Page 17 of Exposed
You breathe out through pursed lips. “I did some research on memory, while you were in rehab, learning to walk and talk again. The storage and recall of memory is a subject we understand very little about. But one thing I remember reading was that most of our memories, from childhood and things like that, we aren’t actually remembering the event itself, we’re remembering a memory of a memory. Make sense? And the farther we are away from the core event, the more distorted the actual memory becomes, so what we are rememberingmight actually be very inaccurate when compared to what really happened.”
This rocks me. I have to remember to breathe, remember to stay upright. “So... the few memories I do have, they may not even be real?”
I cannot trust my own memories? How is this possible? Yet what you say makes far too much sense.
“That’s what scientists say, at least.” A shrug, as if it’s inconsequential.
“I have so few memories. You, Logan, Rachel and the other apprentices, Len... you all have lifetimes of memories. A linear identity that you can hold on to. I do not have this. I have six years of memories. That is all. My identity is not... linear. It is... fractal. It is disrupted. False. Created. I am not me. I am a me that you created.”
“X, that’s not fair—”
“Itisfair, Caleb. It is the truth. You created me. You gave me my name. You gave me my home, my apartment on the thirteenth floor. You bought all my books, and if I have any identity of my own, it is in those pages. You taught me manners and poise, bearing and comportment. You asserted upon me my identity as Madame X, the woman who schools idle, entitled rich boys. What have I chosen for myself, Caleb? Nothing. You buy my clothes. You buy my food. You structured my exercise routine. I exist entirely within the sphere of your influence.”
“What are you saying?” You speak carefully, slowly.
“I’m saying you created my identity. And I’m beginning to feel as if it doesn’t fit. As I’m wearing a dress that is either too tight or too loose. Too tight in one place and too loose in another.” I pause to breathe, and it is a difficult task. “I am... unraveling, Caleb.”
A long silence.
And then: “You are Madame X. I am Caleb Indigo. I saved you. You’re safe with me.”
My outbreath becomes a tremor. “Damn you, Caleb Indigo.”
“I saved you from a bad man. I won’t let anything bad happen to you ever again.” Your hand twines into mine. There is sorcery in your touch and in your voice, weaving a palpable spell over me.
You pull me to my feet and lead me out of the museum.
Into your Maybach. Classical music plays softly, a cello solo wavering gently. I focus on the strains of music, seize it like a lifeline as Len slithers the long car through the sludge of traffic, taking us back to your tower.
Your hand rests on my lower back as we stand in the elevator. You twist the key to theP, forpenthouse. We rise, rise, and I can’t breathe. The higher we go, the more constricted become my lungs.
At the penthouse, I am greeted by the black couch, upon which and over which you have fucked me so impersonally, more than once, and I am panicking, gagging on my trapped, rotten breath, on the slamming knot of my pulse in my throat.
You step out, expecting me to follow, but I spin the key abruptly. Not for the lobby or the garage or the third floor or the thirteenth floor. Any floor, at random. You sigh and watch me, let me go. One hand in the hip pocket of your perfect suit, the other passing through your thick black hair. A gesture of frustration, irritation, resignation.
I do not even know which floor I get off on. I find a staircase leading up, and I climb. Climb. Until my legs ache and I’m sweating in my three-thousand-dollar dress, I climb. A door appears where the stairs finally end. I can climb no more, my legs turned to jelly. I twist the silver knob, push. The door sticks, unused to being opened, and then suddenly flies ajar. I stumble, lurch out onto the roof of the tower.
My breath is stolen, and I take a few slow, awed steps farther out onto the roof.
The city is spread out around me in the darkness of night. Squares of light glow from high-rises across the street and across the city. The sky above is dark, charcoal gray, a crescent moon shining low on the horizon.
When did it become night?
How long was I at the museum, alone, staring at the portrait? That long? I have no memory of the car ride back here, only the sensation of movement and blurred faces passing and cars, yellow taxis and black SUVs, and the cello playing quietly.
I move to the edge of the building, a long walk across white stones scattered on the roof. A silver dome twists off to my right, and to my left a fan spins in a large concrete block, roaring loudly.
Stare down, fifty-nine stories down at the sidewalk. The people are specks, the cars like toys. Vertigo grips me and shakes me until I’m dizzy, and I back away.
Collapse to my bottom, knees splayed out, unladylike.
I weep.
Uncontrollably, endlessly.
Until I pass out, until my eyes slide closed and sobs shake me like the aftershocks of an earthquake, I cry and cry and cry, and I do not even know truly what I weep for.
Except,