Chapter Text
“I do declare this feast to be most wondrous!” Don Quixote swings a cup of beer to the air, with Sinclair beside her, shaking his head frantically.
“Oi, lass! You might as well summon the Red Gaze with that level of noise!” I laugh, chugging beer down my throat. And like a script in a play, Vergillius's piercing red eyes penetrate Don from the other side of the room. She sits down immediately.
“Aren’t you a hypocrite? Your gulping alone is enough to make everyone here distort,” Ishmael chuckles, parallel to me.
“Oi, boatlady, go back to looking into your soup. I liked it better when you were quiet.”
“Nah, I had to speak up. You’re already drunk from a cup of beer.”
A sharp glare in her direction causes her smirk to widen, and a slight, uncomfortable sensation rises in my jaw.
“I sober up pretty quickly,” I bite back.
“Like to see you try.”
Some sinners around the table start sighing as if they already knew what was going to happen.
I look away before more words could rush out, searching for a drink to distract myself. The party seemed like the average extravagant money showoff. Whoever paid for this place clearly didn’t know what “enough” meant. The ridiculously sized ballroom had a red carpet separating the circular tables down in the middle. The carpet led to a small stage where Faust and Vergillius were found talking with a group of important-looking people. Rows of glittering lights hung above us, giving a warm atmosphere. Waiters and other members walked around, laughing and raising their glasses while a soft murmur of jazz music floated through the room under the thick layer of chatter. Our table was one of the three long rectangular tables draped in white cloth. Luckily, it was stationed next to a bar (or what appeared to be one). From the end of the table, Outis seemed to be yelling at everyone to not overdrink and misbehave, while Sinclair tried to hold in a giggle when she wobbled, trying to keep upright. Yi Sang is peering deeply into his plate of oysters as if it had the meaning of life written on them. Meursault, machine-like, scoops food into his mouth while Rodion chats away, giving subtle glances at the space near her.
“Oi, I’m going to–” I stop. No one is listening anyway. I lifted myself from the chair, its legs scraping against the floor and headed to the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, Ishmael’s gaze was following my movements. I don’t think much of it. Not yet
“Lad, one whiskey.” The bartender nods and shuffles to the other side of the counter, where two clearly drunken men sit. Only then do I realise my fingers were tracing the collar of my blazer. It’s a different one (lucked out on that one), but it still gives that well-heeled appearance: the obsidian, sleek blazer was worn over a black V-neck shirt and pants, complemented by a red tie. I snicker to myself. What would Catherine think? Would she tease me? Could this become a joke she would bring up in the middle of conversations?
Ah. I’m thinking of her again. She’s dead. Worse, she’s been erased from existence.
A cruel reminder, but better than the delusions that Don Quixote feeds herself. Remember.
The stool beside me squeaks as someone sits, and a cup of whiskey lands in front of me. By instinct, I look up.
No way.
My heart forgets to beat.
It can’t be.
Her light blonde hair cascades down her shoulders, her face round and soft, with a red, elegant dress – something I could see her wear. She, next to me, turns her head towards me. Her expression shifts into something resembling shock and confusion. Silence fills the small gap between us, staring with those… milk brown eyes.
She’s dead, ain’t she?
I checked everything before we left that manor. Every single detail.
Even her initials carved on the side of her bed disappeared. Not a trace of her remained.
Yet…
Catherine… I mean…
She is here.
And as if our minds connected, we exclaim:
“Catherine?”
“Joseph?”
Neither of us speaks. The bartender polishes the same glass twice while a booming laugh is heard over the music. Joseph? My name isn’t… Of course, this isn’t her, you bloody idiot. My hands grab the whiskey off the counter and gulp it all down in one shot. I smash the cup back into the wood harder than intended.
“Refill.”
The bartender shoots a worried glance. She watches in astonishment as my hands drag across my hair. Pull yourself together. She isn’t Catherine. When I look back at her, my mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. Her own drink came instead. She drained it all just as quickly – with more grace.
A minute passes.
Suddenly:
“Joseph, w-wha–what are you d-doing here?” Her voice trips from either the alcohol or the embarrassment – maybe both.
I blink.
Blink again. “Uhhh… I dunno.”
She pauses before starting again, “A-ah hah! You must be on a work trip!” She lets out an awkward laugh. “...That you mentioned about…rrrright?”
And without thinking, I reply, “I am.”
I’ve never regretted saying something this much before. She doesn’t actually think I’m Joseph, does she? Yet, the way she looks at me is too strikingly familiar, her gaze melting into my face. As her mouth opens to speak again, it’s almost as if she had said:
Heathcliff
In a voice that sounded like Cathy’s. I close my eyes for a moment.
