Excerpt for The Blue of Your Eyes: Prologue - Part 1. by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Xavier Rodrigue Blaudez


The Blue of Your Eyes: Prologue


Prologue and Part 1 only.

Cover and artworks by Yvonnius Chatelain


Published by Xavier Rodrigue Blaudez at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 – Xavier Rodrigue Blaudez



To Manon. A woman, who has formerly been a little girl that I didn’t see growing up, and who’s going to become a woman. Who’s still a teen, but who’ll become an active woman one day. And I already know, she’ll become an amazing lady. The woman I’m talking about grew up with me, despite the fact we are seven years old different. Sometimes, she pissed me off so hard that I wanted to kill her, but some other times we lived many moments of strong happiness which are ours, some nonesuch remembrances that only we could remember, but this woman, I can swear it, will become someone exceptional. She’s got a lot of hopes; she’s betting everything on a future that she is dreaming, probably inspired from the one I drew when I was in her place. A woman who’s lived because of her parents several shitty years during her growing-up, corrupted by projects and ambitions vow to chaos. This girl who’s missing me today, by the fact I am abroad, and she is in France, is struggling for the noblest fight that it could be, the one to fight against everything for the realisation of her dream.

So, Manon, this novel, with its four-year conception, is dedicated to you. Why? Because of me too, when I started, everyone told me that I would never have success. Anyone listened to me; anyone supported me, and all of it, and I think you are the only one to be the real witness. So why do I dedicate this novel to you? For bringing you a message. This important message, in the artistic life you also want to live, is that whatever the others could tell you, please listen to only one person: you. Carry on, stand up for what you believe, no matter the way you will take to reach your objective. Work hard, and do never give up. Because the only pleasure an artist could have is when work is listened. Despite the fact that I am far from you, in another country, I don’t forget you, and I still think about you, and I am probably the only one who’s standing with you for what you believe. So, if I had the shortest message to give you, it could be this: “For you, Manon, because I want your soul to become unbreakable.”




I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes; I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”


Marilyn Monroe (1926-1962)

Drug overdose


What’s next?

Prologue

Phase 1 – Opening.

Phase 2 – A party with Claire.

Phase 3 – Make me feel alive.

Phase 4 – Lumière du Matin.

Phase 5 – Endlessly…

Phase 6 – I will always love you.

Phase 7 – Meet Victor.

Phase 8 – My head… Damn, my head!

Phase 9 – The Chaos Theory.

Phase 10 – Once upon a time…






Charlotte de Varena

12, Rue des Peupliers

Flat 4

92200 Neuilly-sur-Seine, France

Monday, 7th of January 2013

Charles Marcovic, M.D.

Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital – Psychiatric Unity

47 Boulevard de l’Hôpital

75013 Paris, France.


My actually dearest doctor :),

How are you? I know I send some news about me tardily, but, as you know, I don’t like to talk too much about me. So, you encountered a lot of difficulties, with me, when I was your patient. Anyway, now, I can announce you officially, in front of God (even if neither you nor I believe about his existence), and as an honest woman, yeah, I feel better. I am officially okay. I managed to move on. I also wonder even if you remember me because there was a long time we didn’t see each other. Yeah, time is passing, but remembrances stay.

When you knew me, I was… how may I say… an insignificant creature? An odd person? Yes, I confess, I kept a part of traumatism in my head. Indeed, you know me, why would I change? Actually, that was the time when I was a young girl in the middle of… as you said it formerly, I quote you “in a familial conflict”, in the time when I was in a rather like mode “Hundred Years’ War”. When the French Republic and the United Kingdom were struggling in a battle directly at home that my mother wanted me to see you. Because, as you know, I am specific, I am unfortunately not alone in my head, and that was in the time when I didn’t understand exactly why my mother was breaking up with my father. So they wanted me to see you, instead of undertaking alone their collateral damages.

I have never cried. I mean, in front of you, never. We say that thing that doesn’t kill us make us stronger, but I think I have genuinely thought about the first meaning of this sentence. And I’d like to correct it willingly by a “the things that don’t kill us make us more stupid”. By the same way, we can also make this by an “everything that kills us makes us deader”, but I don’t think that… Well, you could again be able to say that I am a repressed suicidal, that is not yet… I mean that is not anymore my case. Hum… Yeah, my mistake, sorry.

Anyway, when I was saying that you probably don’t remember me, it was for all of that: the last time I saw you, I was twelve. Today, I mean in a few days, I’ll be eighteen, and I’ll become an adult, according to the law. I saw you because my father wanted to leave our home. And we… We were coming from a tiny town in the south of the country called Montpellier; my mother had discovered a few days before that I had a half-sister aged of less than one year than me. And this, if the French culture allows this (well I mean I am not pretty sure, but I think it’s allowed), the British culture is actively remaining opposed on this question. Well… According to the few knowledge that I have (I am today I think the lonely English girl of the world who didn’t stay during one complete year in the UK). And, yeah, so, we were alone lost in Neuilly with my mother after that my father left, to manage bills and all the rest. While my dad had some good time with his other girlfriend, taking care of his other daughter (I obviously don’t talk about my twin sister Clarisse, I mean another daughter, our half-sister) instead of taking care of us.

