The sixth sense

Chapter 1

Lili

Dear Adam,
I don't know what to start with. You won't believe me, but I'm writing this letter in a red notebook that I'd bought earlier today in Carrefour. It's almost three a.m. but I'm still wide awake. I remember my father writing letters to my mom back when he was still in love with her. And now I know why he was doing that because when your soul is overwhelmed with emotions, you need to spill them.
Adam . . . I don't know where you are now; I never got your address. That's why I'm writing this letter knowing you will never read it. Too bad, because I really want everything to be different. I'm in Paris now, Adam—just exactly where you live. Life is such an unpredictable thing, isn't it? Five months ago, in Italy, you met Lili from Lausanne. And now I'm here. More than anything in the world, I would love to see you again and explain everything. You know, insomnia has become an essential part of my existence. It's like an unwelcome guest whose visits bring nothing but sorrows, deep sadness, and solitude. To be honest, I never believed those emotions were real. I thought they were the reflections of weakness and an inexplicable craving for misery. But I'm sure no sane person would ever suffer willingly or choose to drown in their pain and agony.
The worst part of it is that I have no idea how to break out of that state. Just look at me, I've become too trivial—I'm mooning over a guy! Thank God, you will never read this letter. Or you would be laughing at me for the rest of my life, saying, "Ha! You've got it very badly over me, Lili!" And I would start denying it the best I could and call you a self-assured idiot. I'm writing the words with tears pooling in my eyes. I've missed you so much!
I've dreamed about a million possible ways to see you. I would imagine meeting you on one of the Paris streets and run straight into your open arms. Like I said, I've become too trivial. My feelings and sorrows return to hit me at night. And it's killing me, Adam. My pain is irritably crushing, but sometimes it's so good to let it take me away, live it, feel it. Because it means everything that has happened between us was real. I'm sure you would be surprised to see me in Paris.
Everything here is new to me and I can't wait to share my emotions with you, tell you everything and nothing. The unfamiliar is everywhere around me. Even my room—it's so Paris-like. With the white walls and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling decorated with dainty molding and a marble fireplace with a golden-framed mirror hanging over it. Too fanciful, in my opinion. I hate the mirror that catches my every deep frown, my tired blue eyes, pale skin, and dark hair that feels a bit too dark to go well with the fairness of my skin. But I'm only eighteen, and like my grandma would say, my youth is my salvation. Though not even youth can hide the dark circles under my eyes . . .
I really love my small balcony and floor-to-ceiling Parisian windows. And despite the pompous mirror, the room looks very ascetic thanks to the dark wooden modern furniture and simple bed with gray linens, where I sit, scrawling.
The worst part of the room is the parquet floor that won't stop creaking, annoying me to the core. It must be the same age as the rest of the building, which I'm sure, has seen better days. Every time I take a step and the floor begins to creak, it feels like it wants to tell me something about my room. Who knows, maybe a hundred years ago, it belonged to Mademoiselle Gabrielle Puissant, dreaming about becoming an actress. A coquette to the bone, she could have dated her young admirers in this room. Or maybe it belonged to a devoted catholic who would cross herself every time she saw women like Gabrielle. However, it doesn't matter who lived here before me. The biggest advantage of this apartment is that every room has a separate bathroom, or I would have to share one with my stepfather. It would be a little awkward.
Here comes the headline of the day—now I have a stepfather. His name's Jerome Delanie. He's fifty-two, divorced, and has a daughter, Emma. She's my age, mate. Jerome owns a restaurant chain. Mom quit her previous job and started working as his assistant. They met during a business forum in New York where she went together with her former boss. I have no idea why she never told me about Jerome. Maybe she didn't know if what they shared was worth telling about, or maybe after my father cheated on her she couldn't trust any other man. I don't blame her for that. Everyone has a right to privacy. I never told her about you either, Adam. You're like a sacred piece of my memory that I don't want to share with anyone.
I'm dreaming about being with you in Italy again, enjoying the bliss of the Italian sun and kissing your lips. I want to forget everything that happened to me after that trip. Who would have thought our story would have such a stupid finale, but I refuse to believe it's the end. It can't be the end, right?
Sorry, I lost my train of thoughts . . . I was telling you about Paris. What can I say? It won't be easy to get used to my new life in the city. First of all, because it's much bigger than Lausanne. The moment I saw the subway map with an endless net of stations instead of the two I was used to, I almost panicked, Adam! And second, there're so many tourists here! You, the Parisians, most likely never notice them. When I, in turn, get lost every time I find myself in a crowd of strangers. The beauty of Paris is no doubt inspiring. I love the casual Parisian glamour and freedom. They remind me about you. I know, I know you're Italian! But you're a true Italian Parisian and don't you dare try to argue with that. I'm sure you know what I love most of all about my new life. You're right—the fact that now we live in the same city. But there's more to it . . . I'm immensely happy to see how delighted my mom looks these days. I see sparkles of joy in her eyes, I hear her laughter and I realize that true love is a blessing and there's nothing better than to love and be loved.
Moving to a new country in March, four months before the end of my school year and graduation exams wasn't the best of my decisions. Back in February, Mom asked if I was ready to move so that she and Jérôme could start a new life together. She looked so nervous I couldn't say no to that. It would be pointless anyway. The education system in the French part of Switzerland and France is the same. So, what's the difference where I pass the exams? Besides, it looked like Mom finally let go of the memories of the terrible accident that happened to me.