The woman most likely sees a different face from mine, too. But when my eyes open again, Catherine’s in front of me, smiling as if she had never experienced death. It felt so, so real that I just had to. Before I realised what I was doing, my hand was hovering inches away from her face. She doesn’t flinch as my fingers brush against her cheeks.
Soft.
Fragile.
Like her heart could break at any moment.
Her body didn’t fade away like a mirage when I touched her. She’s real. The woman leans into the touch, her mouth forming into a closed smile. My thumb traces the outline of her jaw; the warmth of her face settles beneath my fingertips. Her eyes glisten; she looks like she’s staring through a glass panel. She’s looking through me, as though someone is standing where I am. The lights dim – or was it my vision? – The atmosphere becomes bluer and more intimate as a new song plays in the background, something resembling one for a slow dance. An odd choice for a company party.
Swore I'd seen you before…
…Somethin' in your eye
Reminded me of somebody I used to know…
“Heathcliff, what are you doing?” she whispers, sounding more like a statement than a question. Her face shifts into a gentler expression, her eyes looking like she’s watching a dream.
I guess this is a dream to me too.
The whiskey is set down with a dull thud.
The bartender clears his throat, “You two better not do something you regret.”
Neither of us answers. The bartender waits another heartbeat before giving up, muttering under his breath as he walks away.
“The only regret I have is leaving you.” The woman turns to me. “Isn’t that right, Joseph?”
Joseph. No. My hand reached for the glass. The woman takes it instead. She sharply inhales and begins to drink. Her throat bobs with each gulp until half the whiskey is gone. She brings the cup to my lips, whispering an apology. My lips press against the rim—a faint stain of her lipstick circles the glass. Cathy gently lifts the cup; she leans in until her chest is against mine and her free hand is on my thigh; I don’t move. I take slow gulps, the taste of toasted oak and smoke hitting my tongue cold until she takes it away. We held each other’s gaze the entire time.
My thoughts drift behind a curtain of clouds.
“It tastes good, Heathcliff.”
I’d never seen Catherine drink whiskey before.
She always hated the taste…didn’t she? I reach for the empty glass, only to knock it over instead. She lets out a small giggle.
She speaks again, “Never knew you had good taste.” Her breath presses against my neck, warm and tender. Cathy places her small hands around my shoulders as I hold her hips for support. The touch trails up my face to my ear, then to the back of my neck again. She was partially in my lap, her hair brushing against my skin as she buried her face into my chest. A glimpse of the empty glass tells me my face is all red. My lips curve upwards, trying to forget the numb pain of a future headache.
"It'sh... been a while." I clear my throat. "S-sorry. It's been a while since you held me like this."
“It’s also been a very long time since I last saw you. Didn’t think you wanted me this bad.”
This doesn’t sound like something Catherine would say.
A pause, my thoughts silenced. The music whispers into my ears:
…Somethin' from your touch felt shockingly familiar
And I swore I'd seen you before…
“I missed you.” It hurts to be without you, I almost let out.
“I missed you, too,” she replied, more sanely than I thought. “Do you dance?”
“No.”
A hard shift from her.
“Not at all? Not even a slow dance to this song?”
“No.”
Cathy pulls away slightly with her eyes narrowed. Our faces are a breath apart. Then her expression changes as she lets out a small smirk. “I think I know the kind of dance you’ll be good at.”
She studies my expression for a moment. Then smiles.
*
The mattress catches us as we land onto the bed in each other’s arms. Our lips collide, becoming more sloppy and desperate with time. She fiddles around my shirt for a button to remove while the straps on her dress slip off her shoulders. I’m on top of her, pressing my mouth against her neck. She gasps like she’s never been kissed before. Her voice whispers sweet nothings in my ears, and I whisper something back. And she’s laughing between kisses. Smiling like we’re not doing something shameful. I’m smiling too, devouring her floral scent like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. She touches me like she’s deep underwater, trying to find something to hold on to. I shiver when her fingers trace the curves of my body, and she shivers with me. My arms hold on to her like holding onto smoke, but they give some kind of promise. She brings me closer, arms looping around my neck so I lean into her ear. Recalling this later, I find it hard to remember certain things.
“You’re so beautiful.” Although I can’t see her. Our bodies are so close together, our breaths become one, and her chest rises when she speaks. The heat between us is burning,
so,
so,
hot. It was like wearing a wool jumper in the peak of summer.
The woman, Cathy, shudders as my lips peck soft kisses down her stomach.
