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I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Aline Dessendre breaks on a dark and stormy night.
Another version of her, an older one, one who didn’t die with her son, would’ve called it melodramatic; reflective of those dour and dreary English writers she so disparaged. This Aline hasn't the energy to care.
The house is far too quiet that night. Once, decades ago, she could hear the thunderous rumble of tiny feet as Verso and Clea chased each other throughout the manor. Rowdy, rambunctious children they were, despite her best efforts. Could hear Alicia chattering to Renoir or Verso, yelling as she fought with Clea. Could hear Verso at his piano, practicing a piece for the hundredth, thousandth time, or improvising a silly song to make Alicia laugh.
Now Clea has moved out. Now Aline will never hear Alicia's voice again. Will never hear Verso’s music again.
Now, the only sound accompanying her is the rumble of thunder, the steady patter of rain against the glass roof, and the faint hum of the atelier's newly installed electric lights.
Aline Dessendre stands before the only thing she has left of her son.
Verso only Painted one Canvas, stubborn boy that he is was, so determined to pursue music instead. A waste of talent, she always thought. A prodigy, to create such a Canvas at ten, and yet—
She always thought he resented her for forbidding him from music. He hid it well — Verso hid many things well. It was one of the infinite ways she failed him — but she could see a dimness in his eyes, an artificiality in his laugh.
It matters little now. She can fix it.
The Canvas looms over her. The chroma churns and undulates in its frame, casting a dim, shifting yellow light. It, the flickering electric lights, and the occasional strikes of lightning are all that illuminates the room. Shadows stretch long and hungry along its sides, surrounding her, claws poised to strike. She pays it no mind. They cannot find her. Not while she is protected in the light of the Canvas.
She stretches her arm out, reaching for salvation. The tip of her index finger touches the Canvas. Chroma shudders and ripples beneath it.
Lightning flashes behind the glass ceiling of her atelier. For a second, the room is cast in harsh black and white.
Then Aline steps into the Canvas.
-
She Paints Paris first. She does not call it such; no model could capture Paris in its grandeur, and she has no reason to try. She fills it with bodies and faces, torn from vague memories of those she knows and those she observes on its streets. Then she Paints the manor, untouched by fire.
A disgusting hesitation, to Paint what does not matter when she should be Painting the ones who do. She tells herself she is only creating the foundation for her family; no person should live in a vacuum. She ignores the signs of life left behind by the memories of a younger Verso and Clea; the carousel deep in a frozen mountain, a lantern trail in a dark tunnel, a cave shared by a beloved toy and a pet tortoise. Neither of these children exist. Not anymore.
She Paints a Clea who does not have to carry the burden of her broken family. She Paints a Renoir who managed to save their son. She Paints Alicia — she Unpaints Alicia — she Paints again. She cannot escape the fire. She hopes Alicia can forgive her.
And now there is no more excuse to hesitate.
It is not difficult to create life. Aline herself has done it thrice in her world, a thousand times more in Canvases. The real difficulty is in replicating life. Especially this life.
But when she finally begins, she does not hesitate. Instead, she is pulled forward as if a hurricane, torrents of light and dark splashing from her paintbrush. Her work is fevered but precise. Aline Dessendre demands and expects perfection. She does not fail. Not again.
She Paints black hair, soft, wavy, and frustratingly unruly. Pearly white teeth, a cheery fake grin. Long, elegant limbs — when did he become taller than her? Pale and flawless skin, befitting of an aristocrat. Unburnt.
It is convenient, she thinks with a twist of dark humor, that Verso’s injuries were incompatible with life. It made it easier to not Paint him with any, as she did with Alicia. She still remembers his screams. This Verso will never experience that pain.
She weaves music in his soul. Begins to fix her mistakes — then she hesitates. How many of her mistakes can she fix before he is no longer her Verso? God forgive her, but she doesn't want a happier Verso. She wants her Verso. She thinks she might be a monster for thinking so. A foolish, selfish part of her hopes that he, too, will forgive her.
(Neither of them do. They love her nonetheless.)
She keeps his masks, Paints in her memories of her son, every last drop. Fixes the world instead — in this world, without Painters or councils or expectations befitting an eldest son, Verso Dessendre will be allowed to be a concert pianist. Paints a mask on the world, lest anyone looks too deeply. A sweet, simple lie, one created to protect her family. In that regard, she is similar to Verso.
Blood-ink flows through his veins. When his heart beats, it beats in rhythm with the heart of the Canvas.
He wakes, lightning captured in his eyes.
“Maman,” he whispers.
He is perfect.
-
The world breaks on a sunny and pleasant day. Every day has been sunny and pleasant thus far; Verso doesn't know how many of them there were. Which memories are his and which are His.
The Fracture is unrelenting blasts of violent winds, a torrent of seawater falling like rain, stone falling like ash. He hardly remembers the aftermath, just that his sister and his mother are gone.
But they're not gone, he realizes, as Clea—Not-Clea, the Real Clea (we’re all real) glares at his father (not his father. A stranger Painted to look like his father. When did they first meet? When do Verso’s memories of this man turn into memories of the Other?) over the corpses of their fallen expedition, and rips out the veil over their eyes.
She ignores him entirely, as if he's insignificant. As if he’s too grotesque to witness. He supposes, to her, he is.
Before, she had waved her hand and created horrific, grotesque monsters. Hideous creations with misshapen limbs and vicious faces, arms like scythes, bodies torn in half. They slaughtered his expedition. Slaughters them, too, except then Verso and his father wake up.
“She made you immortal,” Not-Clea sighs. “Of course she did.” And she vanishes.
Verso rushes up the Monolith.
There, at the top is a—
Her body is made of cracked stone, held by golden chroma. Hair, white, floats like a halo behind her head. She doesn't have a face. The sky behind her is as bright and blue as it always is. The sun shines behind her. The tower (the Eiffel Tower, that’s its name) twisted and bent like smeared paint (it is smeared paint), is a silhouette in the distance. She doesn’t have a face.
She is not one of Not-Clea's monsters. She is God and Creator. Verso wants to scream. He wants to cry. He does neither.
“Maman,” he pleads, reaching out his hand.
She responds in kind, arm outstretched. Grasps his own. Her hand is cold and rough and painful, too powerful, too much. Verso doesn't let go.
Then he feels her hand soften. Broken stone turns into warm, soft skin, achingly familiar in his. He watches in awe as it spreads, until the stone is gone and the hollow gap of her face fills in and the only thing left wrong is her hair, white as his and Papa's and Alicia's and Clea’s.
“Verso,” she breathes. Smiles. Instinctively, Verso smiles back. “You're safe. You're here.”
I shouldn't be, he thinks. Isn't he what caused all this? That is what Not-Clea said.
Her other hand moves up, smoothing back his hair. Verso closes his eyes and leans in, a child hiding in his mother's embrace, foolishly pretending it will grant him safety. Her hand is warm. It is loving. Its weight is suffocating.
“You should go home,” she says, voice soft. “Forget what happened. I'll be back by dinner.”
How could he forget? All that fear, all that death — his death. Both of them. This is his fault, Not-Clea said. He shouldn't be here. He’s not supposed to be alive.
“Maman,” he chokes out, “What am I?”
She smiles beatifically, pale hair a halo, God Herself gazing upon Her favoured son.
“You’re alive.”