Flowers of Darkness Tatiana Rosnay (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📖

Are you off your rocker, girl? Blast it, that’s enough! Her father’s voice, calling her by that first name she hated.

She raised her head, gritted her teeth with all the forcefulness she could muster. Keep moving. Keep going forward. Inch by inch. The goblins had vanished. She had to reach the shower. A trembling frame caught her eye—a square image appearing on the luminous panel at the end of the passageway. Clarissa made slow progress, puffing and panting. The palms of her hands were sore; she had cramps in her legs. She was able to make out a sort of index card with an ID photo. She drew closer, managed to heave herself to her knees with a final effort. She didn’t have her glasses on, and she stuck her nose to the screen.

SURNAME: PERRIER

FIRST NAME: JIM

AGE: 35

She couldn’t figure out what it was, why she was seeing this. Jim’s card faded away, then popped back up on the unit.

CONSTITUTIONAL SIGNS: ALCOHOLIC. DRUG ADDICT. PARANOID PERSONALITY DISORDER.

The display went black. She squealed with frustration. Then other cards emerged, too fast for her to see them properly. The heat must have affected the servers. Everything C.A.S.A. knew and was hiding had somehow become visible. Were all the artists of the residence witnessing this confidential data right now? Or was this only happening in her place? The frames shuffled by in a quick frenzy. At times, the system switched off, then lit up again. Suddenly, she thought she saw her own index card, only for a split second, her features looking bonier than ever, and a long paragraph, where a chunk of words reached out to slap her: PRONE TO DEPRESSION.

Her anger outdid her weakness, and she shot to her feet with new vigor, her entire body quaking with resentment. She wasn’t going to give in to this. Never. She was going to flee. She had to prove all this. She had to photograph those index cards, keep it all as evidence. She turned back to get her mobile. Another dizzy spell slowed her down. She was forced to stop and lean against the wall, catching her breath. Her skin felt clammy. There was no air.

When she came back with her phone, the panel had gone dark once more. She hung around. It did not light up again. Had she imagined it all? After fifteen minutes, she went to the shower, weary and uneasy. She couldn’t make out the difference between the hobgoblins on the floorboards and the index cards. What had she truly perceived? Had it all been in her mind? She undressed, taking her time, feeling the shakiness take over her body again. The mirror sent back a ghostly echo. Who was watching her, back there? Who could see her? She held up her middle finger wordlessly, with a bitter smirk. Once she got under the shower, tap open, she huddled there, back against the wall. The water was still lukewarm. She shut her eyes, let the stream flow into her mouth, her ears. The trickle of the running water had a calming effect. She thought back to what she had read about Jim Perrier. Alcohol. Drugs. Paranoia. What should she make of it?

Something moving startled her. It was the cat. He stared at her thoughtfully, sitting across from her.

“Hop on in, old sport. It’ll do you good.”

She had always heard cats hated water, but against all expectation, Chablis let out a small mew and leaped over to land by her side. He let himself get entirely wet, then, with his customary daintiness, installed himself on her thighs and began to purr.

She was still asleep when the doorbell rang. She had no idea of the time; she only remembered having closed the tap, flung herself onto her bed, wrapped in a humid towel. The room temperature seemed agreeably cool. She slipped into a bathrobe and checked the control panel. It was Ben, more good-humored than usual, with an embarrassed expression.

“Everything okay, Mrs. Katsef?”

“Not really. I only just woke up.”

He explained the system had undergone a gigantic breakdown and that the air-conditioning had stopped functioning. But it had all been fixed.

“I see,” she said. “I nearly kicked the bucket.”

He gazed at her, confused.

“Oh, my gosh!”

“I guess I’m tougher than I look. What about the other artists?”

“Most of them left the residence before it got too hot. Have you seen the news?”

“No.”

“Everything collapsed, all over the city. Breakdown, failure, outage. No signal, no surveillance, hacked databases, burglaries. Melted asphalt. And lots of casualties.”

“Indeed … Do you need anything?”

“Yes, Dr. Dewinter would like all artists who went through the heat wave to pass a medical test. I need to check everything’s working properly.”

Then he added, “You look very pale, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She did not answer, only glared back at him. While he was in the bathroom, she checked her phone. It was just past nine. Numerous calls and texts. She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Staring at her in the face were four bottles of mineral water. The ones she had looked for in vain last night. She sighed.

She went back to reading her texts. Jordan was fraught, so were Andy, Toby, François, and a couple of other friends. How was she? Could she respond? Was everything okay? She tried to answer them fast, Jordan first. Yes, it had been dreadful, the air-conditioning broke down, everything else broke down, she had never been so thirsty, hot, and faint in her life, but she was okay! Jordan texted back, relieved. She’d call later on today.

As Clarissa was getting back to Andy, her phone rang. It was Laure-Marie, her publisher. She picked up immediately. Laure-Marie wanted to know if she’d survived. Laughingly, Clarissa said that she had, but when she thought of the acute nausea, the vanishing mineral water, the goblins appearing on the floorboards, she wondered if she hadn’t underestimated what she had gone through. Laure-Marie wanted to get back in touch. They hadn’t seen each other for a