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amélie.

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Amélie is 15 when she meets him.

She can’t exactly recall the exact location—a forgotten stairwell leading to the top of the theatre, in the hallways where someone would blast some annoyingly poppish song at the exact same hour every day, or out in the courtyard when Amélie picks at her meal in an uneasy manner. He comes to her with a rose in his hand and a gentle smile, a dangerous combination that makes her want to fall in love. Amélie is idealistic.

“And your name?” she asks with a grin.

“Gérard,” he replies with a laugh, and Amélie’s heart clenches in the most insidious of ways.

 

Amélie is 20 years old when they marry.

There’s a lot of arguing after that. Gérard frustratedly tells Amélie that he doesn’t want to spend all his life in Paris, dancing the world away. That offends her, and like a wounded animal, she becomes more violent. She tells him that he can go without her. He tells her that this is a chance for him to do something meaningful, to give himself peace for what happened to his mother. It’s that line that stops Amélie, and guiltily, she agrees.

They move to Switzerland and Amélie continues to dance there. Gérard only grows more distant, and Amélie finds friends in other places.

“What have you been up to lately?” she asks, picking at her salad. She doesn’t look up—she doesn’t have to.

“That’s classified,” Gérard replies sympathetically, and Amélie scoffs. Figures, he’s never home. He misses her opening night. She misses him.

 

Amélie is 25 years old when she begs.

He comes to her in a roller, blood and shrapnel everywhere. It juts out of him in disgusting ways, a grotesque image that leaves her unsure if she wants to cry or throw up. (She does both, but she never tells him that. She’s sick for days after that, and she never tells him either.)

“You have to fix him,” she pleads with Dr. Ziegler, eyes wild. Without him she has nothing left. Without him, she is alone.

Angela looks at her, unsure. “I’ll do my best.”

It’s not enough.

 

Amélie is 26 years old when she kills him.

There’s a mail opener on the nightstand. That’s the offending weapon. She hears the gurgling and the shocked cry and she doesn’t listen, all she does is continue to stab, and stab, and stab , until his neck is a bloody mess and she’s sobbing and she knows that she’s done something immoral. There is no place in heaven for a woman like her, but what else was she to do?

She can continue to feel the crawling of legs, the crunch whenever she moves. Spiders. It makes for an ironic nickname when she’s picked up by Talon operatives, who laugh at her tears and decide to experiment on her. She can’t say no. How could she?

 

Amélie is 27. For a time.

And then Amélie is no more.