Well, I consulted you because… Hum, yeah because I thought that was my fault, all that happened because I might be disturbing too much – as my father directly reproached me – but you told me that no. I thought I was responsible, for a reason or for another, of the situation of which my parents were, but my mother, who was busy with his first teenager aged of more than thirty, couldn’t handle all of us. So, I learned self-sufficiency, I discovered self-education, and I also learned to manage myself for everything. Of course, I prefer not to lie; it wasn’t easy at the beginning.

Actually, during my first consultation, in first, I remember that I arrived late at the hospital. I thought that the ugliness of your building wasn’t anything other than a Tax Office, according to the death smell around, but it wasn’t, that was obviously a hospital. I didn’t know too much Paris at this time, and my mother couldn’t come with me this day. I remember that I felt alone into the waiting room because there was anyone to help me to carry everything with me and… I was thinking about someone I imagined, in my head, as if these guys were my imaginary friend. I had a lot, until an advanced age. They were the only one to bring me reassurance, with Mozart’s music and all the rest. I remember that I lived in a total loneliness.

Adam Weishaupt said one day that “people are born unfit as they are, they must be trained: every lesson learned is anything else than a test to confront the next one”. I was challenged by a lot of tests, and difficulties, the real difficulty when we are growing, from a young girl to a new teenager. That was the “Charlotte’s Crisis,” “Charlotte’s Gate,” I was growing up to become a new woman, and this young girl needed at these time her parents united in preference. During the whole year when you had the kindness to listen to me, I quickly understood that I couldn’t count on anyone. I still remember the time when, while leaving, you’ve touched like a friend my shoulder then said, “don’t worry, tomorrow, weather’s going to be good!” But I waited too much time for the sun.

My adolescence happened shyly: I tried to restructure myself after all of it, my mother found a new job maybe six months after the day when she broke up with my dad, then I… I went to school; then I went to the college now, but between that, however, I failed a course thanks to these problems. That wasn’t my fault, I mean… I think. I understood at this period that I couldn’t count on a man. And that on my expense. Even if my mother wasn’t here a lot because of her career but she stayed here for bringing me some encouragement, I can say that I rebuild myself in the anarchy and further in the detestation of others. But there was, however, someone for preventing me not to turn into the red, as I was alone and became out of control because of what you diagnosed, this person was my twin sister, Clarisse, of which I was sometimes talking about during the consultations. I mean… Yeah, when she came back home, around a year after everything began.

I’ve always rejected school, and I didn’t conceal it, today again. But my school-allergy became stronger after all these problems. One example I have is this one to illustrate all of this: as my mother is English, I am a polyglot, fluent in French and English but I still keep an English accent when I speak in French (because it’s considered as attractive). A French-native English teacher that I had gambled one day a while ago to correct me once. Correct a bilingual, daughter of a British woman, who learned English in England during her youth and who’s got a severe behaviour problem; it’s quite perilous. That was this woman who taught English in a Faculty who was coming TO ME to give me some English lessons. The humiliation which was inflicted, accentuated by the other guys’ criticism, who was making fun of the fact that Nature made me as a blond-haired girl, has only done one thing: my defeat was much more worst.

It reminds me that I didn’t improve myself only in the other’s abhorrence, but I did in something else, in the meantime: the fear of failing. My mother took too much time after this period of her life to forget (what I consider as a mistake from her part) the “most perfect love story that a girl can have with an asshole”. While everybody was pissing me off because I was the worst-dressed girl at school and everywhere else because I didn’t take care of myself, I was alone and confused, living far from everyone, solitary, taciturn, …stupid! Maybe a few times after consulting with you, I thought that it could be better that everything changes! I couldn’t be like I was anymore, I had to impose myself because I wanted everyone to talk about me, to stop pissing me off with mocking because I felt so much time in pain because of others’ mockery. When you stopped following me the beautiful day of the 12th of March 2008, at the term of fifty sessions of one hour each, at the cheap price of seventeen euros the session (£50.32, yeah… So much money spent for a small result), who finished when I was finishing the lonely courses that I failed. I was still the same waste that you picked up for listening all the complaints of the world in your cabinet. You just turned one thing right on me, because I decided to take care of me, as you advised me: I became a woman, and I metamorphosed myself… In worst.

During six months after this day, I was between Charybdis and Scylla: passing from the step of the spotty-intelligent girl I was before, with her glasses, who speak English and who can snob everyone because she’s got this advantage, to the smartest girl, always well dressed, every time wearing make-up for going to school. I felt like becoming the most beautiful girl who can make every boy crazy, and a bit naive, that was important to keep all the stereotypes that boys can believe about blond-haired girls. I took care of what I ate; I took care of me, I chose with inspiration the clothes I wanted to wear, and when I was fourteen that was the first time of my life I have worn heels. A small one, but worn anyhow. Paradoxically, the determination to win, while taking care of my appearance, my fierceness to triumph couldn’t be stopped while, evolving in every course at school, I inherited the title of the most attractive girl in all the middle school I was before.

I still remember the day when I changed, when I arrived at school, anyone recognised me. That was the first day of the new academic year. Everybody, both men and girls said with astonishment, “Oh, goddamn hell, Charlotte, is that you? Damn! You changed!” And me I answered proudly, “Oh, have you seen…”. All boys were on my heels. I could ask whatever I wanted, they obeyed head-on. But working the appearance was a fact, I knew if I was like this, my consideration might remain one day or two, but no more. I needed to work the hardest part of my transformation: a “fighter jet” (appellation of a French asshole to call a very attractive girl very impolitely) couldn’t be what she was before. When I was crushed by my many black-outs on the previous year, wearing his lonely coat and his roulette bag permanently on her back, always reading because I was afraid of others. I needed to be either less clever, whether I needed to hide my cleverness. Because it’s the same law for everything and even though I was young, I understood that: if you want to keep your regular customers, you need to give them two things, power in first, and newness in second.

