Chapter 3 - Rue De Rivoli
A Dark Psychological Horror. (CW: Graphic violence, medical horror, and mature themes. 18+)
☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎
After my shift at the hospital, I went to the art museum for a short evening visit. It had been a month since I last set foot on the marble floors of the museum in Paris. I was aiming to at least have a quick glance at the recently displayed painting of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, a picture of longing, where the gods bound them together forever.
One Saturday evening, I got off the bus and hid behind the kiosque à journaux to shield myself from the rotating sweep of the street-level CCTV. I had returned to see her again. Though uncertain if she would be there, I still felt confident. While I remained hidden, I adjusted the brim of my cap. It had been almost eighteen minutes since I arrived, and I felt the weight of the sunglasses covering half my face as sweat gathered beneath them.
The man beside me smoked nonchalantly. The smell dominated the area so much that I almost coughed. I cleared my throat twice, emphasizing how deeply revolted I was by his presence. He was blocking my view of the café. I moved away, avoiding him completely.
My eyes searched the busy crowd; even the cafés were saturated. I continued along the sidewalk, looking for her, l’amour. And there she was, in her usual spot, holding an iced cappuccino and reading a book. It had been almost two weeks since I began keeping tabs on her.
I was focused on her movements through the café window. Her back was turned from my position. It was easy for me to look at her for hours. She wore a white shirt with a brown cardigan and jeans. She was so deeply absorbed in the book, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, that she forgot about the drink in front of her. I could only guess the title from the dark teal and deep blue tones of the cover, possibly from the Evergreen series.
Moving to the side of the newsstand for a better view, I pretended to browse the newspapers and magazines, casually pulling out my phone as if texting someone. Then I sat on an empty chair facing the side of the café’s glass window. I was still a few meters away from her. Rose’s eyes were still fixed on the book, one finger flicking to the next page. The loud horns of passing vehicles, combined with the noise from the crowd outside, seemed to render me invisible to her. Her fingernails were polished a vibrant shade of purple, and her lips were stained with pinkish gloss. She remained just as dainty as when I had first seen her. Rose never looked haggard. She made other girls look average.
A few hours had passed; her drink seemed to have collected a layer of condensation. I remained seated, observing her. But once she had read a few pages, she took the cup and drained the last of her drink. Before she pulled her phone from her pocket, Rose’s calm demeanor faltered as she checked the time, worry tightening her expression. She hurriedly stuffed the book into her bag and rushed out of the café, casting a frantic glance at the street clock as she disappeared toward the shop.
I rose from my chair and followed her a few blocks behind, weaving through the streets of Rue de Rivoli, across the Pont Neuf, and into narrow alleys, where some bystanders smoked and others hid, locked in secret kisses. As darkness settled over the city, I watched Rose from my hiding spot behind a closed establishment as she hastily opened the shop door. She was met by a volatile man in his fifties, his voice already raised. From where I stood, I could hear their conversation, and Rose’s head lowered in defeat.
“This place runs on a schedule, not your whims. We close at seven,” he barked, the distended veins in his temple pulsing with every word. “I’ve got places to be, and I’m not staying late to do your job for you!”
“Yes, Monsieur Robert,” Rose mumbled, her eyes fixed on the ground, hiding a flicker of resentment.
When his anger faded into the night, he cast Rose a final look of disdain. He stepped out of the shop and shouted a final, sharp “Merde!” before walking down the street and vanishing into the dark. Rose’s face fell. She steadied herself, pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away her tears, and returned to the task of closing the store.
Meanwhile, I moved from the closed establishment to a large tree a few blocks from Smith & Son, where I waited, still watching Rose. After thirty minutes, she pushed open the glass door and approached the alarm panel mounted beside the frame, where she hesitated. At that moment, I quickly pulled out the SLR camera from my bag, zooming in on the movement of her hand through the shop window, snapping photos of her entering the code: 1-5-9-5.
Once the lights went out inside, she turned and walked away. Before leaving, I surveyed the area to make sure no one was around. I did not take any chances, even in the dead of night. The area looked even grimmer when isolated.
Back at the estate, the hallway greeted me with the scent of arranged gardenias. The study was intentionally locked. When I opened the wooden doors, the smell of dust and antiques lingered in the air. The cold ambience of the room, along with the massive book collection, invited me in. The painting of Bethsabée au bain looked down on me as if judging me, her bosom displayed like meat in a market. A real seductress, she reminded me of Rose. A man’s buried desire suddenly surfaced, and the only thing that could awaken it was the image of the same temptress, Rose, but only as a distorted reflection, like a twisted anatomical illustration from The Love of the Brute. I retrieved the artbook from the shelf and left for the bedroom.
