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Jean loved someone who walked with the cadence of a nursery rhyme. She would get them stuck in her head, repeating them again and again and again. It was difficult for her to remember things if they weren’t sestena-fied, and her love for them only grew stronger as she began learning English verses.
Then, she began writing her own mantras. For years she observed the things that happened around her and whispered them to him softly in the silence of her and Jean’s shared bedroom. Creating phonaesthetically pleasing stories for special occasions, written as jokes, and lessons, given them as gifts. Jean tried to keep up with her, but she was always much better at it than he. It became a game for them; who could come up with the most to say. She was always the winner.
At fourteen, when Jean left for the nest he tried desperately to hold onto each rhyme she’d given him over the years. But in the eternity since they’d seen each other, they’d deteriorated in his mind along with his soul.
Jean held onto what he could; desperate to keep this last piece of his sister with him.
He breathed a nursery rhyme under his breath while he played exy. He’d written it for her– it wasn’t even one she’d composed herself. But reciting it became second nature. He clung dearly to her voice as he was dragged through the most despairing moments of his life. When on runs, each syllable punctuated his steps. He used each verse as a stopwatch, to get through his 60 second showers. And he used it to count his ten steps on the court before each throw.
“Hey Jean!” Ananya called out to him when he returned from the bathroom on break. She’d been Jean’s mark for today's scrimmage and somehow he found her enthusiastic tolerance for his aggressive playing style both appreciated and suffocating. She and Cody waved him closer.
Cody said, “We were just talking about you–”
Like that was a good thing.
"Do you hum while you play?" It was an innocent question, but had Jean frozen in place. Jean had experienced years of torment from the ravens when they realized his playing technique. It was another one of the things he’d attempted to hide that came out one way or another. He despised his rotten inability to keep his own mouth shut.
Not sensing Jean’s diffidence, they continued, "I've never heard of someone singing on court– Ananya was saying she heard you humming while you played– Or less humming and more like.. A rhythm maybe? And I was just.. curious.” They trailed off after being on the receiving end of Jean’s rueful look for a few seconds.
"It's a common tactic." He clacked the butt of his racket on the floor impatiently. This was not a topic he wanted to discuss in front of the team. "You could reap some benefits from it, actually."
The rest of the Trojan’s, forever nosy, had paused what they were doing. This was everyone’s business apparently. Jean held in a sigh and stared through the court glass. Pat said, “Does it really help with your playing?”
Xavier added, “I read that online once. Some exy players have trouble remembering to count their steps when they first start. A huge starting tip is to sing some sort of poem— y’know. Limericks, maybe?”
"I suppose singing could also help with excess nerves right?” Cat thought aloud. “Music beforehand always relieves my game stress."
"You would get stressed before a game." Jean insinuated.
Cat bristled, but Jeremy cut off the budding argument and smiled, "You sing, Jean?— what song?"
Jean glanced around at them. The team was watching him with simple, soft, open, expressions. Their questions were menial, but he couldn't give this away. He shook his head and lied. "It's french. You won't know it."
"Maybe you could sing it for us," Cat teased.
Jean opened his mouth; prepared a scathing retort about how badly she butchered the last french song she heard, but coach blew the whistle indicating the end of break.
The rest of practice was spent dodging curious Trojans trying to get close enough to hear his voice. They’d lingered in his space, refusing to check and steal the ball. It was easier to forfeit the rules of the game than break six years of habit and cease the humming beats that dictated his footsteps.
A piercing whistle cut through the court. It didn't do much. The game had already stopped when Jean threw his stick down and placed both his hands on another player. A few people came towards them to break up the fight, but it didn’t escalate. Jean just stared at them on the ground, breathing angrily, a cornered animal.
Derek Allen stared up at him, as he was helped up from the ground. He wasn't injured, thankfully.
“Moreau-!” Coach yelled gruffly, “What the hell was that?”
“Sorry coach, my fault. I’ve been practicing being encouraging on the court.” He cringed. “Obviously needs work.”