I had to create a commercial strategy. I didn’t create by myself my new relationship with the others; I let them create this instead, or I let them believe they created our new relationship, which made them happy. Because they were “friend” with the most beautiful girl in their school. Becoming friendlier was the first key. I reached while appearing stupid and brainless a level of excellence with my marks because of a challenge between twin sister and me: who between us will be the best pupil in the classroom, with our results. For me, at the same time, I had a goal, which was deeply rooted in me and who never went away, which was genuinely written on my heart, that was to be the only one who could take every teacher as idiots they were without having the fear to be excluded because I was the best pupil with the best marks, the most sociable… A bit like the bad girl of the school, BUT… a pretty, bad girl. The worst student for the teachers, but a bad girl, the best friend of every boy who was running after me, this was… quite exciting, all right?

Well, instead of becoming an idiot directly, I preferred to show my new behaviour progressively in front of the rest of the world (not only at school), because as soon as I was back at home. I worked hard, I studied by myself really hard, trying to remember everything I could collect (for things like credit card numbers, licence plates, phone number… we never know, it may help at any time), trying to be interested in everything, even in the things that could piss me off, acquire a lot of knowledge in silent, being such a Hoover of data. Every information I absorbed when I was a young girl served me, I used to watch absolutely everything, but the way I used for learning more than I could become so much more aggressive. I pushed the limits of all parts of my brain, I strained my eidetic memory, because I had to be smart and intelligent, and appearing like an idiot at the same time. Proving to others that I could be what I was, the most beautiful blond who’s got smart clothes and a (naturally) f****ble ass, I needed to be careful with the image I could display and if I wanted to be the best I needed to hide a lot of things. And for conserving my supremacy of the “most gorgeous girl in the school”, I had only one weapon: the domination.

For dominating everyone, that was easy, and that was the first reason I chose to behave like an idiot. You need to act as if you were someone who doesn’t know, like a brainless person, in front of them. And then for them, you’ll become sympathetic. That’s true, who can be suspicious of an idiot? As the time was passing, all the guys were chasing me, all of them! So I succeed to all of my goals in the silent, I used to be as smartest and intelligent at the same time while becoming a drone of knowledge. Every day I used to keep my goals on first, until the day I was fed up and, the heels I used to wear were too high, I got blisters on my feet. So, I changed my look, but while keeping all the achievements I had before. Favours, sympathies, and… The changing moved as a letter in the mailbox!

Of course, in the meantime, my hormones were quietly working, my metamorphosis has obviously had an impact on my physical but also my perception of everything else, and that’s when I started to ask myself the right questions: okay, I wanted to dominate others, especially boys. But did I necessarily want to become the girlfriend of the first one I could meet? For me, I needed that the person who’s with me to be with me at any time, and especially supports me when I feel wrong.

And this is precisely here that comes to a girl called Claire. We met each other just the year I started to change, to be better dressed and that everybody was running after me. She was a new pupil. She used to live in Ivry (by the way, she still lives at this place) and began his year in the school in which I was. Well… So we met each other, we discussed a lot, I found her friendly, she reciprocally, we found many common points of interests, behavioural resemblance as well, and very quickly I started to talk to her about me, and you know how I hate to talk about me. Well. Until there, that was like a normal relationship between a girl and another. Nothing really suspicious.

Two months later, we became almost the two best friends of the world, and our relationship was so interdependent that were almost inseparable. She was a brown-haired girl, at the time she was the same age as me, but was not especially like me, a brilliant student. No, she had many difficulties at school who brought her mainly bad marks, but she was strongly passionate by painting. She wanted to become like Salvador Dali, but as a girl. And… we… Yeah. One day after school, I asked mum if I could go to her home, stay the evening and night. She accepted. And after having spent all the time playing, making many absurdities like two little girls of thirteen, we decided both go to bed. Then… I don’t exactly remember what she stole me but… Something, I realised, when suddenly happened something weird: I tried to catch what she stole me (which was in her hand, she wanted me to take it), and then arrived the famous scene between two people who strangely find both of them suddenly close. And then… I remember her beautiful green eyes, her awesome body… I don’t know what weird idea came over me; it was just a desire I guess: I kissed her.

Well, even today, we have an excellent relationship. Even though we broke up. But this event has probably been the starting point of our relationship. Today, we agreed to say that this event was the most beautiful thing happened between us, but obviously, we must put everything in the first situation: we were both thirteen, we thought perhaps secretly about sex but not as openly as today, for us it was a weird situation. After that I kissed her, the evening was terrible, for not saying explosive, and then… For maybe something like fifteen days after that kiss, we were avoiding each other at maximum like if we were a nasty disease. Apparently, neither she nor I have spoken to anyone about what happened, not even mother or sister. But two weeks after, actually, that was maybe stronger than me: I caught her somewhere (not “caught” on the way you could think, I repeat myself, we were thirteen, excited but thirteen… Anyone starts to make love at thirteen), and all the truths were said, I began to tell her that “Claire, actually, I think about you, I don’t know why”. And guess what she answered? “Me too, Charlotte, I still think about you.” We realised at this time a new side of our respective personalities: both of us were two lovely lesbians.