“Oh, Joseph…”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Yet the sound of thunder awakens me. Clear. Thoughts rush through my head sharp like a blade, as if I had gotten control of my mind back.
I pull back to see her face, but all I see is a silhouette.
The warmth disappears, replaced by something cold between my ribs.
The name she calls me isn’t mine. It never was.
Joseph.
She’s been holding Joseph this entire time, like how I’ve been…
No, she has to be.
My fingers run laps around her face; it feels sharper, rougher and bumpier than before. Not the smooth jaw I remember.
“What’s wrong?” she urges. Even her voice, it’s… It’s not the same.
I reach for the lampshade, and the bedroom awakens. The woman under me is not Catherine. No, she looks similar but not identical. But… I had sworn she was…
Hell. She’s been dead for months.
Under me is a stranger with a flushed face and teary eyes. She’s looking at me with confusion, her eyes still clouded by the dream we shared. I push off and sit beside her, fiddling with the buttons on my shirt in an attempt to put it together. She sits upright too, a hand hovering over my shoulder. I lightly slap it away. Her eyes darken in response. My stomach drops. What have I done? How did I ever believe that…For all the things I fall for, this–
Then, words slip out when I try to contain a hurricane:
“You’re not Catherine, are ya?”
She takes a while to respond. Meanwhile, the icy breeze from a nearby window brushes against my neck and the quiet hum of people talking downstairs drifts into the room.
“Never was.”
“Bloody hell–”
“But you never truly believed it, did you?”
“Wanted to.”
She grabs my tense hands, and we meet eyes. “Look how much we have in common! You…You look exactly like him; you have to know that. Everything! Your face. Your voice. Even how you act! But uh…”
She staring at something. At my hand? No, at my ring…She shakes her head as if pushing away a thought.
“You look…” My throat tightens. “...Like Catherine.”
The woman’s smiling now, much wider and more strained.
A laugh bubbles in her chest. “I thought I was going insane. My Joseph, here of all places? The same Joseph who has loved every person he has come across…”
She looks at our joined hands, “… except me.”
Her grip tightens “Until– Until I– very quickly realised you weren’t him– at the bar – hehe, how cruel is this?” She laughs weakly. “That whiskey, I tell you.”
Her smile trembles. “He’s all around the world now; he wouldn’t be here. Some rich bastard, he will be. ”
She holds her head in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Backstreets scum…never deserved him…” she mutters. “...Maybe it was good that he was gone.”
I try to scramble words into sentences. “I thought you weren’t Catherine at the bar, too…”
“So, why did you put your hands on me like that?” She yelled in her palms. It startled me.
“I’m…”
She puts a finger on my mouth. “You wanted me. Regardless.” A dark longing flashes on her face.
“No–” My voice breaks.
“...Well, I wanted my Cathy–”
“Doesn’t matter; we’re here now.”
She launches forward, hugging me tight. I nearly fell on my back. Her lips land on mine once more. For a moment, I thought it was Catherine kissing me again. For a moment, I almost leaned in. But in a moment, I remembered:
Her heart is still broken.
I pull back, the kiss only being a brief brush on the lips.
“No, no! Come back!” She tries to hold on, but her faint grip doesn’t save her when I stand. She’s scrambling to get up but falls onto the floor with a hard thud – I bite my lip. My legs wobble like I’m standing on a tightrope. The woman was shrieking; I walked forward. Her screams echo through my skull; guilt rises in my hesitant pause. My heart thumps in my ears, my mouth dangerously dry.
“You–Joseph! Joseph! Don’t leave me again!”
She calls out for a hound of the same breed, holding onto its torn-off leash like a lifeline. She calls for him to obey, but I don’t bark. My fingers bite into my palm.
I turn to meet her eyes. She’s on all fours, every body part shivering as she clutches a half-put-on dress.
Her tears have completely drenched her face while her lips quiver. “Don’t choose someone else…again.”
My stomach twists.
“I’m sorry…uh.”
I don’t even know her name.
“I’m sorry.”
The door closes behind me.
*
My back rests on the steps of the stairway outside the building, every ounce of strength leaving my body. A drop of water lands on my face. Then another. And another. Heavily, rain pierces my skin like knives. None of them cut – no matter how much I want to bleed.
