Jessy

—I want you to tell me about her, Peters. In the two months since we began our sessions, not once have you opened up to me. Tell me, what is she like? What does she look like? How does she speak? What does she smell like?

In a deep voice, the prison psychiatrist in a sky-blue suit, far too chic for me to even feel comfortable being in the same room as her, analyzes me.

She questions me. Thinks she can understand me, pinpoint my thoughts, the most primitive of my impulses, those who made me, a man, I was able to take the lives of nine human beings...

A murderer… A uxoricide… A rapist…

"I'm so tired of living under his thumb..." I told him, taking another drag on my cigarette butt. Tired of seeing his eyes watching me every night.

The ashes fall to the ground, carried by a slight draft caused by the small crack under the office door with its creaky wooden floor.

—In that case… What are you waiting for to get rid of her, Peters? She said calmly.

Her gray eyes pierce me, no doubt indifferent to my suffering. She has no idea of ​​the extent of the darkness of the torment I am suffering. But... would she really believe me?

With a disgusted look, she stared at the thick scab that had reformed on my mutilated finger. Pus was slowly oozing out.

I look out the window. The sky is gray, heavy, poisoned by a thick fog that engulfs the city.

Then my gaze falls on my psychiatrist.

Sitting opposite me, her notebook on her knees, her pen dances on the paper, blackening the page with her observations.

I then give him an ironic smile.

A gesture that the atrophied muscles of my face, deformed by the seed of evil, seemed to have forgotten.

In just a few months, my body had withered, as if I had lived an entire existence in fast motion, on this damned planet Earth.

"I can't get rid of her," I told her, staring straight into her eyes. " Not anymore... I belong to her."

 

The turning point in my life occurred on the night of May 13, 2011. A tiring end to a day, like so many others.

Yet another day of work punctuated by clients ignoring my calls for tender, convinced that I, one of the most seasoned salespeople in my consulting firm, could lower my pants during contract negotiations.

At that time, my wife was my world. We had met thanks to a client who became a friend, at an after-work event. Her luscious pink lips, her blue eyes, and that very particular way of tying her long silver hair in a falsely unkempt bun had always made me think I was the luckiest man alive. Beautiful and intelligent, she was my balance, my everything, my pride. And when one evening in 1993, she announced to me that I was going to become a father, my happiness was complete. I felt as if I had achieved the goal of a lifetime.

The happiest day of my life was when my daughter was born, by caesarean section, at the Saint-Henri du Marais hospital.

But this greatest gift also became my greatest nightmare, my greatest loss, and my greatest weakness. The beginning of my descent into hell.

That evening, when I came home from work, while my wife and daughter were waiting for me in the living room for dinner, I was attacked. I had barely taken out my keys when I felt a violent blow land on the back of my head.

The rest is a black hole.

A vast void that widens and deepens every time I try to remember.

When I regain consciousness, I am tied up in my own living room.

A piece of dirty rag in the coach's mouth and on his lips, wrapped around my entire face.

In front of me, my wife and my daughter, terrified, crying, and she too, tied up and gagged.

Three masked men, dressed in black, ransacked our house. Two of them spoke with a North African accent, an accent from the housing projects north of the city. The third, silent, stared at my daughter with a filthy stare, a knife in hand.

I struggle with all my might. I scream, I shout, I call for help, begging him not to continue with his vile thoughts.

But the man has already forced his masculinity into my daughter... by force...

Before my eyes. Mine, his father.

At that moment, my world collapsed. One of the other two men was amused and forced me to watch.

The barrel of his icy weapon placed against my temple.

While the third man, after emptying the contents of our safe in which our jewelry was stored, tears off my crying wife's clothes.

He beats her violently and makes her suffer the same fate as my daughter.

Before my eyes. Mine, her husband.

My family will never recover from this tragedy. My daughter withdrew into silence for the rest of the year, dropped out of school, refused to see her friends, and finally committed suicide on September 24th of that year by throwing herself under a train. A letter had been written to us.

To me, his father, and to his mother.

Writing down her adolescent words, her desperate gesture, wanting to join her grandmother towards a world of peace, a world where evil could no longer reach her.