Well, nothing wrong with that, it’s just when I think back today, I have never been attracted to boys. Even today. So, we accepted to go further together, turn our relationship from the best friend to a girlfriend but in keeping an absolute secrecy, and there was, however, one downside that I had forgotten: My dearest mother. Why? Mum is homophobic. She considers homosexuality as a disease (I forgive her because she’s my mum, but still…), and obviously for her… if her daughter enjoys when her button is touched by another girl, it was like doing the dirty on her. We kept our relationship secret from everyone, but absolutely everyone for a year. Today again, just a few persons know that we were in love. During one whole year, we started to unveil each other step by step in another version, discovering inaccessible areas of our bodies and following day after day our desires, doing naughty things between girl until, well… removing our Hello Kitty panties because we were a little bit too wet. When I remember… that was a goddamn year full of great memories. I have never felt so much more alive than this period of my life. But one day, mum discovered us at home accidentally while she was trying to touch me up in the living room because I forgot it was Thursday, and she came home earlier from work. After having been shocked because we were undressed when it happened, she declared us a holy war which had for consequences, six months later (I was fifteen on this sad day) ended up with our break up because she put my current boyfriend in my way. Which I didn’t fall in love right away, but… We can say that was able to find the words to convince me. And my mother’s pressure to break up with Claire helped him a lot.

It remains that if our relationship was destroyed with Claire thanks to my mum, we continue to make love sometimes, even if Claire is now in a relationship with a guy. But it’s nasty, you know, I’m ashamed to confess this.

I discovered by the way that when we are in love, we can do everything: please her, the small daily cares, everything. But I didn’t understand why, but one day arrived, and she realised that everything was enough for her, she was overwrought about me to be so much nastier. And the jealousy proceeds as a poison who corrupt every vein of the body of our love, the woman I was in love turned herself against me, and I implored her to keep the secret until the end. She wasn’t bad, she stayed clean for me, and… Kept her mouth shut. That was all I expected from him. Around two years after the first most beautiful day of my life, thanks to my dear mum who thoroughly dislike the idea that her daughter was in love with a girl, she broke up with me. And I was like down, hurt a goddamn lot; I didn’t understand why I didn’t discover the thing… But anyway, I think that making love for the first time in your life when you’re fifteen, it’s a bit too young. Mainly when you’re thinking about obscenity with a same-sex person. Being destroyed a new time made me stronger in the worst because that brought me in a new way, I started practising psychology and, mainly, in the meantime: the stoicism. No feelings, no emotion, never show anything, anymore, as I used to do before. And a nonsense love of the result.

During a few times after our breaking up, the direct repercussion was that the darkest version of myself was coming out from the laboratories. That’s the one who’s still alive today again. There was my childhood, the period when I was folded on myself, and then there was the period when I opened myself to the others, right after, next to my first love break up, the period when… I was just worried about me, and nobody else. As well as my mother and my twin sister, I was only thinking about me, and I served only my personal interests. And then I met the next one – the guy of my life - not a girl but a boy… Homophobia can destroy much life… who’s… He’s the son of one of my mother’s friend because I didn’t want to have a boyfriend who’s at school with me, like the other girls in my classroom. While keeping my expectations, I just thought about one thing, the thing you know and that's protected by the medical secret. I am still with him today.

Anyway, the single thing which motivated me to write you finally, that was… To conclude. First, I promised you that I’d keep you in touch to tell you how… how everything is turning for me, but my life and my destiny wanted otherwise. Before I knew you, I was built in a particular manner; I was walking on a certain way. But today, I confess that I changed. I evolved, but to reach which goal? To win? No… All my learning, from the fact to read, to watch everything around me for becoming almost cerebrally sick, that was for reaching only one objective, the one to know. Know how were working the others. Know what the others thought. Today, even if I arrive to show what I am, I spend my time pretending that I help them, bringing them a hypocrite help, helping them to believe that they are not alone. Only because I hate them. Thanks to you, and to my learning in psychology.

Even today, on me, the stoicism is necessary, but I remained, however, faithful and loyal to my values. My friends, my boyfriend… I don’t know if I changed if I am the most incredible woman, but I exactly know who I am, and what I can do. I see what I can, and I know how to proceed in the case of the last crisis. I know whom I love, and I know for which goals I can fight and give my life for what I consider right and important. Now, in a few days, I will be eighteen, and I am about to make the biggest changing in my life, that I will become a woman who won’t have to justify any act of her life, and I am rather feeling good. There is now about three years than Patrick, and I are together (since I am fifteen, that to say three weeks after breaking up with Claire even if sometimes again I still do some things with her), and he’s a man who fills me with happiness. I will pass my baccalaureate at the end of the academic year, and… I don’t give a fucking shit to success it. Same for failing, but I know that I can’t fail, it’s so easy to get it. Because with my man, we keep for the project to moving to England. For his professional ambitions. Moving back for me, in the country, I always wished to be.