Another person is broken because of me. Another thing I have to fix. Gregor comes to me: he’s the type of lad to never speak a word of what troubles him. He instead soaks it all in, closing out his heart –until it’s someone else’s heart he pierces. Lucio, a pile of guts and blood, all wrapped around his extended bug arm, Gregor’s ragged breaths hissing through his teeth. He tries to hide what’s inside of him as Valencina insults him – until it’s out, erupting in a sea of cockroaches. What are we supposed to do when all we knew was who he was on the outside and his past role? Sure, we could beat him down until he comes to his senses. But– could we have stopped this before? Prevented it even? Only if we knew. Now he’s in the hospital with no promise that his mind will come back to him. Like now, I could give words of comfort, but it wouldn’t fix her desperation for Joseph. It wouldn’t help her move on. I could only give a Band-Aid fix.
“Aha!”
I leap while sitting, the hairs on my skin raising.
Then, a person with ginger hair looms over me. “Didn’t think you had it in you, you oaf.”
No reply. She continues, snarky, “So, did the devil’s tangle get you anywhere?”
A startled cough. “Mind your beeswax.”
“So, you DID do it!”
“Nothing happened.”
Ishmael closes her lips, her stare becoming more analytical. Softer, “Are you alright?”
I wanted to say no, yell at her for possibly following me and tell her to go away, but my mouth didn’t move. Even when she sits down next to me and hugs me, I don’t say anything.
“I thought ya hated me,” is what I said instead.
“Ehh, more like get on my nerves. I still fed Captain Ahab when she was sick.” She rests her head on my shoulder.
Whether it was the rain or the cold or everything else, I think I’m going insane. I wanted to grab my bat and smash everything to pieces, but at the same time, I wanted to be broken like a vase. I wanted to be alone, hidden within the void, but at the same time, drink in the warmth of Ishmael. I wanted to run but also stay.
I want to speak.
But she does instead, “Want to know why I was angry at you earlier? I was so tired from the Mirror Dungeon that I slept right on my seat as soon as I sat down. But, guess what? I kept getting woken up by your sleep talking – you sounded like you were having a nightmare.”
Images of the white room and Catherine opening a door flashes through my mind. Not a nightmare this time. Just the fear of reality.
She turns to face me. “Maybe I shouldn’t have tossed you off the seat but…” Ishmael flicks a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Who’s Catherine?”
My lungs stop working.
Right, no one remembers.
She’s been erased from existence. Only Clockface and I remember.
Is it better that way? Better to let her name forever ring in my head? Better to trap all her memories of her within me?
“No! Stop! Don’t you dare give me that look.” She places a hand on my chin to stop me from looking away. “No, something is wrong. Something did happen at your ‘turn’, didn’t it? I just… don’t remember for some reason. Look, everything that happened at that mansion was too tame. You can tell me, you know. You can tell us.”
My head shakes. In everyone’s ‘turn’, you live through a slice of their trauma and troubles – whether its watching from the ground as Sinclair climbed a tower of skulls to get to Kromer, screaming all the way up or acting in a play of Yi Sang’s life with The League before it crumbled. After all that, you always felt you understood the sinner better and that you could carry a fragment of their burdens. But when boarding the Mephistopheles to leave Wuthering Heights, they still hurled insults without a care or dismissed my thoughts.
Luckily for her, everyone remembers what happened in Ishmael’s.
She frowns. “Can you at least tell me who Catherine is?”
My eyelids are heavy, and my head begins to spin. “She was… She was someone I loved. More than anything.”
The patter of rain grows louder; she mutters something about already knowing this.
She wanted to speak.
But I spoke first. “How– How do you fix someone? Like you break their heart and apologise for that– but how do I…fix the crack where I broke?”
Ishmael’s eyes widen – most likely shocked that I could produce such a thought. I’m pretty sure she was about to bite back on me changing the subject.
Instead: “Sometimes you don’t, at least not right away. You stay with them, slowly gluing up the cracks. Or that the crack is so big it’s a sinkhole, so you form a new bridge over it instead of filling it. At times, your presence is just enough that you don’t need to fix it.”
“Thanks.”
“You can say th–” She shuts up immediately, knowing it’s a bad time.
“I messed up.” I admit, twisting the ring around my finger – the one Catherine gave me.
“Broken something, huh?”
“Yes, but her crack was old. Being with her would’ve made both of our cracks worse.”
We sit in silence, side by side, as cars drive over the puddles in the road, the reflection of the streetlights smearing like liquid gold. Our hair stuck to our skin, and the sound of rain mixed with the music downstairs. But–
The rain doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
“How about we get some drinks downstairs? Tell me everything you love about Catherine,” Ishmael says to the curtain of water droplets.
Any other day, I would laugh. Any other day, I’d pick a fight. On other days, I would want to drown myself in beer
But today, my answer was:
“Yes.”
I stood.
Because starting today, I’m going to speak Catherine’s name out loud.