The coldness of the inky blue depths of the sea throttle me as my lifeless body is whipped about the churning waters, thrown into the rough black reefs. If this were real, maybe I'd marvel at the beauty of the world under the sea. I'd reach my arms out to stroke the delicate green fronds of seaweed that pepper the sea floor, trail my fingers over the resplendent hues of the coral that lines the reefs. Crabs, shellfish, and other crustaceans lazily traverse across the sand, their shells glittering as they catch the tiny pinpricks of light that shine down from heavenwards and come to meet the lowest depths of the earth. An octopus scales the floor, its tentacles grasping at jagged rocks and harsh crevices and yet, so used to the terrain, it doesn't hurt itself. Not like me. Its body dips in and out of focus, camouflaging with the sandy floor before it melts into a forest of lush green sea grass and disappears from view. If this were real, maybe I'd take joy in seeing the life all around me.

Or maybe I wouldn't.

Maybe I'd be bitter seeing all this life around me when I was stripped of it myself. Had my own heartbeat stolen away from me, replaced with only silence. Lifelessness.

The empty quiet between the ticks of a clock. Forevermore.

A shoal of fish sidle up beside me, hundreds of them, their tiny smooth bodies a harsh juxtaposition to my bruised battered one. For a moment I am jealous of them. They know their place in the world. They have their place. They are born with it, live with it, die with it. Their eyes rest upon my body for a few seconds as they linger in the stillness, the silence of the ocean. There is no noise down here, only a looming emptiness that envelopes everything. Then, in a few flickering movements, they are gone. A trail of bubbles in their wake as they dart away from my corpse. I watch on, wordlessly, from an invisible yet omniscient third person viewpoint as my corpse is tossed about the ocean.

A cold emotionless voice breaks the silence of the sea. A cruel laugh. A harsh discordant sound. "Broken. Forevermore." The clairvoyant fortune teller woman from years long ago. A lingering echo of my past. A reminder that even dead, I cannot escape the curse that plagues me.

My hair is like a dark gossamer as it trails away from my head, the long strands wavering in the current, desperate to reach the surface yet still anchored to me. A thin ribbon of blood flows from a cut on my arm. Like smoke, it weaves through the water, floating onwards, upwards. It doesn't quite reach the surface though.

Drawn into the nostril of a large vicious shark. There is a whole shoal of them now. A shiver. I remember now. A term from a rather exuberant outdoor environmental studies class from early high school days years long gone by now. A school or shoal of sharks. Or a shiver if one feels dramatic. Right now, I do not feel melodramatic; just cold, so very cold. As if all light, all warmth from the world is gone. Shiver seems to be the most apt word right now.

As those dark scavenging creatures approach my dead body, I can't bear to watch. The echo of the fortune teller's voice rings again in my ears. No. I can't watch as my already broken body descends into further disrepair. Disrepair. The word is so mechanical. Something you'd use to describe a machine. A malfunctioning automaton. Is that what I am? Nothing but a tangle of damaged wires and machinery? But I still feel. I feel coldness and terror wash over me as the sharks round up around my body. And somehow that fear gives voice to something. A scream.

A silent scream.

The savage waves whip away my voice. Muffle it with their immense force. The sharks are closer now, rapidly approaching me. I remain watching as my battered corpse is about to be to torn to pieces, unable to do anything to prevent the deed from happening. I am already dead. I died a solitary death. Abandoned by the world, left to the churning mass of blue that feeds so hungrily on me. And now, I shall die again. Alone. Again. But this melancholy empty thought forces my voice from me again. A shrill cry. High and terrified. Wavering with fear. It's loud, this time. Real. No longer stolen by the darkness of the water.

Real.

And suddenly I am awake.

And no longer alone.

*

"Evangeline Leger! Wake up! Jesus. Wake up!" The voice, taut with fear, tugs me, drags me back to reality and suddenly I am aware of a sustained high pitched note. It trembles in the air. It's me. I stop. Tears blur my eyes as I snap them open and sit up in the bed in one fluid movement, clutching the silk sheets to my bare chest, pulling them tight around my body like a funeral shawl. But no, I am not dead. It's funny and rather sardonic how often that thought trails across my mind.

The sharp bright overheard lights threaten to break me out of the dreamy hazy that lingers in the wake of my nightmare. Still not quite fully aware of what is real and what isn't, I let myself be enveloped in the strong sturdy arms that reach up to hug me. I watch as the silken sheets ripple in the light. Everything is still blurry. Not just because I'm not wearing my glasses but also due to the bleariness of being awoken at some odd hour in the earliest moments of the morning.