Coach fumed at the blatant lie, and eyed both of his players. “Take some laps– both of you.”
Jean ran until practice ended. Retracing his steps, again again again.
-
Jean doesn’t wake up screaming anymore and hadn’t in a long time, but he could still count on his brain’s unfailing ability to torture him in the night. His mind worked like an abundant scrapbook of every horror he’d ever witnessed, flipping through traumatic memories like snapshots. He looked around. It was dark. Always dark.
Nightmare residue flooded his head like water— A cage. Gurgling screams. Blood on his hands.
“Alright, Jean?” Someone whispered beside him. Why was someone beside him ?
A lamplight snapped on, but it didn’t matter. He stared unblinkingly at the ceiling that felt like it was crumbling down on him. A wretched scream built in lungs and died in his throat. He infallibly scratched at his rotten neck, struggling against horrors he couldn’t name. He hyperventilated in aching bursts that wouldn’t seem to end.
It wouldn’t end.
It would never end.
Jeremy got Jean sitting up, and held his wrist trying to pry his clawing fingers away. The first time this happened, Jeremy panicked and went for Laila and Cat, who were still on the couch, and all four of them painstakingly stayed with him until his panic abated. By the eighth time, Jean’s panic attacks were still nauseatingly scary, but it was less striking.
When Jean calmed enough to notice Jeremy, it took him even longer to notice Jeremy tapping a familiar beat on the pulsepoint where he held Jean’s wrist. Too coincidentally, it matched up with the one that was always playing in his head. A once silly nursery rhyme turned the 1st in a long line of heartbreaking mantras.
Exy was an agonizing escape mechanism. He and his sister released tensions pulled as tight as the nets in their rackets as they scrimmaged on the soft summer ground. Allowing themselves to forget their cruel parents as they inevitably collapsed, winded, in the damp grass together. He made her vow to take their practice session seriously, he had an important game and couldn’t spend any time messing around. A coach from America was coming to scout him soon.
Elodie was stellar at many things; exy was not one of them. But Jean-Yves couldn’t blame her when she made him repeat the rules each time she made an illegal move. She tried her best, he knew. The millionth time she tripped him up he swept her to the ground as well and her laugh lifted the dense air around them.
They stared at the clouds above, nevermind the wet grass stains that ordained their clothes. Nevermind the ache that slowly rotted them both.
“I can visit you in America, right?” She asked tentatively.
If the coach thought Jean a satisfactory player, there was no doubt he’d be sent to train in the US. He didn’t want her to cry, but he wouldn’t be so cruel to ask her not to. They shed quiet tears every night since they received news of the competition. Elodie seemed sure he would win. He thought about forfeiting the match, but an act like that would surely damn his family. Throwing away his duty in such a manner was as unbearable as abandoning Elodie.
He swallowed a lump in his throat, “Of course.”
The night before he left for America, Elodie firmly ordained, “I’m going to get good at Exy, just like you.”
Jean-Yves ached. He couldn’t speak above a whisper, lest his voice broke.
“I have a present for you. You can’t be a good player if you can’t remember any of the rules.”
Elodie grinned. “Is it a rhyme?”
He showed her his empty palms. “Obviously.”
“Elodie sprinting counts step after step.
Takes only ten at a time.
If you are throwing, then you are moving.
Make no more than ten, you’ll be fine.”
It was amateur and hastily made. Nothing comparable to her beautiful meticulously crafted ones. It was a dumb stupid tutorial that he’d written for her in a way she’d understand. It was mediocre, and a cruel butchering of anything she’d created, but she treasured it nonetheless. He could almost remember her voice speaking it. He hopelessly grasped at straws in his weathered memory.
It was a struggle; trying to retain good memories when they were so deeply embedded with pain. His captain was scrutinizing him, trying to see into the depths that Jean sunk into in moments like these. Maybe one day he’d be able to be completely honest about it all. But to do that he’d have to reconcile the fact that a memory was all Elodie would ever be.