I don’t know what I want to make of my life yet. I mean, I’ve got a looooooot of money, and I can survive without working my entire life, but I would like to do something. I don’t know what to do yet. Alfred de Musset has said in one of his citations that “All the men are liars, fickle, false, talkative, hypocrites, proud and cowards, despicable and sensual; all the women are perfidious, artful, vainglorious, curious and perverted; the World is anything else than a bottomless sewer where the shapeless seals are crawling and twisting on mire mountains; but if there’s in the world a thing so holy and sublime, that’s the union of these two creatures so imperfects and so frightful. We are often deceived in love, often wounded and often unfortunate; but we love, and when we are on the edge of our tomb, we turn back ourselves to watch earlier, and we wonder: I often suffered, I was wrong sometimes, but I loved. That was me who lived, and not a dummy human created by my pride and my boredom.” I understood his quote. That’s why my choices are sometimes vicious, but they are always justified. I didn’t become a drug-addict, I arrived to turn things right because I have always tried to do, to prove that I was not an idiot, and I was able to become someone. No, instead of falling into drugs, I became a control freak, a narcissist with a particular love of perversion in my sexuality.

But, I have frequently been congratulated, and I have often been blamed as well! I have been too much time cheered for after being thrown me down like an arrow! Today, I hang myself to an ideal of life, an ideal of conscience, and, even if I sometimes consider me not as a person, I find the necessity of my intern peacefulness and… Anyway, even if I wrote the contrary, your work was a success.

For making a perfect metaphor, I can’t say that your job on me was useless. It helped me to progress. That’s a little bit like if my mother wanted me to come in your cabinet when I was twelve because I was peeing at the bed. That was before. To prove you that your work helped me to turn things right is that today, I’m still peeing again at the bed, but I totally don’t give a shit! I know who I am, I know towards where I can go. I needed to learn psychology to have a better understanding of what it is, of what I am, and not for someone to apply it to me to the process to change my mind. Because anyone can change. Nobody changes. You can hunt the natural, it will always come back like a dark horse!

You diagnosed me, I cite you, a “manic-depressive illness with a psychopathic tendency”. Soooooooooooo sexy, I think that never a man could talk to me like this. It made almost me wet. I was about to fall in love with you, at this moment, do you believe? Anyway, that was… I don’t know, no, I am not so sure, that’s not entirely wrong. But it’s not right, on the other hand. Anyway, if I was upset, and if I was lying to myself, I could treat and consider you as the worst of dickhead (as my mother did when you gave her back your diagnosis. While said that her daughter is anything other than the evillest cunt that you’ve never met BUT with sweet words… understandable), but no. No, me, I relatively accepted your opinion about me. When I think about, you have only done your job, a job for which you were a bit too much paid. Instead of terrifying me, your diagnosis reassured me. Where’s the problem to be a psychopath, and suffer from manic depression illness? Yep, that’s true, I am bipolar, and I am proud to be. Sometimes I am all right, yeah, I am feeling good, and I’m feeling happy as if I couldn’t die one day as if I was joyful. But in some other times, I’m feeling wrong, so sick and dirty, so disappointed, the life burden is so heavy to carry that I am on my bed. Lied during some long hours, locked in my bedroom, to wait with determination until the only deliverance: the day when I’ll die.

Psychopath? Yeah, likewise. But okay, the seventy-five percent of my friends are psychopaths. Included my twin sister: she’s able to become sick only for studying, able to cut all the communication between her and her boyfriend, not to think about him, only to the goal of having good marks at school. A psychopath is what? No, it’s not necessarily the picture of what everyone has, this one of an isolated guy, living far from our world who’s killing everyone. No, a psychopath is someone who’s unable to recognise when he’s wrong, unable as well to say sorry, ready to do all he can for making triumph his interests, whatever the human capital who’s engaged to him. And that’s a perfect portrait of… yeah, me! Contrariwise, being anything could make anything of me, and the fact to have from you this honorific distinction, at least, that make me someone. That has made than the smallest Charlotte becomes the monster Charlotte de Varena, which I have done all I could to for becoming this, alike it’s reconnaissance. More than this, your diagnosis includes the fact “obsessed by the revenge”. Here, no, I don’t know what I can say… Isn’t it evident? You told me something… who was clear? We need to understand what it is: only a psychopath has got a real sense of the familial values, a perfect knowledge of the human relationship, he’s just an expert on the topic!

No matter about the model girl I became. On the other hand, you hesitated to classify me as a schizophrenic. Here, it might make me upset; it would suggest that you were incompetent, and incompetents do not follow me. You wanted me to go to consult a psychoanalyst. The thing I refused, because you know what we say: love is better when we are two, not three. And then, you know better than me that psychoanalysis is the lonely sickness who’s camouflaged as a cure. And I have a short story about schizophrenic that you maybe won’t love. One of my friends was a schizophrenic guy, and he wanted to kill himself. But he failed. His second personality was the first aider. I maybe became cynical, but isn’t it the achievement of a cycle of life corrupted by the familial distortion and hormonal disorders?

Anyway, you should know then… In the end, if I gave so many efforts (I mean… yeah) to write this letter, which was also for having some news about you. Someone told me that you were always working at this hospital. And all right I confess, I sometimes think about you. To all these moments I was depressing in front of you because I didn’t want to talk about my life anymore. You sincerely and changed my way to observe the world and my perception; you helped me when it was important to modify it. You’ve changed my life. And that’s why I sometimes think about you. Today, for concluding, I am the first to proclaim high that the psychologists and the psychiatrists were the only scammers not to have enough talent to become mediums. But happily, you’re the only one into whom today again I keep a big consideration. I hope that you will remember about me today… I hope that you’ll answer me!