Awoken in a slice of the empty time between days.

The arms I clutch are safe, familiar. Rafe. My heart skips a beat. And my breath hitches as the tears continue their ceaseless journey down my cheeks. He strokes my hair comfortingly, murmuring quietly.

"Shh. It's okay, Angel." He gently prises my hands from their tightly locked position behind his neck and, hands on my shoulders, holds me at arms' length, studies my eyes intently. "Do you want to talk about it?" I gently shake my head and hear my long dark waves of hair ruffle slightly as stray tendrils brush against the silk of the sheets and trail over my shoulders down my chest, covering me. Then I lean closer to him, letting my chin rest on his shoulder, eyes closed. And contrary to what I've just indicated, the words, so very like my tears, spill, haphazardly, uncertainly, out of me.

"It's a reoccurring nightmare. Almost every single night. The curse. My curse..." I feel Rafe tense beneath me. He rolls his shoulders. No doubt questioning my sanity. "I am broken, Rafe." I manage to spit out bitterly. I laugh a cold, mirthless laugh. "The deathbringer... she said."

"Every night? Curse...? What? Who said?" Rafe's voice murmurs, his voice echoing my words but with the wavering tilt of a question at the end of each statement.

"The fortune teller. Years ago. The disappearing woman, the impossible clairvoyant. I bring death and misfortune. She was right. I do. I did. Have." I ramble. Then I shout. "It's true!" Dissolve into sobs. "It's my fault. The death. I didn't mean for it. But she was right. Those closest... broken. Broken body against the rocks of the Nile. Forevermore. And now I am haunted. Every night. In my dreams. The deaths... they come to me." I sound utterly loopy. Loopy. Such a strange word. I laugh. "Loopy. I sound loo-py." I sound the word out phonetically.

Rafe gently brushes my hair out of my face. "Leger," He says gently, "Are you drunk?" I shake my head. And suddenly my voice is crisp, clear.

"So very tired. It's the sleepiness talking, the nightmares." Rafe gives me an uncertain glance and goes to pull away from me, unwrapping my arms from around him and the silk sheets drop away from me, falling to my waist and Rafe follows the ripple of lights up the sheets and starts, eyes widening as he realises that I am naked. He turns away. My long thick hair covers my front though, the curls cascading over my chest. There's not very much of me to see. I grasp at his wrist, tugging him back toward me.

"No. Stay." I demand.

"I can't." He mutters, determinedly keeping his back to me and trying to break free from my hold. He tries to pry my fingers off one by one, but I don't let go.

"Why?" A flash of last night sparks a memory in my mind. "You have a girl here. Don't you?" I accuse.

"Yeah, you." He attempts to laugh, forcing his eyes not to wander from my steel like grip. "Damn it! Why won't you let go?" I remain silent and he looks up, forcing his eyes to remain on my own. "Okay, yeah, there was a girl. She's gone now, hours ago, I don't let them stay the night. Ever. I don't sleep with them." Realisation dawns in his eyes and he attempts to correct himself. "I mean, I do, but not in a literal sense. Anyway, why do you care? I saw you with that boy." Rafe's eyes flash... angrily?

"He was a mistake." I say, my hands wrapping tighter around his wrist, as Rafe ceases his delicate gingerly struggles and tries to rip my hands away from him. I relinquish my hold suddenly and he stumbles, takes a few steps back. He stares deep into my eyes, questioningly. "I don't want him, Archer." I hear myself say.

"I want you."

Rafe stops rubbing at his wrist for a second and looks at me, properly.

"What?" I hear the question mark at the end, but his voice is flat. As if he didn't really hear.

"You want me..." he echoes me, dully, and then says it again incredulously, and it suddenly clicks that I've just admitted that to him. Oh my gosh. No. God, I didn't really do that. The epiphany drags me to reality and suddenly I am wide awake.

"No. Rafe. I am delirious. Tired. Don't listen to me. It's the nightmare talking." I declare, hastily. A smile breaks across his face, his eyebrows raising.

"Of course, Leger." He says, but his eyes are full of mirth as he realises that I am now fully aware of what I am saying.

