Rosette - The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

“What do you think of me, Miss Bruno?”

Once again, I forced him to repeat the question, and once again I surprised him.

“I didn’t think you’d be so young.”

He stiffened instantly, and I fell silent, fearful of having upset him somehow. He pulled himself back together, and captured me with another of his heart stopping smiles. “Is that so?”

I moved restlessly on the chair, undecided about how to continue. At that point, summoning all my nerve and encouraged by his gaze, locked on mine, in a silent and exciting dance, I started talking again.

“Well... you wrote your first book when you were twenty-five years old, fifteen years ago, I think. Yet you look as though you’re slightly older than me,” I spoke my thoughts out loud.

“How old are you, Miss Bruno?”

“I’m twenty-two, sir,” I said, again lost in the depths of his eyes.

“I'm really too old for you, Miss Bruno,” he said with a chuckle. Then he lowered his gaze, and again the cold winter night came over him, as cruel as a snake. Every trace of warmth disappeared. “Anyhow, don’t worry. You won’t have to worry about sexual harassment while you sleep in your bed. As you see, I’m condemned to immobility.”

I fell silent because I didn’t know what to answer. His tone was bitter and forlorn, his face sculpted in stone.

His eyes pierced mine, looking for something that he didn’t seem to find. He gave me a small smile. “At least you don’t pity me. I’m glad. I don’t want it, I don’t need it. I'm happier than many others, Miss Bruno because I’m free, in a complete and most absolute way.” He frowned. “What are you still doing here? You may leave.”

The sudden dismissal disturbed me. I stood up hesitantly, and he vented his anger on me.

“Are you still here? What do you want? Your salary already? Or do you want to talk about your day off?” He accused me irritably.

“No, Mr Mc Laine.” I awkwardly went to the door. I already had my hand on the handle when he stopped me.

“I’ll see you at nine in the morning, Miss Bruno. I'm writing a new book, the title is: The unburied dead. Do you find it creepy?” His smile widened.

Sudden mood swings had to be a dominant trait of his personality.

I had to remember that in the future, or I’d risk a hysterical break down at least twenty times a day. “It sounds interesting, sir,” I replied cautiously.

He rolled his head back and laughed heartily. “Interesting! I bet you haven’t ever read one of my books, Miss Bruno. You seem to have a delicate stomach... You wouldn’t sleep all night, haunted by nightmares...” He laughed again, suddenly speaking to her with familiarity, proving again that he was subject to mood swings.

“I'm not as sensitive as I seem, sir,” I replied, sparking another wave of laughter.

He maneuvered the wheelchair with his hands as smooth as a feline and with an admirable ability, born from years and years of practice, and he came to my side surprisingly fast. He was so close I couldn’t muster a rational thought. Instinctively, I took a step back. He pretended not to notice my movement, and pointed to the bookcase on my right.

“Get the fourth book from the left, third shelf.”

Obedient, I grabbed the book he was pointing to. The title was familiar to me because I had carried out a search on him on the Internet before I left, but indeed I had never read any of his work. Horror stories were not my kind, definitely they were more suitable for strong palates, and unfit for me, for I preferred a more delicate and romantic literature.

“Zombie on the way,” I read loudly.

“It's the best one for starts. It's the least... how can I say it? Least frightening?” He laughed whole-heartedly, obviously at me, and at the uncomfortable awkwardness that transpired from every pore of my body.

“Why don’t you start reading it tonight? Just to prepare for your new job,” he suggested, his eyes laughing.

“Okay, I'll do it,” I said with little enthusiasm.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, again with a serious expression. “Lock the door to your room; I wouldn’t want the spirits of the palace to visit you tonight, or some other dreadful night creature. You know what I mean...” He paused, with a flash of merriment in the darkness of his eyes. “As I said before, it’s difficult to find employees out here.”

I tried to smile, although I wasn’t very convincing.

“Good night, Mr Mc Laine.” Before closing the door I couldn’t help myself and I blurted “I don’t believe in spirits or night creatures.”

“Are you sure?”

“There is no proof of their existence, sir,” I answered involuntarily copying his previous statement.

“Nor that they don’t exist,” he replied. He turned his wheelchair and went back to his desk.

I closed the door gently, demoralized. Maybe he was right, and zombies did exist. For sure at that moment I felt like one of them. Dazed, my thoughts were fuzzy and I felt suspended in a limbo, where I no longer knew how to distinguish between real and unreal. It was worse than not being able to distinguish colours.

I dined listlessly in the company of Mrs Mc Millian: my mind was elsewhere, with someone else. I feared I wouldn’t recover my thoughts until the next morning, when I would return to where I had left them. Something told me that I had entrusted my gullible heart to the wrong person.

I remember very little of the conversation I had with the housekeeper that night. She was the only one who spoke, incessantly. She seemed to be in seventh heaven, for she finally had someone to talk to. Or rather, someone to listen to her. I was perfect for that. I was too polite to interrupt her, too respectful to show my disinterest, too busy to think of other things, therefore I didn’t feel the need to be alone. If I had been alone, all my thoughts would’ve certainly been focused on him.

In my room, an hour later, sitting comfortably in bed, with my head resting on the pillows, I opened the book and started reading. I was already terrified when I reached the second page, and foolishly so, considering it was just a book.

In spite of my common sense, of which, in theory, I was well-supplied, the atmosphere in the room became suffocating, and I felt the need to get a breath of fresh air.

I walked barefoot through the darkened room and opened the window. I sat on the windowsill, soaking in the warm, late summer night; the silence was broken only by the chirping of the crickets and by the call of an owl. It was pleasant to be far away from the frenzy of London, from its fast rhythms, always on the brink of hysteria. The night was a black quilt, apart from a few white stars here and there. I liked the night, and I idly thought that I would’ve liked to be a night creature. Darkness was my ally. Without light everything is black, and my genetic inability to

distinguish colours was meaningless. At night my eyes were the same as those of any another person. For a few hours I didn’t feel different. A temporary relief, of course, but it was as refreshing as cool water on warm skin.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of the alarm clock, and stayed in bed for a few minutes, bemused. Following my initial confusion, I remembered what happened the day before, and I recognized the room.

Once dressed, I went downstairs, almost frightened by the deep silence around me. The sight of Millicent Mc Millian, cheerful and loquacious as ever, dissolved the fog and brought peace to my turbulent mind.

“Did you sleep well, Miss Bruno?” She began.

“I’ve never slept better,” I said, surprised to realize that it was true. For years, I hadn’t abandoned myself so serenely to sleep; I had set aside my negative thoughts for at least a few hours.