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4.’ MADELEINE AUBERT

MADELEINE AUBERT'S POV

I raced up the stairs as though hell itself was hot on my heels, but in this case, one man was enough to instill that level of terror. My heart pounded furiously, every beat slamming against my rib cage, my body trembling from a mix of cold and the lingering ache of panic. I crashed through the front door, the sudden warmth inside the house hitting me like a wall, but it did nothing to slow my frantic pace. My feet skidded on the entryway tiles, nearly sending me sprawling face first into the floor.

“Toilet rush? A or B?” Clarisa’s teasing voice floated from somewhere deeper in the house. She always knew how to poke fun. “And hey, what’re you doing back so early?”

I didn’t answer. My boots and umbrella fell from my hands with a dull thunk as I fumbled with the bolt, slamming it into place. I pressed my back against the door, sliding to the floor as I wrapped my arms around my knees, the panic flooding over me.

I had just seen someone get killed.

The realization hit me like a freight train. My heart raced, and my thoughts spun out of control. Another death—right in front of me. I wanted to scream, to cry, to claw the memory from my mind. The boy’s eyes, pleading, his face beaten beyond recognition, and then the sickening splatter as the bullet tore through his skull. Blood and brain matter flowing in cobbles through the rain-soaked ground, washing toward my bare feet. The rain carried the evidence straight to me, as though accusing me.

I didn’t pull the trigger.

But the guilt weighed on me like I had.

The warmth of the house clashed with the icy terror gripping my insides. My breath was shaky, uneven, as I buried my face into my arms, trying to stop the trembling that had overtaken me. I felt frozen, shattered by nerves and exhaustion. And yet, even through the panic, the sweet, comforting scent of freshly baked banana bread wafted through the air—a small reminder of Clarisa’s obsession with always having something baking.

I heard her soft footsteps approaching, tapping lightly on the tile floor. She wasn’t alone. Drey, her boyfriend, was around, too. The faint clatter of pans from the kitchen confirmed it, the sounds pausing as she moved toward me.

“Hey, you good?” Her voice was soft, casual. Unlike her mother, she spoke without an accent, her words as smooth as any local American.

I lifted my eyes. Clarisa stood there, a cigarette lazily hanging between her fingers, smoke curling upward, shrouding her face. She leaned against the doorway, her tall, slim frame dressed in nothing but an oversized hoodie that barely reached her thighs. Her long, knee-high socks clung to her legs, emphasizing her lean figure.

Her platinum blonde hair was an artful mess, framing her face in a way that suggested she didn’t care about mirrors. It was clear she wasn’t pretending—It was obvious. She and Drey had been binge-fucking.

The strange combination of baked bread, cigarettes, and sex clung to the air in an absurdly normal way.

From around the corner, the low murmur of 4 Morant (Better Luck Next Time) by Doja Cat barely echoed through the house, the stereo turned down so low it was just background noise to the scene

Clarisa’s lips twisted into a smirk, her eyes heavy with disinterest as she flicked ash onto the floor. “What’s with the dramatic entrance?” she asked in a lazy drawl, completely unbothered by my disheveled state.

I couldn’t speak immediately, just stared at her through the haze, my mind weighed down by what I’d just witnessed.

“He killed him,” I whispered.

No tears.

No panic in my voice.

“He put the gun to his head and shot him,” I said, my voice flat. “I saw it.”

Clarisa took a slow drag from her cigarette, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed my words. Her expression didn’t change much—the same lazy disinterest—but there was a slight tightening around her mouth, like she was gauging whether I was serious. She exhaled a steady stream of smoke, watching it coil in the air between us before speaking again.

“You’re serious?” Her voice remained soft, calm, far too casual for what I’d just confessed. She tilted her head slightly, studying me through the smoky haze.

I nodded, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my arms still wrapped tightly around my knees as if they were the only thing keeping me together. “I saw it happen... I couldn’t stop it. His face, it was—” My voice broke off as the image of his mutilated face flashed in my mind again, twisting my stomach into knots.

Clarisa finally moved, pushing off from the doorframe and stepping closer. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor, but I could feel her presence, and her calmness unnerved me. She tapped the ash from her cigarette into a nearby ashtray, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Well, shit,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s... messed up.”

Her nonchalant tone sparked something inside me, a simmering frustration. How could she be so unfazed when I felt like my entire world was coming apart?

“You need a drink?” she asked, her voice still casual, as though I hadn’t just confessed to witnessing a murder.

