Page 113 of Hawthorne

Seven…

The pads of his fingers smooth the wrinkled skin on my face, between my eyebrows, chasing the frown away before he pecks it. My heart flutters at such tender gestures. They’re more and more common but still throw me off. There’s a severe change between the gentle Vincent and the fuck-you-until-you-can't-walk Vincent.

Six...

Then his lips lower, pecking at the tip of my nose.

Five...

“Someone could–” he cuts me off by placing his index on my lips.

Four...

Then it drags along my lipline, most likely smudging the lipstick.

Three...

With a sharp intake of breath, his forehead finds mine once again while my hands find his chest. Our breaths mix, and our noses touch while both of our hearts race. I can feel it underneath my hands just as I feel it trying to stomp out of my ribcage.

Two...

“I’ll find a way,” he whispers, imprinting the words on my heart and creating a spark of hope.

Maybe if we fight hard enough for each other, we stand a chance…

As soon as everyone yells one from the outside, his lips crash down on mine.

34

Camilla White

Two weeks have gone by, and my mind is still reeling from New Year’s Eve, and it’s been too much for my mind to endure.

From the daily attempts to read the letter but backing out last minute without the courage after seeing that portrait to Vincent’s words replaying in my mind like a broken record, I have been a mess…

I’ll find a way.

Find a way to what? He can’t possibly mean about us being together, could he? How can he find a way? There’s no way.

It messes with my brain and my heart. Ever since I’ve admitted my feelings to myself, everything has heightened in size and intensity.

Simple gestures, like a ghost of a hand in the small of my back, or when the tip of his fingers brushes my skin, bringing my hair out of my face, even the little stolen glances or the bolder and lingering ones, have been feeding on it. Every little momentmakes me fall harder, consuming me in such depth that once it stops, I’ll be nothing but wrecked.

Empty.

And then there’s that goddamned painting…It hasn’t left my mind either. My thoughts have been jumping between both subjects like a kid jumps between two rain puddles.

The similarities between His Grace Joseph’s mark and mine are uncanny. They are the same colour and shape; the only things that change are the location and maybe the size. What triggers me most is the fact that all pictures of him inside this property do not show that spot. At all.

Does that mean…It can’t be.

At least, that is what I have been telling myself.Can it?

It’s not like I can find any physical similarities with him. But have I tried? Maybe. The fact that I never knew who my dad was makes it all the weirder.

As I look at the letter that keeps burning into my skin, I struggle once more with the decision to read it or not. Every day, I try, and every day, I lose the courage, afraid of what I’ll find there.

Could my mother and Joseph Gotta have been lovers?No!

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