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To Keep No Secrets (Chapter Six added)

Emerson · 2006-12-24T04:20:06Z

All critiques welcomed! Though, WARNING : Since this is my first draft, I'm taking a bit of a NaNoWriMo mind set to it. So, all critiques are welcomed, but keep that in mind. Major things like character development, settings, plot, er. big stuff like that. Point those out to me please! the minor things, sure, if you want to and all(they'll help anyway) but in the long run, i just want to finish the whole thing, then rewrite it. ----- Prologue Reader, can I ask you what a crime is to you? Is it the rape of an innocent little girl who put herself out on the street in the first place? Is it making a scam to receive money from the government? And, without said government, would there be no laws? We are told there are rules of nature: life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. I have a dictionary close at hand right now. Crime: 1. An action or an instance of negligence that is deemed injurious to the public welfare or morals or to the interests of the state and that is legally prohibited. 2. Any offense, serious wrongdoing, or sin. 3. a foolish, senseless, or shameful act Dear Reader, don’t you see? It is obvious that I, Lev Kosovich, have committed no crime. Despite what is written, I have never so much as swerved from the “right path”. My only hope is that I can convince you of this truth. Chapter One “Don’t worry; I bought it under the name Alfred Douglas. They won’t know it’s me and they won’t be able to find us. They don’t even know I’m married.” I shut the car engine off and pulled the keys from the ignition. I had chosen a cottage on the outskirts of a German city by running my fingers over a map until I decided to stop. I spoke no German but my wife did well: French, German, the occasional English—but never, under any occasion, Spanish. While parked in the drive way, I managed to slip my hand onto her knee and squeeze between palm and finger. “How do they not know we are married?” Her lips quivered. “I married you under the name Parker Hesse.” Fleur was a mix of sick genetics. She looked Irish (red hair, blue eyes, freckles), spoke French from birth, and her parents were American. She grew up in England (not learning English until she was seventeen) then moved to France. Not a year later, she met me. “I guess we should go inside,” She looked like she was going to vomit, but made no effort to open the door. “Lev, I’m worried.” “Just get out of the car and we can talk about it later.” “But I have this feeling that if we get out of the car, we will die because they’ll be able to find us. The car can protect us.” “Forget your feelings; just get out of the damn car!” Once inside, I persuaded her to think that the only reason I yelled was because of the stress I was under. It makes me laugh; I am a terrible liar, yet no matter how foolish the things I say are she will believe me to the end. The house smelled like dust, and I was beginning to regret not having taken the tour before buying it. “It’s so bare. Where is the furniture?” said the incompetent house maid who also played wife. “I just bought the place, should it really have furniture? They’re shipping the fridge, stove, dishwasher, mattress, etcetera today.” Those were bought under the name Alfred Douglas as well, but Fleur would be the one answering the door. She had a fear of strangers, so I didn’t let her in on this small detail. If I could answer the door for her, I would, but I cannot risk being seen. “Did you get a coffee maker? I’d hope you did.” “In fact, no, I didn’t. Will that be a problem?” “No, I suppose not,” she wandered into where the kitchen was supposed to be, “Mon Dieu! You should see the stain on this wall!” “Is it glowing?” “What? No, but it’s huge. It looks like someone vomited on the wall and just left it there for a few days.” Her voice sounded far away and it made the house feel hollower than I knew it was. “Then I don’t care.” “You never care. Do you think I should clean before the furniture comes?” “Clean with what?” I walked through the different rooms and tried to imagine what it would be like if we lived here for more than a year. I would have to shoot myself if that happened. “Well you know…We do have water.” “Just leave the place alone, this isn’t our home it’s our hideout.” “Can’t I make it comfortable?” “What for?” “Oh fine, you win…” I heard her slump against the wall like a toy being dropped by a distracted youngster. I stepped out into the front room to stare down at her, maybe even sit beside her. I wasn’t completely sure. “You look really pretty when you are trying to be cross.” “But I really am cross!” As I sat down, I kissed her lukewarm temple and rubbed the dimple on her chin. Fleur was soft, her face rested easily in my palm. She was as soft as the petals of her name. Fleur is flower in French, for my readers who are not as lingual as my darling. Her delicate cheeks turned rosy and a giggle escaped her lips. There was a heavy knock on the door before our lips could finally come together in their own form of intercourse. We were so ready to act as newlyweds would in an unfurnished house, but my rose jumped and her head hit mine. I found later in the spot a quarter shaped bruise. “Fleur, darling, go answer the door,” I whispered. I pressed another kiss to her forehead and went into another room to hide. She followed behind me, “You know I’m scared talking to strangers! “Just let them in…” “But I don’t—“ “Let them in!” From the other room, I thought I could hear the stupid pigs talk to my flower with her nervous voice. Hello, mattress delivery. He-hello, could you bring it in for me? What, no one to help you? No, I’m…home alone. Well then, we’ll have to bring it in, won’t we Jeb? Yes sir we will! I could see the creepy smiles those pigs might have on their faces as they glared at my wife’s ass. Fleur stayed quiet while they brought it in; I’m sure she stood in a corner, arms crossed, trying hard not to scream. After I heard the mattress drop, there was no discussion, no question, not even a flirt or proposition with my wife as I assumed might occur. Door close, tire squeals, and I was out of my hiding. They had laid the mattress in an unsuitable place: where I had planned the kitchen to go. It made me wonder if they had seen the vomit stain, and thought we might like to sleep near such a vulgar thing. I didn’t give it much thought; instead I came back to what I had been doing before anyone had interrupted. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I asked as I sat down on the mattress. Fleur had already been seated, as if she knew we were to continue our game. “You know I don’t like talking to strangers.” She stared down at her feet. “Come on…You’ll get over it soon, right?” I kissed her temple as a way to cheer her back up “Maybe.” She giggled and pulled at the buttons of my shirt. Never would she unbutton my shirts but instead pull at the buttons as if her efforts to undress me were futile and I would have to help her. I guided her fingers through the task, and soon we acting just like the newlyweds pictured in my mind earlier.

Riedawriter23

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Points 4890

Reviews 516

Sat Mar 24, 2007 8:02 am

Riedawriter23 says... · Sat Mar 24, 2007 8:02 am

Ah, narrators POV this time, interesting it didn't affect the story in any way it was actually nice to finally just look at what was going on

. And I only had a feeling that the person in Alexei's shop was Felicion. I was glad to find out it actually was because I was starting to get scared when he asked where Fleur was, I was thinking somone was coming after her. But it was only her brother *sigh* lol thank god, If poor Fleur was killed.... I don't know but I'd probably be very very sad.

I loved this one! Great job!

Can't wait for #7!
~Rieda

I love, love.
*This wonderful crit is brought to you by CCF!*

Shadeslayer

Gender

Points 890

Reviews 9

Sat Dec 01, 2007 5:40 am

Shadeslayer says... · Sat Dec 01, 2007 5:40 am

Bravo! Bravo! you should be very proud of yourself! i have been hooked on this story since the moment i started reading it

I Should Have Complete Faith In My Own Existence, Because In Order To Be Decieved About Anything, I Must First Exist

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Poetry is my cheap means of transportation. By the end of the poem the reader should be in a different place from where he started. I would like him to be slightly disoriented at the end, like I drove him outside of town at night and dropped him off in a cornfield.
— Billy Collins

To Keep No Secrets (Chapter Six added)

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