"No. No! This is wrong. Okay. Please, don't say a word of this in the morning. It's the remnants of sleep talking." I rake a hand through my hair, then quickly rearrange a few strands so that I am still covered, and lift up the silk sheets, wrap them closer around me, but now Rafe is sitting back on the bed, holding the sheets in place with his body and there's only so much material to cover myself with. I am suddenly aware of the miles of skin exposed and what seemed like nothing before is suddenly so much more. I am truly flustered now, hastily trying to erase my mistake.

"It's paradoxical sleep. Coined by French neuroscientist Michael Jouvet. Contradictory waves of awareness and inactivity that attends the first four stages of sleep." I assert, clearly. "I'm not awake."

"Trust me, Leger, you're wide awake. And so am I now, too."

"Or if I am, then I'll forget all this. You, forget all this, please! Swear you won't tell me. Don't disrupt the work of my neurons. The sleep spindles and K complexes will still beholden to environmental stimuli. I am so not awake. This is not real." I am talking so fast now, I sound almost feverish. Rafe leans back, stretch his legs out before him and he grins at my rambled explanation of the science behind why I won't remember this.

"Please, go on." He says, voice laced with laughter. I attempt to ignore him, but continue on nevertheless, as if saying it isn't real will make it unreal.

"Our brains enter a period of active-forgetting during REM sleep, which this most probably is right now-" I give Rafe - real Rafe, not dream Rafe, as I am so fully aware- a pointed look. "-to prevent an overload of information. This happens because of a stout band of neurons in the hippocampus. Although neural mechanisms in underlying memory regulation during sleep are not fully understood yet..." I quote a scientific journal I recently read.

"It's indicated that melatonin concentrating hormone-producing neurons, or MCH neurons, in the hypothalamus actively contribute to forgetting in rapid eye movement, or REM, sleep. When using genetic ablation with rodents, it was discovered that making these neurons inactive allows more successful memory retention. Thankfully, I have not experienced such genetic ablation. It's still late, I'm still tired."

"You've been awake for a long while now though." He smirks. "Shall I repeat what you said before? Perhaps allow for further retention?" He laughs.

"Shut up." But I don't really mean it. Somehow, I don't really feel mad. Perhaps I meant to tell him, after all. A Freudian slip. Or maybe it's just my sleep addled state and I won't remember any of this in the morning. In my heart, though, I realise that the thought is unrealistic. All of this will be permanently etched in my brain for a long time. I persistently move on to the whole point of the monologue, summarise everything in a few clearly articulated sentences.

"Since dreams are thought to primarily occur during REM sleep, the stage in which the MCH cells turn on, activation of these cells may prevent the content of a dream from being stored in the hippocampus. Consequently, the dream is quickly forgotten. It is most probable that the MCH neurons help the brain actively forget new, possibly unimportant information." I continue on, this time lying. "And as I am still ever so sleepy, and barely awake, it is doubtless that my MCH neurons are turned off as of yet. They are still, most definitely switched on and hard at work, desperately erasing the last few minutes. Thus, I will forget this veritably unimportant endeavour with you, Rich Boy Archer." I declare with false triumph.

"Sure, sure. Don't play stupid, smart girl. There's no forgetting this." He rolls his eyes at me but the grin stays on his face. He sweeps his legs to the side of the bed, so that they dangle off the edge. He casts me a look over his shoulder just as he is turning to leave. "Brilliant monologue though. Why aren't you a scientist?"

The thought has crossed my mind more than once. Maybe I should be studying science and not anthropology. But that is a science, right? Then I realise he's simply changing the subject. Rafe is about to leave the room.

"Wait. Rafe. Stay." He lingers in the door for a moment, studying me. "Please." For a few seconds, he lets the tense silence settle in the air in the wake of my plea. He said he doesn't sleep with girls. Ever. I hold my breath as he lets go of his own, and comes back to me, sighing. He climbs onto the bed and lies down beside me. He's on top of the covers beside me and I'm underneath the silk. I think I hear him murmur why? But he doesn't say anything more. For a while we just stare at the ceiling together.

"You realise that waking up with me beside you will erase all the hard work of your currently ever so active memory erasing neurons, right?" Rafe teases.

"Shut up." I tell him. But truly, I know that he is unutterably correct. Moreover, I am almost veritably certain that my MHC neurons have never been more resolutely shut off than they are right now.