I shook my head, my mind still trapped in the horror of the boy’s pleading eyes, the way they flickered with desperate fear just before the gun went off.

Clarisa sighed, taking another long drag before stubbing out her cigarette. “You know, you’re not the first person to see someone get their brains blown out. This is Montmartre. People die here all the time. The cops probably won’t even care if you tell them.”

Her words were blunt, detached, like she was talking about something as ordinary as a change in the weather.

“But I didn’t do anything,” I mumbled, barely loud enough for her to hear. “I just stood there... I didn’t stop it.”

For the first time, Clarisa’s expression softened, just for a brief moment, like she could see the weight of the guilt crushing me. “You couldn’t have stopped it. People like that—they don’t wait for permission to do what they’re going to do.”

I blinked at her words, trying to make sense of them, but all I could do was nod.

Eventually, I forced myself to stand, though my legs wobbled beneath me, barely holding me up. “Whoa, easy there!” Clarisa said with a hint of amusement, grabbing my arm to steady me. “You’re acting like it’s the end of the world.”

It sure felt like it.

When I stepped inside my room, the sweet fragrance of jasmine and lilac greeted me, a scent so familiar it usually brought comfort. But not tonight. My chest burned with raw pain, and my stomach churned violently as though I was about to double over and empty everything inside me. I felt the first tear roll down my cheek as I fumbled to peel off my soaked jeans, which clung to me like a second skin. The tears kept coming, one after another, blurring my vision, intensifying the pounding in my head.

But none of that stopped me. I stripped away every piece of clothing that clung to my trembling body.

In a half-conscious stumble toward the bathroom, barely aware of my own actions, I reached for the shower handle, turning it to the left until the water was just the right temperature. The sound of rushing water filled the small space, echoing in the silence. The first drops were shockingly cold against my skin, but they soon warmed, and the steam enveloped me, soaking into my pores. I stepped under the stream, the heat wrapping around me, offering a small, fleeting comfort. The water pounding against me was rhythmic, lulling, but the thoughts in my head were louder—full of terror, full of loss.

Mom. Dane. Home.

My fingers, still trembling, didn’t stop me from scrubbing furiously at my skin, as if I could wash away not just the dirt and rain, but the guilt and fear that clung to me, too. The water poured down my aching shoulders, doing little to ease the pain but soothing in its steady patter.

Then, it hit me. My breath hitched in my throat, becoming ragged, and my chest tightened as though someone had clamped down on it. A whimper slipped from my lips. My bottom lip quivered, and I felt my shoulders sag under the weight of everything. I couldn't hold it back anymore. The pain in my chest exploded, and I crumpled to the floor in a broken heap, my sobs finally breaking free. My entire body shook as wave after wave of grief crashed over me. My hands covered my face, trying in vain to muffle the gut-wrenching sobs that clawed at my chest, the sound echoing in the small space.

“I-I’m sorry. I-I didn’t...” The words were a mess of blubbered incoherence, swallowed by my crying.

For what felt like an eternity—twenty minutes, maybe more—I let the sorrow consume me, my tears mixing with the shower water. When the sobs finally subsided, leaving me hollow and exhausted, I dragged myself to my feet and shut off the water. Wrapping a towel around my shaking body, I stepped out of the bathroom, steam clinging to my skin.

The heat from the shower had loosened my muscles, soothed my racing heart, but as I shut off the water, a creeping chill settled over me. I stepped out, the steam from the bathroom dissipating into the cool air of the house. Wrapping myself in a towel, I stood for a moment, listening to the steady hum of the pipes.

It was so much quieter now. Too quiet.

The usual noises—the distant murmur of Clarisa’s sarcastic voice or Drey clattering about in the kitchen—had vanished. For a moment, I wondered if they had decided to take their conversation to the bedroom again. I shook my head. Probably back to it. I couldn’t even muster a laugh, my mind still tangled in the horror of what I had seen in that alley.

But the second I entered my room, a cold draft hit me like a slap to the face, the air chilling against my damp skin. I froze, eyes widening.

My windows—previously closed—was open, curtains billowing slightly with the breeze, mid air. Outside, the rain had stopped completely. And standing in the middle of my room, bathed in the dim light from the hallway, was a man.

My ballet posters fluttered slightly, a stark contrast to the band posters lining the opposite wall—Arctic Monkeys, The Neighborhood, Chase Atlantic—all gazing down at the stranger like silent witnesses. My heart stopped in my chest, my breath caught, and my voice died in my throat.

He was just standing there, motionless, in the center of my room.

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