Somewhere, haloed by dried tears, his words had been diluted. Raw and brief. Asking us to ask his forgiveness.

My wife, meanwhile, lost all will to live, like me. Feeling no more desire, no more sadness, no more anger, just a hollow, echoing emptiness.

A wall then rises between us. And, after endless sessions with a couples therapist, siphoning off what little money we have left, trying to save the unique bond that unites us, our relationship worsens, deteriorates day by day.

To my wife, I'm nothing more than a piece of furniture in the house, and I... I no longer see her beauty. Neither in her, nor on her.

She who was once my ray of sunshine, my source of unconditional happiness, has now become my source of anguish.

His mere presence irritates me, even though I know that my presence irritates him as well.

The family man, having failed to protect his two wives. That's what I imagined she was thinking, and even though she never told me so openly, her gaze didn't lie.

So I lock myself in alcohol.

A glass of wine a day at first, which turns into a fifty-centilitre bottle, which turns into a one-litre bottle, which turns into a bottle of whisky, or two, in my lowest moments...

This addiction leads to another. My sexual appetite. From an unfulfilled man at home, it transforms into an obsession with pornographic films, soon followed by nighttime encounters with escorts.

Today, these escorts disgust me, as much as I disgust myself, after yet another mechanical pleasure, in yet another escort, whose name and face still escape me.

But does it really matter?

Now my wife is asking me for a divorce.

To me, the one who was her husband. The one who was her source of happiness.

This morning, arriving late at work for the umpteenth time, I bumped into my manager in the hallways, a fair but uncompromising man. He had always known how to protect me, aware of my situation, my flaws, and the reasons why I was now only a shadow of the man I was before the tragedy befell my family.

Once a top salesperson, I'm now, at best, only on par with the best new hires. In other words, barely worthwhile in the eyes of my bosses, who are just waiting for one more misstep to fire me and show me the door.

In a sermon that sounded more like a final warning, he told me that even in the worst moments of life, the main thing is to avoid adding another problem to yourself.

At this point, my job is the only thing I can still save, or at least the one I still hold the keys to so I don't sink further.

His wise words hit me like an electric shock.

I realize that I have become an outcast within my own team.

Demoted, I end my day barely reaching half of my daily goal.

A success for me, still smelling of whisky on my breath, my eyes puffy from my sleepless night.

As I leave the office, I see a small late-night flea market and decide, on the advice of a colleague, to get some fresh air and get back to living. In reality, what I dread most is going home.

Joyless. Warmthless. Soulless.

This oppressive atmosphere had also given me several stomach ulcers, thereby further reducing my life expectancy, which had already been significantly reduced by these new habits.

In this flea market, I walk around, wander between the stalls.

I observe people. I judge people. I envy people.

Remembering that my life, just two years ago, was perfect. The flea market was one of the best known in the Marais, and took place every first Friday evening.

Several hot dog, sausage roll, and chip shop stalls catch my eye. The smoke from the grilled meat reminds me that, despite everything, I'm human and that these vital things remain just as delicious and appetizing, even when you've become, like me, trash.

I approach the chip shop, ready to take out my wallet.

—Fries, ketchup, and two large meatballs, I thought to myself, before passing a stand selling handmade esoteric jewelry.

I then approach the stand.

A wooden table, a few burning incense sticks placed on the stall covered with a red nylon tablecloth, and displays of candles and jewelry set with quartz, amethyst, desert rose, and other minerals.

One of the two salesmen, a nigger in his fifties with a wrinkled face, notices me. Without waiting, he approaches and begins his sales pitch.

His French is approximate, but understandable.

He then shows me a bracelet and assures me that it will bring me luck if I wear it.

—Twenty-five euros! he said, smiling at me.

I smile back and tell him I only have fifteen euros on me. At the same time, I pretend to be interested in some other, much cheaper, jewelry on his display, hoping for a quick reaction from him.

Finally, he let me have it for twenty euros. He also gave me a gift for my wife: a lucky ring that he tried to make me believe had been forged by the alkebs during Antiquity.

If that had really been the case, I told myself, he would never have offered it to me for so little...

