He wakes me up at 5 AM, his Bowmore breath thicker than a rain cloud. He tries to whisper but fails, the cold, dusty smell of his pinstripe suit tells me he's been smoking more heavily than usual. "It's time" he slurs as he climbs in to bed with his shoes on, lies down beside me and gently puts his ivory hand between my legs. The pressure from his fingers is always just enough, as if he's done it a million times before.
He picks out clothes for me (a
raven dress, champagne ballerinas), then escorts me through the hotel
lobby and in to the street to a waiting cab. It's warm and quiet
outside, "go" he says and we drive through a city asleep, past the
Bastille and in to the 20th arrondissement. I don't need to look out the
window to know where're going. I can already feel it.
We get out
and start walking past rows of headstones and monuments. He squeezes my
hand as if to comfort me but I've never been afraid of the dark or the
dead. "I told you you'd get to meet my mother" he whispers, successfully
this time, "and you should know I always keep my promises".