Chapter 58: The Sunset Of Memories
Vivienne kept staring at the fading sun. She lay on André’s rumpled bed, sheets tangled around them, his hands tracing slow, gentle patterns along her skin. But she didn’t feel any of it. Not his soft kisses on her shoulder, not the way his fingers brushed along her ribs, not even the warmth of his body pressed against hers. Her eyes were fixed outside, glued to the orange and gold streaks bleeding across the horizon.
Maybe it wasn’t really the sun she was watching. Maybe it wasn’t light at all. Maybe it was a memory, sharp and painful, like glass pressed into her chest, a memory she couldn’t shake. Her lips were parted slightly, but no sound came. Her body stayed still beneath André, perfectly pliant, perfectly silent. He could feel her tension, the cold stiffness in her spine, the absence of response, and it gnawed at him. Yet he didn’t move. He stayed there, pressing soft, almost intimate kisses along her arm and collarbone, watching for any flicker of warmth.
---
She was seven again. The memory hit her suddenly, like a storm breaking over calm water. She was in a small cottage, warm but dimly lit, the kind of place where every corner felt alive with quiet sounds—creaking floorboards, a wind tapping softly on the window. She watched a woman packing bags. She couldn’t see her face clearly; it was blurred, distorted, like water over glass. She knew it was her mother. Her small hands balled into fists, clenching the hem of her nightgown.
"Please don’t go, mother," she whispered, voice small and trembling. "Please don’t leave me."
Her mother crouched down, hugging her tightly. The smell of soap and lavender clung to her, the soft fabric of her dress warm against Vivienne’s cheek. "I will never leave you, my dearest," her mother said softly, rocking her. "You know that. I love you so much. So very much."
"But you are leaving," young Vivienne sniffled, tears prickling her eyes. Her chest hurt, tight and raw.
"Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean I will never return," her mother said, lifting her up slightly so she could see the sunset through the window. "Do you see that?"
Vivienne blinked at the sun dipping toward the horizon, the streaks of orange bleeding into gold. "What?" she asked. "The sun—it’s setting. Why?"
Her mother cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "It sets every day, Vivienne, but it always returns. Just as the sun always returns in the morning, I will return to you. I’ll never leave you, my precious. My precious Vivienne."
Young Vivienne’s small voice trembled. "You promise?"
"Yes," her mother said firmly, brushing back a loose strand of hair. "I promise. I will always be there. Like the sun." She smiled softly, so soft it hurt, then she turned and left, her footsteps fading down the hallway. Vivienne stood frozen, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in her chest like a cruel heartbeat.
---
Back in the present, Vivienne muttered softly, almost bitterly, "Liar." Her voice barely carried across the bed, but André heard it, the word slicing through the warm room like ice. Her eyes were glassy, her face blank, unreadable. The warmth of the sunset no longer touched her. She stared through the window, beyond the fading light, and her lips pressed together tightly.
I don’t need promises, her thoughts whispered in the silence. I only need gold. Gold never leaves. Everyone else does. The memory and the present collided in her chest. Her body had responded to André’s touch because that was the expectation, because she was trapped in the sheets with him, but her mind was elsewhere, somewhere unreachable.
André, lying beside her, studied her closely. He expected heat, some spark of passion, some flicker of reaction. But all he saw was emptiness. A raw, open nothing. Something that looked like pain, but not the pain of a body—it was something deeper, almost too sharp to touch. He tilted his head, lips brushing the damp strands of her hair, soft and careful, like a fool trying not to break something delicate. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t know what to make of it.
He wanted to laugh, curse, groan, kiss her, and panic all at once. Her body was there. Her flesh was pliant. But the fire in her eyes, the flicker of desire, the chaotic defiance he thrived on—all of it was gone. And yet she still lay there, calm, blank, sweetly smiling almost tenderly, like the perfect lover on the outside.
André’s hands lingered on her arms, his fingers tracing lightly over her shoulder, over the line of her collarbone, as if memorizing her. He tried to think, tried to read her, tried to poke at some spark, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. Only a quiet void where chaos usually burned. And in that emptiness, he felt a twinge of unease. Something about her blank stare was dangerous.
Vivienne’s lips pressed together softly, her eyes still fixed on the sun, watching it fade from view. André shifted slightly, leaning closer, brushing his nose against the curve of her cheek, breathing her in. She made no sound. He murmured softly, "Vivienne," brushing her hair back, lips ghosting against her skin. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink.
He stayed there anyway. He traced the line of her jaw with a finger, brushing her skin, teasing, playful, vulgar in a sense only he could manage in his obsession. She lay still, expression empty, letting him do whatever he wanted. He kissed her neck, lips soft, teasing the warm skin, lingering on the scent of sweat and fear and her body.
The sunset outside bled into reds and purples. The room felt heavy, quiet, chaotic. On the surface, they looked like a couple tangled in the afterglow of passion. Underneath, it was a battlefield of silence, of venom, of observation. André could feel himself slipping, losing the power he thought he had. Vivienne was still blank, unreadable, untouchable in her mind. And that drove him insane.