I smile back, congratulating him on his salesmanship, then grab my bag of fries from the neighboring stand before heading home with a knot in my stomach.

The trauma of my assault still hasn't faded with time. Every night before I go home, I instinctively glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me.

And even if that were the case... If the man were armed, I would no longer try to struggle for survival. I would simply ask him to end it as quickly as possible.

I open the front door and cross the living room. In silence. My wife is slumped on the couch, staring blankly at the TV.

A musty smell, mixed with sweat and cigarettes, floats through the poorly ventilated room.

Without a word, I walk to the kitchen, at the back of the room, and sit on a stool.

In front of me, my two new acquisitions.

—Lucky … I murmured, observing the necklace.

A simple cord from which hangs a clear quartz. I loosen my tie, open the first buttons of my shirt, and slip the jewel around my neck, not knowing how long I'll wear it before I tire of it.

Then I take the ring out of the little brown paper bag the salesman had wrapped it in.

Strange… I thought.

The ring is made of a kind of solidified liquid in perpetual motion, without ever changing shape.

At the top of the ring sits a glass orb filled with an iridescent blue gas, set with mesmerizing precision. The orb's interior appears as infinite as a galaxy, crisscrossed by myriads of luminous gaseous points. My eyes then linger on what holds this orb together.

When I shake the ring, tilt it from left to right, the elements mix, and the ring itself seems to move like the waters of a moving river. Like a solid liquid.

—Maybe this nigger was telling me the truth after all… I said to myself as I slipped the ring onto my little finger.

After that, I ended up shutting myself away in my office.

With the door closed, I indulge in my two favorite passions: drinking, draining yet another bottle of wine, and porn, indulging in solitary pleasure.

The next morning, waking up in the guest room, I realized I'd slept in my clothes again. Shoes and ties were still on me. The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, and my half-emptied glass of whiskey was lying on the bedside table.

My first instinct is to finish it in one go.

The hangover is still gnawing at my head. I drag myself stiffly and heavily to the bathroom. With a careless gesture, I tear off my clothes and drop them to the floor.

I then remove the crystal necklace from around my neck, already ashamed of having believed, even for a second, that a simple pebble could bring me luck. Then I try to take off my ring.

She resists.

I can't slide it off my index finger.

I run my hand under hot water, cover it with soap, and pull with all my might.

Nothing to do. The ring remains stubbornly screwed onto my finger.

Naked, facing the mirror, I contemplate the reflection of my failures, with the impression that, in the space of one night, several years have been engraved on my face.

Then my gaze slides to my watch. I'm already late.

—I'll sort this out later, I whispered.

I take a quick shower, get dressed, and leave the house without a word to my wife, who hasn't moved from the couch since the day before.

Once I arrived at the offices, I found myself facing closed doors.

Saturday....

Damnit !

Cursing the whole world, I tell myself that, ultimately, the day could have been worse. So, I might as well rush it into oblivion.

At nine o'clock in the morning, I find myself in a suit, clean-shaven but with drawn features, sitting at a table on the terrace of a café, with only a beer for lunch.

A young woman in her twenties sits down at the next table. Deep in thought, I don't even notice that she's just commented on the ring on my finger.

I look up at her.

She's perfectly my type. Fine features, straight black hair, dark and seductive gaze. Her charm leaves no one indifferent.

Having nothing better to do, I decide to join in the dance and bluntly invite him to sit at my table, moving my briefcase to make room for him on the chair to my right.

To my surprise, when she ordered, she ordered a beer, implying that she had something to celebrate by the way she acted.

We spend the whole morning chatting, without noticing the time passing.

I learned, not without sadness, that she had just lost her mother to illness. As misfortunes never come alone, she had also discovered that her boyfriend, with whom she had shared her life for nearly two years, was playing a double game.

I listen to her, captivated in spite of myself. I watch her lips move, her dimples deepen with each movement of her jaw. And a single thought obsesses me at that moment: Laying her in my bed.

"What else does she expect from me?" I asked myself.

I, who could easily pass for his father.

Noon strikes.

