“I have for the first time found what I can truly love — I have found you. You are my sympathy — my better self — my good angel — I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”
Jane Eyre
Never trust yourself… in a man’s bed. That moment when everything is falling out from under you, it’s like pure fluid sound. The ache abates, your heart hammers, your voice shakes, and becomes something treacherous. It belies who you were before he made you feel something greater than God. It’s as if the heat of your body will never cool without his hands. Don’t believe his whispered words, the chill along your skin a blue lit fired flame. Don’t allow yourself to make him any promises; don’t let yourself begin to think everything will always be this good.
It’s a ruse.
You’re just his last breath.
Lust is a liar… and love takes victims.
The light was dim, the soft, quiet sound of music sifting through the room. The familiar smell of cedar wood and sage made the fiction easier to swallow, made everything seem just as it should be as I moved through the apartment.
The muggy copper scent of horror hit me just as I walked past the kitchen.
“Selene.”
His tone was flat… stark… no man should ever look so broken.
My tear filled eyes on the gun, I reached into the empty space between us. “Don’t.”
It was silent as I walked across the marble floor. The deep color was rich and made me think of coffee. The click of my heels, one… two… one… two, matched my heartbeat, synchronized with each pulse. The spotlight lit my chair, my instrument resting in its stand. I swallowed down the nerves. No matter how many times I’d done this, I still felt like I was at my first recital. This was a rather large gathering, but still I’d played for bigger. The Monterosso Winery was slated to be the next big thing in Tribeca, and I’d been invited to play for the Grand Opening. The new money men and their arm candy surrounded my chair. The small sea of people parted as I walked over to my stool. The whispered conversation made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. They probably saw right through me. The hem of my expensive black dress hit just above the knee. The silky fabric was smooth against my skin. A hand-me-down from my best friend Renee. My feet ached in my cheap heels, but I was glad I found them; they matched the dress perfectly.
I was born Giovanna Selene Cavalier, raised in Brooklyn, the daughter of an Italian immigrant widow. My father had died of a massive heart attack just after I was born in Italy. My mother, Lucia, moved to the states to try and build a better life for her and me. She worked for Morelli’s Bakery off 18th avenue until she died of cancer five years ago. Every day at three a.m. my mother would lace up her black leather shoes — shoes that had slowly dulled over time — in order to prepare for her trek to the bakery. The age of the leather showed in each new tiny crease. She would then put on her crisp, clean apron that, by the end of the day, would be covered in flour and stained with food coloring. When she came home, her hair would be dusted with powdered sugar. She worked hard for us, and every day she’d come home more tired, and every day I felt the weight of her suffering. To this day, the smell of vanilla makes me sick. I can’t eat sweets. They remind me too much of her, of what I came from. My life, everything I’ve worked for, it was to be better than that.
My mother didn‘t give all of herself so I could just blindly follow in her footsteps. She always said my talent was a miracle of God, and I had to take my gift and grab a better life.
My gift wasn’t paying off just yet.
I took a deep breath and sat down on the padded stool. The familiar feel of the finger board set my racing heart to a much slower pace. This instrument, it was an extension of who I was – a part of my soul. The sleek curve of the wood, the low tone that vibrated as I pulled my bow across the strings, it was in my blood. This… this very thing was all I ever really cared about.
At twenty-eight years old, a late graduate, I had finally and just recently received my masters in Music from NYU. My scholarships were great for an undergrad, but I worked my ass off to complete this degree. I played for a small performance house symphony in Manhattan close to where I lived. It paid shit, and I basically mooched off Renee half the time. My waitressing job paid decently, but I still struggled. Renee was the daughter of one of the local investment tycoons and was living off her trust fund, trying her hat at being an actress. I’d known her since our days of catholic school, late night parties, and sweaty make-out sessions with boys in the back seat of her father’s car. Renee grew up so differently than I had, but we clicked. She didn’t care that I went to St. Ann’s on a work scholarship; she saw me for me, and since the third grade, we had been inseparable.