de l'encre au bout des doigts

Melanie sits still. Her shiny hair’s all in the right places, there’s not a strand wandering. Melanie watches life and wonders. She doesn’t know how they do it: people wear themselves like coats; people wear themselves on the outside of themselves. They are not even aware that they show who they are, that they act contradictory to their words, that everything there is to know about them is available, on plain sight. Everybody is on the center of their own stage, craving for attention and yet unaware of the comedy they’re truly on. She’s sometimes shocked at how transparent they are and of how easy it is to read them.

They don’t know that they are vulnerable and ignorance makes them strong.

As far as she can remember, Melanie’s always taken great care of hiding herself very far and deep. From her earliest memories, Melanie’s been burnt to the core with this contradiction: you are precious and no one must know. She searched for the shadow, she created masks and facades, she learned to provide a blank face behind which she lived a thousand lives, unbeknownst to outsiders. She’s encoded herself with the information that she had to wait, that she should be patient. That one day, it would be safe to be she. No one told her when that day would come, when the wait should stop. She’s never had proper living instructions. She continued to walk her hidden paths, providing the world with a made up version of herself, never daring to reconsider her roads not taken.

Melanie thus looks like and empty doll. A very pretty doll, with not a strand of hair out of place.

Of the deafening wind in her mind, of her intense joys and sorrows, no one knows. Who could? Melanie feels like a disco ball that’s never been turned on. She can be deft and she can be clumsy, she knows hundreds of stories and jokes, some funny and some plain horrible, she can be classy and trashy, from one move to the other during her childhood, from town to town, customs to customs, Melanie learned to adapt, to switch, Melanie can be everything you’ve ever wanted and more. She can be your best friend and confident, she’ll be gone in a year and will start all over again. You will love her, and you will miss her, and she will live on, lonely even when dancing.

Her parents never noticed. They were so busy living, they were so busy taking care of her, and she on her side was too busy hiding… Sometimes, Melanie thinks she should see a shrink, find a way out of her own cell, but she’s too scared. Melanie likes being a disco ball, even if she’s off. A shrink would probably want to even her out, filling the holes and eroding asperities, she’s afraid therapy will turn her into a Christmas ball.

Now that she’s an adult, now that she’ doesn’t have to follow her parents around, Melanie doesn’t know how to live still. It’s becoming harder to keep her true self hidden deep, and yet she’s so scared of burning if she comes out of herself. Sometimes Melanie thinks that it could be liberating if she could wear herself like a coat. Fancy that. I mean, if she were to meet her soul mate, then she would have to learn or cry. Right? Because she is precious, and everyone should know.

Avril était nos jours blancs : la lumière froide y perçait jusqu’à nous et transperçait durement nos rétines. Les ombres y étaient plus tranchées, en contrastes d’un blanc d’un éblouissant insupportable qui aplatissait les envies et exacerbait l’ennui. C’était une excuse parmi d’autres pour éviter les heures et sombrer dans la nuit : les couleurs y reprenaient forme, nous étions enveloppés de jaune et d’ocres virant au sépia. Les yeux grands ouverts, nous vivions, enfin, en attendant la fin du gel et l’allongement des jours.

Amandine est assise sur son lit, recroquevillée entre ses draps blancs mouillés de sueur, le corps en crampe. Elle ne bouge pas alors que le ciel tangue, vire du violet au noir et vibre de flashes insoutenables en écho du tonnerre. Tout à coup, sa chambre est immense et la maison si petite. La pluie résonne avec rage et ne s’apaise qu’au son de sa mère montant les escaliers. Avec elle, une lumière plus douce s’anime, tandis qu’elle s’assoie à côté d’Amandine et lui offre une tasse de lait chaud. Amandine boit et se détend. Ses draps sont changés, la lumière reste allumée et sa mère à côté d’elle.

L’air tremblait. La lumière polluée filtrait avec difficulté, se glissant péniblement le long des murs défraichis des immeubles. Accrochée tant bien que mal à son volant, Audrey peinait à garder la route. Il y avait quelque chose de tristement comique à la regarder s’évertuer à poursuivre son cap, comme si la possibilité  qu’elle atteigne sa destination  un jour pouvait exister, comme si elle pouvait s’affranchir de ses propres cercles dont elle arpentait les labyrinthes en constance.

Sa main timide s’avance. Elle crève l’ombre et sort vers la lumière. Peau blanche, doigts légers. Une grâce quasi bénie appelant aux larmes. La salle entière s’unit en un regard, un seul, tandis que son archet vibre les cordes et appelle au sens, le son au vent, la mémoire en frisson de ces sentiments enfouis qui revivent d’intensité. Il fallait beaucoup d’obscurité pour que cet éblouissement soit.

On ne voit de son visage que ce que l’ombre veut bien nous révéler. Posé sur l’oreiller, las mais souriant… La vie effleure à peine les courbes dessinées, ses pommettes hautes, sa bouche fine, ses sourcils qui pourraient s’envoler.