*

I wake a few hours later to Archer beside me and my first thought is that he is right. It's true. I remember everything from last night. Or earlier this morning. Whatever. He looks so peaceful as he rests and as I study his features, a smirk tugs at my lips. He broke his rule for me. It seems that his declaration that he never sleeps with girls is no longer factual. He slept with me. Rafe stirs slightly, and my breath hitches in my throat, terrified that he'll wake to see me watching him. Unfortunately, with my recollection of last night comes my murmured admittance that I like, no "want" him. Surely, he must want me a little too? He did stay the night with me. Or maybe he's just messing with me. I'm slightly confused. Does Rafe like me or not? Does that mean we can't hate each other anymore? Shame. I really did enjoy trading quips and snide remarks with him.

Nevertheless, I am still baffled. And reluctant to find out the truth. What if he does like me? Where does that leave us? I've never really believed in true love. Not for myself anyway. What with my curse and all. I've never dared to even hope that I could find my forever with somebody. But I really do like Rafe. I want him. And this time, it feels more than just a crush. I can't think straight in this stifling hotel room and I tug on sleek black 2XU leggings, lace on my running shoes and find solace with the pavement in the early dredges of morning.

The streets of Astoria are a long unfurling ribbon of colour and sound. Although the whiteness of the first of the winter snow does mute the usually resplendent hues of the remaining autumnal leaves and powder the gingerbread like houses, the town is still picturesque. Perfect. In the first few hundred metres, my mind wanders to weird places. Imagine what if could be like to stay here. Grow old as Evangeline Archer. Strange, unnatural, illogical thoughts. But I force my legs into motion. Push harder, faster. Let the kilometres sweep these inane notions, unrealistic ideas away from me. The seemingly endless stretch of pain that lances my muscles is good. It borrows my mental torment for a while, substitutes it with a physical one that also engulfs my mind, locking out all thoughts about Rafe and Astoria and the curse.

In the hour before the town awakens, I run. Run away from my problems.

I'd always been very good at running.

*

Before I return back to the hotel, I stop at a café by the forest's edge for a few -uh, many- hours. A quaint little place I'd never been to before. Quiet, inconspicuous. A place where nobody (namely Rafe) would look to find me. And even though, I am covered in sweat and grime from my run, I stay at the coffeeshop for a long time. I read The Astoria Times cover to cover. Skim over the latest Vogue magazines, catch a glimpse of Noah's family. I rattle off a long email to Noah and remember that his last message had implored me to explore Astoria. Not just the physical streets and roads but the people too. He was encouraging me to expand my tiny little social circle. I resolve to meet with Maria from Tilbury's. Hoping she'd maybe be open to a friendship with me.

As I nibble at my orange and poppyseed muffin and sip at an almond milk hot chocolate, I remember playing The Sims on my phone years ago. Sometimes I wish that relationships were as simple in real life. Be friendly with somebody and you'd progress towards BFF status. Slap somebody and you'd be instantaneous enemies. Kiss somebody and you'd imminently get married. On the contrary, I don't think I'd like that. It would mean a future engagement with Elio and I shudder at the thought. But as I gaze out of the fogged window of the little café, another idea occurs to me. Perhaps, we humans are a bit like The Sims and their simple straightforward relationships. Maybe the only difference is that our loves and hates progress a little slower. Maybe each and everyone of us is gradually filling up a little progress bar but the filling of it drags on ever so sluggishly that sometimes it seems we are not moving at all.

I have no clue where in that figurative progress bar Rafe and I are. Are we still the enemies I believed us to be earlier this year? Stuck in the friendzone? Or maybe something more? My heart longs for the latter to be true, but my mind crushes the thought almost instantaneously. Bitterly dismisses it as illogical, unreasonable. Unrealistic. For me, at least.

I keep ordering drinks, all throughout the day and the staff let me be. Alone in the gentle quiet of the coffeeshop. I read on my phone, listen to podcasts, rearrange my apps, play games on my phone. Try to sift through and arrange my thoughts. Declutter my mind. I pointedly try to ignore Archer's message inquiring where I am. But I know that it's wrong to leave him on read. I tap out a quick, sharp one word reply. Out. My fingers long to carve out a melody on sheetmusic and I regret not bringing bag to go running. I could have brought my music papers. Spent the morning (and afternoon now, too) bringing life to the wintry atmosphere of the forest before me. For a few minutes after I desert the café, I traipse to its very edge. Tilt my head slightly, try to catch a whisper of the cruel dark sea that lies deep within, behind the seemingly endless grove of trees. I am drawn to it but somehow manage to resist the urge to explore the place (today, anyway), knowing it can lead to no good.