Sated from my four beers and the hamburger I shared with Jessy, I savor this moment again, convinced it won't be repeated. A simple, fleeting interlude in my life, destined to close as quickly as it opened.

And he was what he had to be, after having thought it.

Every day for the two months following our meeting, I found myself on this same terrace, ending my evenings in the company of Jessy.

She, so young, so wild.

In his manner, there was no dissonance. No judgment.

“I am an old soul, in a young body,” she often repeated.

She explains to me that the ring I'm wearing is a lucky charm. According to her, the strength it can grant me depends entirely on the importance and attention I give it.

I laugh.

I told him how I had tried to remove it several times, in vain.

How I had tried several times to find this black man who had sold it to me, but without success.

How I even tried to cut it with cast iron pliers, which broke cleanly.

"I haven't set foot in a church since I was eighteen. But I know a divine sign when it manifests itself , " I whispered, taking her by the waist and placing my lips on hers.

Sweet, soft...

She closes her eyes, takes my face in her hands and abandons herself to me.

Around us, on the terrace, I feel the looks, full of judgment.

But what does it matter?

At that moment, I feel alive again. Jessy has just rekindled a flame in me that I thought had been extinguished for a long time.

So, I invite him to finish the night at my place.

She hesitates.

Aware that I still live with my wife.

But I don't need to insist any longer. Jessy is one of those who likes things that are forbidden.

She purses her lips.

He gives me an indecipherable, sultry, and dark look, while caressing my masculinity through the thin fabric of my pants. This simple gesture makes an even more intense desire arise in me.

She accepts.

And that evening, Jessy enters my house for the first time.

As usual, my wife doesn't even look up when she hears me come in. The sound of Jessy's heels echoing on the tiles in the hallway doesn't seem to bother her either.

Then, in a burst of audacity that took me by surprise, Jessy dared to greet her as he walked past her, before placing his coat on the armchair in the corner of the room.

This provocative, insolent gesture... excites me even more.

I pour Jessy a glass of gin in the kitchen, kiss her languidly, then invite her up to the guest room.

As she climbs the steps, I can't help but observe the undulations of her body, the arch of her back. But, overcome by a brief pang of remorse, I glance furtively at my wife.

She sits upright in her chair.

She weeps.

In silence.

As soon as the door closed, Jessy, in all the passion of her youth, threw herself at my neck, ripped off my shirt in a burst of buttons that flew to the four corners of the room.

With such a swift gesture, she slides off her blouse, tossing it onto the dresser. Revealing her nakedness. Her circumcised, firm breasts, which I am about to delight in.

I'm ready. Hard.

I take my time. Savor every moment. Every part of her body.

The taste of her skin, so pale, so warm, so soft...

I feel his pulse quicken, mine follow the same rhythm, while his breathing becomes more feverish.

Then, in a bestial impulse, I turn her against the wall.

The bedside lamp tilted, crashing to the floor with a dull thud, plunging the room into darkness. Only the dim moonlight filtering through the open window illuminated my actions.

Then, I make her mine.

Again. Again. And once more...

Until exhaustion.

Until there is nothing left, neither in me nor in her.

The next morning, I woke up alone in this big bed, now so cold, without Jessy's warmth.

But its smell, its perfume still fills the sheets.

My wife, meanwhile, is gone. But her car is still parked in the driveway.

—Probably locked in her room contacting her lawyer to speed up the divorce process... I thought to myself, thinking that maybe I went too far last night.

Without further ado, I make myself a hearty breakfast: eggs, cheese toast, and a strong coffee to wake me up.

Sitting at the table, cell phone in hand, I absentmindedly scan the news.

Then, several notifications caught my attention.

Dozens of messages. Friends, family, even strangers have tagged me in several local press articles, relayed by several media outlets.

Intrigued, I click.

And my fingers let go of my cup of hot coffee, which crashes to the floor with a dull thud.

The justice system had just released two of the three men who, two years earlier, had destroyed my family.

A stab.

My first instinct was to think of my daughter. My angel gone too soon. Deprived of a future by these monsters.

Tears of rage stream down my face, contorted with hatred and a deep contempt for the justice system of this country.