Best, kind, lovely and warm regards,

Charlotte de Varena





Life is a game. It’s nothing else than a game. Okay, a weird competition, but I consider the life in general as a game. And our lifetime, comparable to a videogame, in which each of us is an avatar, but a particular avatar, who’s got his signification. Anyone has come on the Earth for nothing, and none of us has, to rightly say, “any signification”.

In this game, there are no explicit goals. Neither than specific ways to go. No places to live, no road to take, nothing… We are just the commanders of what we think and what we want. Those avatars live on a planet called Earth, and they are commonly called “humans”, they have got their version of the game, with their goals. But it remains nevertheless some laws, some rules, into which all the avatars must obey. But yeah, these rules are different, depending on your geographical position on the Earth, but those rules are somewhat the same all across the World. The only thing that makes the difference is that nobody lives in the same place. That’s why that all those parts, all these explored lands by avatars have received the appellation of “countries”. For justifying that, why the rules could be different. Justify the difference.

In all those countries, in all those “versions of the gameplay”, there is not necessarily difficulty. It depends on where you are born and whether you’ve been loved by your parents or not. But there’s, however, roles, that some people are occupying for the functioning of our society. We call this “institution”. We can also call this “work”, and these activities that every avatar practice for (as they say) making evolve the human race. But these institutions have got casts… I mean classes, which are divided like that: there’s in first the category of people who create laws, rules which are framing this game in which we are inside, and are therefore automatically by this place, beyond the rules that they create. We call this category “politicians”, sometimes really close to the one that we call “scammers”. But the first and the second classes are sometimes mixed up, because of money, I tend to believe.

Under them, there is the one who enforces the application of the rules that the highest class decide, we call this category “state workers,” “bureaucrats”. There’s also the one who is here to conquer new territories for their avatars; we call them “soldiers,” “policeman”, or some like this. Again, there’s the category that forces us to remain alive in this game not really funny, and this group is called “doctors,” “first aiders”, and all the rest. For forgiving that we are in the darkest mess, for making this game funny and surprising to live, we have the class called “artists”, as below: “architects,” “singers,” “directors”, and all those people. There’s the category here for explaining what is not explainable to a simple-minded, how the world has been made, thanks to which graphic motor, and we call those people, “scientists”. And for the rest…

In every country, we’ve got a different history, we’ve got a different lifestyle, and all of it makes that it’s an important setting because it helps to classify all the avatars in our society. There’s the one who was born with a lot of money, the one who was also born with a talented dad, or mum, or both, and there’s the luckiest, the one who lives with an important pheromones quotient, and the rest. It belongs to each avatar to find by themselves a way to be in the world, and then to hope for one day to control the Game. Or at least controlling his own game, by either being the smarter, whether being the stronger or if we are neither the first nor the second, to be the shadiest. Because in this game, the honesty and the integrity are nothing else than a waste of time and will drive you right away on the wall.

Every nation has its own tools to bring his avatars into the light, but you need to know that the best-known avatars are generally American or English. That’s a question of natural selection, I think: two nations in the globalisation, speaking an international language, so, of course, opened and turned to the world. Two countries who were able to bring their avatars into the light, contrarily to some other, which wants the most ferocious and most ruthless ranking, which’s slowing down the construction of each of its members. It depends on the country where the avatar is coming from. But the problem remains the same, wherever you are: if you’ve got degrees, if you’re beautiful, or if you’ve got many physical advantages or all of this, so you can easily survive in the avatar’s society. Even if you’re a male or a female avatar. Oh, yes, why do I see everything in such this way? Just because I believe that the title of the game into which we are, it’s “which of us, avatars, will survive and improve the human race?”

Well, for me, whatever your condition, having a good opinion about the fact you are alive and healthy makes that you are either stupid, either in a total denial of your life, it’s like if you lived despite the right way to think. Well, I mean… yeah, that’s my personal theory. Is that true? How do I consider my version of the game? Only on five points and rules. First, I consider that everybody lies, in the morning, in the middle of the day, and in the evening, but for me, a human is totally unable and not parametrised to tell the truth. Second, always suppose that the most dangerous people for you are not the one who live far or are breaking your door, but they are the one who lives with you. I know, that’s wonderful to live in my head. Third, always trust on your acts and your convictions, and your facts, because in the world, you can count only on you, mainly on our days, in our messy society in which we are living. Fourth, if the collective of the humanity considers himself as human, do never consider them like this and consider everyone as your potential lackey. Because the world is like this: you’ve got any ally, any clearly identified enemy. Everyone is a potential target. And for finishing, fifth, always remember that there’s only one thing that will remain: this thing is not to love, neither to recall that someone loves you. It’s not to mathematically prove that you’re the only one who will arrive to become someone in your work, neither to be the only one who arrives to have sex with a lot of people. That’s not to try to prove that you are someone good or bad. Same for trying to show that you can become someone better or worst. No, if there’s something that’s got much importance than everything, the single thing which will make the difference amongst the human race, the only thing which will make what you will become, that’s only your results. No matter considering the people which are engaged with you, whatever they can think.

My life has never been a fairy tale. By the way, I never trusted on this kind of bollocks, even less today, but if there is a thing I am sure, it’s that. The one, the first one who said that they “lived happily and had a lot of beautiful children”, this guy deserves only one thing: a bullet between his eyes.



