. The door swung open quickly, as his mother never waited for a reply. Her Bluetooth receiver was still lit up. ”Yes, I know. I know. I KNOW. If you could just… Yes. Ok, fine.” The light went out. ”Alec, why are you still up here? You already missed breakfast, and you know your grandfather hates when you skip meals. Plus, we have to talk about the account. You know I still don’t think you’re ready—“ She was cut off abruptly by Alec, whose voice was soft but assured. "Je veux aller à Paris.” His mother sighed dramatically and answered, "French may be your native tongue but it’s not mine.” Alec turned towards her for the first time and repeated himself louder, this time in English. ”I want to go to Paris.” His mother’s lips pursed and she placed one hand on her hip. ”You know we can’t go back to France.” He cut her off again, this time his tone biting. ”No, you can’t go back. And I never said I wanted us to go together.” His mother looked a little taken aback, and he saw a quick moment of hurt flash across her eyes, making him regret his words instantly. He knew his mother had fallen apart after his father’s death, and she had been abandoned by his family in France. It had taken her years to put herself together again. ”If you think I’m going to let you go traipsing through Paris, then you are sorely mistaken.” Alec turned back to the window, crossing his arms (childishly.) ”Why not? I’m eighteen. You can’t exactly stop me.” He paused and turned back to his mother. ”I’ve already booked a flight. And I want complete control of the accounts. Father left them to me, after all. And you can tell grandfather I’ll be taking lunch in my room. I leave tonight.” Alec stalked past his mother out of the study and into his room, closing the door hardly and locking it. He heard his mother stomp away and sighed to himself. He had never spoken so brashly with her, and he hoped it wouldn’t hurt her fragile heart. That evening, Alec did, in fact, leave on a flight to Paris, with surprisingly little friction. It was a long flight, but he landed and found the estate quite easily. He wouldn’t return for a few weeks.

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