The names and faces of the executioners had been revealed. The comments poured in, demanding revenge in his name, in my wife's name, in my name.

I clench my fist. I brood over my anger.

Then, unable to calm the fire that consumes me, I pour myself a glass of whiskey.

A second one.

Until the hatred is smothered in drunkenness. Until I get behind the wheel, reeling with anger and alcohol, heading to work.

My manager, having also learned the news, offered me the day off. A poisoned chalice, before my boss saw me in this pitiful state and decided to fire me permanently.

So, at 9:20, I find myself once again on this damn terrace.

Disheveled. Staring blankly at my first beer.

And then, Jessy appears. As beautiful and wild as the day before.

She sits down in front of me, crosses her legs, revealing more than enough of her exposed thighs, and in a soft but sharp voice, she whispers in my ear that she knows why I'm in this state.

His words make me raise my head.

“A real man protects his family,” she continues, fixing her gaze on mine.

The silence weighs, lingers, drags on.

Then she adds even more imperiously:

—You failed to protect your daughter while she was alive. Now, give her justice.

A shiver runs down my spine.

His words are more brutal than usual. More disturbing.

"What do you mean?" I asked him. But his gaze allowed me to guess his thoughts.

She then told me that if I, a man, am not even capable of honoring the memory of my daughter, my blood, my flesh...

So, I don't deserve her time anymore, and she regrets having spent the night with a man like me.

"I don't like weak men who hide when they should take responsibility and act. Are you one of those men?" she asked me, letting me kiss her neck.

Her carnal scent, her voice... Everything about her transcends me. And, in that moment, Jessy becomes my obsession.

Jessy whispers to me that she did the work for me. She knows where these two men live. She knows their habits, their routes.

Then she hands me a piece of paper. An address. A time. And makes me swear to keep my word, in the name of my daughter.

In the name of my broken family. In the name of my self-esteem.

She kisses me mechanically, without tenderness. A ghostly kiss, then disappears.

Eight days later, I'm there.

In this dimly lit park on the Marais esplanade. Hidden in a dark corner. A cast-iron mallet clutched in my hand.
Drunk with rage.

I am a dog on the hunt. My heart pounds against my ribcage, beating in time with my hatred.

My daughter's face haunts my mind. Her laughter. Her tears. Her last words.

Jessy's words keep resonating and resonating in my head.

Then I see him.

The man comes out of the subway station.

Alone.

My luck is smiling on me.

He laughs on the phone, carefree. Free. As if nothing had happened.

But today, I am the one who will take his life.

So I leap at him. My fury falls upon him like divine judgment. The mallet cleaves the air, crashes into his skull, which instantly bursts under the impact.

His body collapses onto the pavement, like a common, disjointed puppet. But enraged, I continue to hit him...

Again. Again. And once more...

The blows rain down, violent and relentless.

Until his face was nothing more than a shapeless, unrecognizable, deformed, toothless mass.

Blood spurts. Brain matter splatters the floor, my shoes, my face, and my clothes.

I then run panting towards my car at full speed.

I jump inside, my hands gripping the leather steering wheel.

But a searing pain makes me wince.

My ring.

It tightens. Burns my skin. Eats away at my skin.

Veins, purple and mauve, protruding beneath my flesh. Slowly rising, sinuous, tracing a diseased network up my forearm. Down to my neck.

The pain pulses, stabbing, and sinks deeper inside me. As if something is taking possession of my body.

—Adrenaline? I whispered as I sped off toward home.

In the shower, I'm shaking.

The water runs over me, burning hot, but it doesn't wash anything away.

Neither blood nor reality.

I can hardly understand what I just did.

So to escape, to anchor myself in something tangible, I lock myself in my office...

The screen lights up and I see a flood of pornographic images. More extreme. Even more violent than before.

One hand on my exalted masculinity. The other navigating the screen, a trickle of drool dribbling from my mouth, I become a monster out of time.

But suddenly, everything blurs in my mind, and Jessy's eyes appear to me out of nothing.

Acidic disgust with myself washed over me.

I burst into tears and then fear overwhelms me...

I finally realize what I have become...

— God… I just killed a man. Will you still have me?