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What? You don’t want to continue?

// Before… I mean “A new day has come” …

// My bedroom, in my home, Neuilly-sur-Seine (Suburb of Paris, France).

// Wednesday, 9th of January 2013, 07:10

A ray of light came into my room. I was in my bed, quiet, thinking slowly, rested and relaxed, and I could almost collect this soft glow of light, to glimpse it, to feel it as if it was a flow of energy which was recharging me. It was going through the curtains, as tiny as it might be, to light up a bit my room, illuminating to some sweet gray morning light. It was so relaxing, although weak, it was almost palpable, flying through my room while landing in our bodies and every surface that it could find. It wasn’t coming from the sun, who didn’t apparently have enough motivation to rise. It was the end of the moonlight.

I was feeling good in my bed. The warmth under my bed sheets was rather sweet and pleasant despite the fact that the room was still into the darkness of the dawn outside. I was feeling the leg of my boyfriend, who was sleeping close to me, telling me into his body language to stay with him instead of going out. Yesterday, before to go to bed, I just drew the curtains quickly, because we were rather busy. Yes, I live now for more than six months with my boyfriend. His name is Patrick. I was still wearing the satin nightdress that I use to wear when we are together doing… things. I was looking through the curtain, in the right side of the bed, just before a small path leading to the bathroom. Those last days, I have trouble for sleeping. My nights are really short, probably because I am overstressed (no matter what I am doing before sleeping), and it’s annoying, it makes that I am bad-tempered in the following morning. It’s probably because, today, I am eighteen. Perhaps… that’s only suppositions. Suppositions, it’s a bit for me like ambiguity, and I hate it.

My eyes were almost open, ready to face up to the brand new day. The warmth of the bed, my boyfriend just next to me and his breathe, it was like if some skipping stones were flowing along my neck, it was bringing me a soft feeling of happiness, and all of this was enough for making this me a bit joyful.

In the dimness of the room, I was looking everywhere. On the floor, there were our clothes of yesterday which were still left, after having removed it a bit strongly in a moment of incomparable excitation. My desk, just in front of the bed, is as well a disgusting mess. Even if I’m the only one to use it. My boyfriend uses it sometimes, even if he prefers to be sat on the bed, the laptop on his legs, thing which is not good for his back. Generally with his girlfriend close to him. But actually, I was looking towards my wardrobe, at that moment, while slowly waking up, on the opposite side, where this glow of light was going.

My lovely wardrobe with their mirror fixed on doors where I use to be in front for putting makeup on my face was on my left. A tremendous closet, some huge mirrors were covering all of the five doors, along the wall. The first four on the right are for me, and the last is for Patrick. My boyfriend uses just one. As I am a girl, I have got so many, many, many, many clothes. I think I can dress up the entire Paris, with my complete collection. Well, I have got many, but everything is already full on every shelf, and for the rest… Well, actually, everything is stored like that: in the first, there are my clothes for the winter, and my underwear as well. In the second one, there are the clothes that I use every day, same as the third one, and in the last one, it’s entirely dedicated to my shoes. And, I would say “obviously”, the mess is everywhere within the wardrobe. The last one is dedicated to Patrick and his poor amount of clothes. It’s normal, I mean… He is a man, it’s the difference. I still remember about a day, when my mother went there, and she screamed. She has lost something and believed it was in my wardrobe, and… Guess what? She is today still looking for it. Anyway yes, I confess, I’m definitely the Queen of the Mess. Psychologically, “An office or a bedroom in a mess is evoking” … Damn, I forgot the rest of the citation.

The five doors of our wardrobe were at that moment barely opened, and I could only see that my parts were messy, I should clean it. In front of that, there was the quite large space between the bed and our wardrobe, where there was our clothes and shoes from yesterday, almost hiding the small red carpet which was appearing purple in this dark. Oh, and there’s also behind the second door of my wardrobe, there’s my… I mean my so-called “wall of assholes” that I could barely see, with pictures of all the people I don’t really like, just for mocking them. This is who I am. I turned my head for being flat back, and I saw my TV, a flat screen installed just above the desk, which… is always turned off because I don’t really enjoy watching TV. And in all the right side of the room, because my room is arranged in a rectangular form, there is my huge window, hidden behind my curtains, which were here for hiding the balcony just behind. Yeah, there’s the neighbourhood and mostly, a high street after the balcony. And this, every morning, I am always wakened up because of the noise of the overexcited Parisian populace who was driving towards work. Unfortunately, our flat is poorly soundproofed. The funny thing is all the vulgarity they use to yell at someone else, it’s always hilarious to listen. I like it, it makes me laugh, when I am woken up before the alarm ring.

Actually, we are not living on a principal street of the city, but many buses lines are passing through it, mainly because my town is in the suburb of a major European capital, Paris. It’s not a huge street, but the traffic congestion is really frequent here. Very common. But anyway, it’s Paris, and the French capital wouldn’t be what it is without its congestion. What would Paris be without the traffic jam? But it’s always funny to hear them swearing. I really think… Sometimes, when my mother drives, it’s like survival. Survive here, in the roads, because it’s the jungle. But for the moment, I was enjoying the calm, to feel my boyfriend sleeping next to me, I was appreciating those last minutes of calm before that the war resumes.