By the time I reach the The Henley, it is nearing night time. And I know that soon, I'll have to face Rafe. He's not in the suite though and I take the time to have a hot shower before sliding into a gorgeous black, backless Valentino slip dress. I don't think I will ever get used to this finery. I make my way down to the lobby and, making sure that Elio is nowhere to be seen, I sit at the stool of the piano. I had my bandage taken off a few days ago and I stretch out my hand now, enjoying the anticipation. The lobby is quiet, filled with the gentle chatter of polite company as people greet each other in politely hushed voices, gently clinking their glasses of champagne.

My fingers gently dance across the beautiful polished black and white keys of the Steinway, working through a few scales and arpeggios before I launch into a song. I press my Chloé ballet flats gently against the dampener pedal of the piano and play around with the pressure I apply to the middle pedal, distorting the sound. With long, otiose movements, I let my fingers trail languorously over the keys. Playing a song. The song. That all pianists learn. Heart and Soul.

I run through the introduction, and my hands skip across the keys as I delve into the short sharp staccato movements of the left hand of the first verse. And then I allow for a ritardando and decrescendo to settle over the notes as I approach the second verse of the song, hesitating slightly as I relate how closely it behoves my situation. Heart and soul. I let my left hand string across the notes almost lazily, drawing out long melodious arpeggios rather than chords. I begged to be adored. Oh, but I did. I do. I wish that Rafe, that Astoria, would adore me. Heart and Soul. The combined pressure of both pedals with the ever so slow movements of my hands gives the song a hazy, dreamlike quality. Lost control. I hold the note for a little longer than necessary. What was the Italian phrase for that again? Tremulo? Tenuto? And tumbled overboard. If I were brave enough maybe I would sing but I feel that giving voice to the lyrics would be a more than an inadvertent Freudian slip. An act of foreshadowing, perhaps. And I wonder, does the song foretell my death? Gladly. I let the note ring out and consider ending the song there. The next line is that magic night we kissed. But we're not there, Rafe and I. And those hours alone have all but cemented one heartwrenching thought: that we can't ever get there. Not without breaking.

Suddenly, a dark haired figure crosses the floor, slumps on the stool to the left of me and my heart begins to race, frightened at the prospect of seeing Elio again. But it isn't him, it's Rafe..? He winks at me.

"Thought I'd find you here." He says, as my hands rest motionless on the keys. I wait for him to say something but he stares at the piano, and for a few seconds, there is a strange expression on his face, a kind of hesitance as if he's breaking a promise, or revealing a secret. Then he raises his own fingers to the keys, delving deep into the lowness of the left hand side of the piano and splashes out a staccato harmony. Bright, jovial, full of life.

He's playing Heart and Soul. The 'male' part. He repeats the opening chords a few times before he nudges me gently yet vehemently and I let my own hands begin to hesitantly waltz across the keys, incredulous to the idea that Rafe Archer can play the piano and has resisted the doubtless urge to brag about it to me. I lift my feet from the pedals, ceasing the indistinct tone of the song and let Rafe inject it with a vibrant energy through his detached movements. We play through the entire duet, and every time I go to end it, he continues on, and I laugh, letting the song draw out several times over, and by its finish, when the melody has chased away all traces of my previous cynicism, and the gorgeous concluding notes finally ring out, I am startled by the sound of polite applause. It seems we have an audience, Rafe and I. Oh my gosh. A standing ovation. How exquisite. I look to Rafe but try to avoid his piercing gaze.

"You've been avoiding me." He murmurs against my hair as the clapping continues.

"I have." I nod and raise an eyebrow questioningly at him. "Rafe, I- uh...?" I trail off, not exactly sure how to phrase my sentence. Probably because I don't even know what I am asking. I can be so articulate. Rafe cuts off my stuttering.

"Does this answer your question?" He says as he leans forward knowingly and presses his lips to mine, ever so gently. Somebody in our small audience cheers. This kiss, unlike the one with Elio is not forceful nor vile. And although Rafe isn't sugary like that ghastly boy, this kiss is sweeter. Exquisite and intricate and beautiful. And I lean closer to him, deepening it, not caring that a roomful of people are watching us. And although his eyes remain shut and one hand is entangled in my dark hair, he moves the fingers of his other hand to the piano, past me, to the top most right hand side of the keys and ever so delicately trails his hands down the notes I was so reluctant to play before.

That magic night we kissed.