The past five months haven't been easy for anyone of us. It turned out Jérôme was a great support. You know, Adam, I often think about how lucky I am, because what happened to me wasn't anyone's fault. . .it was just an accident and I survived. Now I have a giant ugly scar at the back of my hand. It's still red and I can't wait for it to pale. I hate it with all my heart. Everything turned upside down the day I got it. That night I lost a tiny string that bound me to you. I shall confess . . . that Friday night, I was waiting for you at Lausanne's railway station. I remember watching people leave the train, but you weren't there. I was searing the eyes of everyone I saw, hoping to meet your familiar gaze but a miracle never happened. You didn't come, Adam. The clock hands were moving forward, taking away my hope to see you again. But I'm not mad at you. I wouldn't come either if I were you that day. I understand your reasons. You didn't know anything, Adam. But now we live in the same city and my hopes start blooming with a new force. It would be a delight to see you again. I know there're millions of people living in Paris. I know it's so naïve to hope for an accidental meeting. But love, hope, and nonsense have always been best friends, walking side by side.
I often recall our Italian vacation. No, scratch that, I live for those memories! Remember you showed me the sculpture of Gian Lorenzo Bernini at Borghese Gallery? I still remember you walking me to it, wearing your worn, torn here and there, gray shirt that clung to your torso and biceps. Your wavy chocolate-brown hair was in a slight mess. The forelocks were falling onto your face and you wouldn't stop removing them, which didn't help a thing. I'll never forget your sparkling eyes and your boyish smile. I loved your casualness. You rounded the sculpture, saying in a professional guide manner, "The Rape of Proserpina. Proserpina is the Roman name for Persephone, the goddess of—"
I stopped you mid-word. "Spring," I said, letting out a breath and then studied the statue. "She was also the queen of the underworld." I looked you in the eye and added, "And a chthonian goddess."
It's my favorite story of ancient Greece, Adam. I'd never been a romantic soul or fond of sappy fairytales. But when I heard the story of the beautiful Persephone and Hades, something inside me clicked.
Looking at Bernini's sculpture, I wouldn't stop admiring the talent he possessed to create something so stunning from a piece of cold and dead stone. Flawless lines, soft, flowing fabrics, and emotions, and which is even more amazing—the feeling of real touches. The artist managed to catch the moment and say with a stone everything the characters felt. When you look at the sculpture, Proserpina looks so tiny in Hades' arms but when you take a closer look, you realize that the figures are of the same size. And you can't help but swoon at the beauty of Hades' arms! They reminded me of your arms, Adam. They're the arms you won't stop starring at. The tenderness he holds he with—it makes you forget you're looking at a piece of marble. Bernini made the stone alive and it's pure magic!
I think you could see an undeniable delight, written all over my face, because you suddenly said, "Lorenzo created this sculpture when he was twenty-three. Later he'll say, 'I subdued marble, I made it plastic like wax.'"
Goosebumps ran all over my arms. I caught your hand and laced our fingers, whispering with acute fascination, "He did it, Adam. He subdued marble."
You didn't comment on that. You stood near the statue, studying my face. No doubt you were dying to say something like, 'I can't believe you're finally impressed.' Because we'd been to so many places and seen so many things before that, but just when I saw the statue, I felt tremors running through me. It looked like you couldn't understand what hit me so hard I couldn't move. But you kept your thoughts to yourself, letting me share mine with you.
"You know, I always liked villains more than knights in shining armors," I said, excited. You squeezed my hand as if telling me to continue. "I told you once that I think all the positive characters are alike, which is why I find them a little boring and too predictable. Though villains never stop surprising you." You didn't stop me or try to interrupt me. "Noble villains are my favorite. They do good things regards the evil living inside them. Does it make sense?"
You nodded wordlessly as if afraid to scare me away with your words. You looked like you actually wanted to hear more.
"The stories say that Hades, the god of the underworld, was bewitched by Persephone, the goddess of spring. He kidnapped her and made her become his wife."
I looked at the statue, showing the moment of kidnapping. It revealed so many emotions: terror and fear of Persephone, her desperate fight with the kidnapper, Hades' stubbornness, and his power over the fragile girl. And near them, there was Cerberus—a three-headed watchdog and the loyal servant of his master. 
"I always wanted to read the alternative version of that story, where the beautiful Persephone chose to stay with Hades, despite everything he did. Do you understand, Adam?" I searched your face, dying to see your understanding and acceptance. You looked so focused and I felt like you understood so well everything I was trying to tell you. 
Your genuine curiosity made me proceed. "The young girl realized she didn't need the light and that she was ready to dive in Hades' darkness. Persephone managed to see a different side of Hades, and it made her eat the gifted pomegranate that symbolized marriage. I often imagine that moment . . . small blood-red grains in her palms. Maybe she wanted to return to the clearing where she met Hades for the very first time. Maybe she dreamed about feeling the dew beneath her feet, the smell of roses, the sun rays, and the wind playing with her hair. Instead, she would put her palm in his, saying, 'I'll be your queen. Be my king.' Do you understand, Adam?"
Your only response was a kiss. You cupped my face with your palms, and I stood on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around you. I melted in the moment and the kiss we shared.
You knew exactly what I was talking about. You could feel that too. It was so easy to fall in love with the light but much harder to fall for the darkness. Because everyone has a dark side, the one that we never show anyone, but want someone to love and accept it. The side that hides our grievance, pain, anger, fear, and torments. And love is the only cure to heal it. But how do we find a person who won't run away at the sight of our pain? How do we find someone able to love our darkness? Kissing you near Persephone and Hades' statue, I thought you were the one for me, my Acheron, my Hades, my Pluto. I romanticized you, I knew it.
Maybe our love was nothing but my fantasy. That thought hurts so bad, I can't sleep at night. The memories bring back the beautiful feelings until I return to my reality where I don't know where you are, how to contact you, how to find you, Adam. Everything used to be different. I could kiss and hug you, and just be with you. Our Italian vacation was the best in my life because I met you. Maybe that's why I'm writing to you at three in the morning. I'm trying to hold onto our past, reliving it over and over again.