Everything was still in the dark. A single barely active thread of light came in my room, coming from only one place: the streetlights. I was in my bed, now more awake, and my sweetheart was still really close to me, sleeping like a log, and all of this was relieving. He was in his side of the bed, turned towards me, and his face was in peace, almost kissing my arm. So I slightly pushed his head to look at him, and he felt my movement, and he realised that it was me who needed comfort. Maybe I was in his position, I was flat back, but barely back to a beautiful night. He was there, peacefully sleeping, and his eyes closed, his mouth shut, and his peaceful face that I rather like to look. Then I thought, what could he wonder, at this time? What could his dream talk about, into which hollow or more unfathomed depths of his brain is he now? His face features were so calm, and he moved his head on my chest afterwards. A new day has come today, and this day isn’t a day which will seem like another. He loves me. I know he loves me.

In winter, night is coming rather late. The sun sets later. Well, nothing’s exceptional, it’s the same in London and in my non-native Devon, it’s the same everywhere. But the Devon is a place that I especially love, even if I go there only once or twice every holiday, it’s always an attractive place… I mean, I love campaign. So the sun rises late, but Mum loves to be in the darkness. Because yes, she was already wakened up, preparing herself to go to work. But the whole flat is still in the dark, because I think that sometimes, she compares herself to a cat who sees in the dark. But the thing she enjoys above all, it’s singing, because it’s something that turns her in a good mood. She’s always good-tempered in the morning, unlike me. It’s mum, even if she’s tired… Always, always such a… such a goddamn bad singer, even if it’s making her happy, she ALWAYS needs to sing the morning or to whistle. Sometimes she sings so awfully that it starts to rain when I go to school. No, no, I am very serious, I’m not kidding!

Anyway, thanks God, because she was not singing loudly, she knows that if one of her songs comes to wake up either me or Patrick, it will lead to serious troubles in the house, so… But in general, while listening to her sometimes, her performances are so poor and so appalling that I can’t resist laughing. And if someone makes me laugh in the morning, especially in the morning, that person needs to be excellent… Or need to be in a relationship with me. But yeah, if it’s the thing that makes her happy, so that’s pretty good. But I learned at my expense that when she’s not singing in the morning, it is a very bad sign and that it might be better to stay calm the whole upcoming day. Even if obeying, it is absolutely everything but my kind. I didn’t figure out the difference between obeisance and enslavement yet. According to my specialists, it might take time.

Except for my mother who was delighted to destroy All by Myself in the kitchen in sotto voce, I was also listening to the traffic outside. The many car horns and swearing that still many drivers were saying just because (I suppose) there was an asshole in front of them who was annoying everyone. I suddenly imagined very quickly this driver who was bothering the other drivers, who might be stressed out because he slept on the sofa because his mistress is missing him. And he probably wants to call his wife, but she hangs up her phone because she is pissed for x or y reasons, the reasons why every man use to say, “women are all the same”. This same driver who goes to work with the damned desire to come back home, because he knows that his boss will piss him off like his wife, and… I mean it’s classic. Then based on this data, I may understand why he replied to the guy who was horning him behind (and said after horning by the way “move your damned ass, you asshole”) by something like “asshole”, “dickhead”, “son of a bitch”. But it was just before he invited him to go for having a (let’s stay polite) coitus with the person who delivered him (for apparently hide the fact that he said aggressively, “fuck his mother”… yes, we are in PARIS) then I took myself to imagine “what would I do if I were in his place?”

My imagination worked thoroughly when I listened those profanities, all of those honking that I was now poorly hearing, and all of those insults which become almost inaudible when I watched the hour at my phone, in the nightstand. I still had less than a minute before my clock rings. It made me sketch a slight smile on my lips. Anyway, this morning, I realised that I didn’t have much interest to smile. I started to yawn, while I was continuing to relax by enjoying the sensation of Patrick’s breath on my body, those ricochets that each microparticle expired from his lungs were twirling on my skin. That was so good, so sweet, so pure, that was something that gave me absolutely any desire to get up. I wanted to stay here, at home, and enjoy the time I can have with him. But my life prefers when I am pissed…

Perhaps a minute after having opened my eyes, I looked at my alarm clock, it was now displaying 7:29, which let me less than some seconds before my phone rings (because they are perfectly synchronised). It’s rather my cell phone that I allow to wake me up because the thunderous noise of the clock radio has an important impact on my mood of the day and consequently on the nerves of my mother. I mean, according to several studies that we observed a bit every morning when I was angry with her due to this. I watch my boyfriend again, and I still saw the same expression on his face. He was quiet, and serene as if he didn’t care about anything, as if life had never destroyed him one day. And then this day, it’s now the result of the War of Independence in Charlotte’s countries, and the crowning of her as Queen-Admiral-General-Dictator inspired from North Korean policies (this is the metaphor to say that I am eighteen today), but this day is not the same for my probably future husband.

He has exams today, for a training that he was following for now four months. Because he didn’t find a job in what he wanted to do, and therefore he was forced to reconvert himself professionally. Yesterday night (before we were busy, as we’ve been alone the whole evening, mum was dating someone, and my twin sister was with her boyfriend) he was quite stressed, anxious. And I tried to be there, giving him some advice, I helped him to revise, providing instruction about how to stand in front of a jury because he’s extraordinarily shy. Now, at that moment, he wasn’t feeling well anymore, he has put his head on my shoulder, he moved a bit towards me, his head was pushing against the strap of my nightgown…


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