On the bed, with a glass of scotch waiting on the nightstand, I settled in and almost succumbed to a shocking, impetuous drive to continue with the weakness. I was at the mercy of almost touching myself. But I had to keep myself from contaminating the fine sheets; only the images from the artbook had calmed the urge. When I finally felt exhaustion, I tried to sleep, but the sketch of the women, their bodies twisted, their inguinal areas pierced by a fishing hook and their labia delicately pierced with needles set at diagonal angles, was all I could visualize until I finally fell asleep.
The next day, I took a short break and went to Smith & Son bookstore. From behind a tall display of encyclopedias, I watched Rose while browsing some books. She stood at the counter arranging the boxes that had just been delivered. She was so focused on the task that she did not seem to notice some of the incoming customers.
Her manager stood beside her at the counter, a balding man whose soft hands seemed to sweat with gluttony. He leaned over the wood, trapping her in the narrow space.
“Excuse me, Monsieur Robert,” she said, stepping to the side.
I watched his hand drift to her waist. Rose flinched, her body rigid, and tried to pull away. She moved to the counter and picked up the pile of newly delivered books. Monsieur Robert moved to her side again, but this time I heard him whisper, his voice thick with insinuation. Her manager was nothing but filth, a deviant. He was touching Rose like that Moroz guy. Why was she surrounded by these kinds of degenerate people? It was never pleasant to watch her being touched by his filthy hands, as if corrupting her even before I had her. Rose just froze there.
“I’ll be in Nice in a few months, Rose. My wife thinks it’s a supply run. Maybe you could... cover for me? Or join me?” He laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound, and patted her waist again before retreating into his office, leaving the door slightly open.
He could not keep his hands to himself; he kept on touching what I owned. A visceral revulsion rose in me, the urge to dismember the imbecile. I was almost biting my tongue, controlling what I had left, and waited until he fully disappeared. I immediately pulled a book from the stand and stepped forward. I excused myself politely and offered a subtle, friendly nod. But Rose was surprised by my presence, accidentally knocking over the books piled on the counter.
“I’m sorry… just a moment,” she whispered as she lowered her head to pick up the clutter. It was obvious she was still shaken by her manager’s intrusion.
“Hi, sorry if I startled you. I was looking for some good suspense novels. I kind of picked this one up, not really sure which book to buy,” I said, resting the book on the glass. “Is this any good?” I reached up, idly scratching behind my ear
Robert suddenly yelled from his office. “Rose! What are you doing? Clear the goddam deliveries now!”
“Yes…Monsieur Robert,” she mumbled, carrying a box of books to the other side of the counter.
When Rose returned to the counter, she stared at the title and shook her head, then pointed to a display.
“I’m sorry about that… Busy with the deliveries. What’s your concern again?” she asked, scratching her head.
“Whether this book was any good?” I asked, while taking quick glimpse of the manager’s office.
“Oh, not really. But that one on the display? I can’t keep it on the shelves,” she said as she continued arranging the books on the counter.
I stepped toward the display, indicating the row of hardcovers.
“This one?” I lifted the volume from the display, turning it over to scan the blurb. “Hmm, sounds interesting. Thanks for the suggestion.”
She nodded as I brought the book to the counter and paid.
“Thank you again,” I said, gazing at her with a smile. “I don’t mean to be intrusive, but are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice trying to sound more relaxed than before. “You know, if you’re looking for something better, there’s another one I’d recommend instead. Mind if I show you?”
Raising an eyebrow, I checked my watch. My lunch was almost over. I wasn’t expecting her to commit to the conversation, but it was always better to play hard to get.
“I wish I could hear more, but my lunch is almost over,” I said, observing the subtle shift in her reaction. “I have to get going, maybe some other time.”
Rose did not respond; she seemed left wondering. Before I walked to the door, I intentionally stared at her for a few seconds. Our eyes met, and she stared back, following my gaze until I reached the glass door. Just as it shut behind me, she called out. I was not expecting it, though I already had a plan to coax her further.
“Excuse me sir, wait! You forgot your change!” she shouted as she pulled her coat over her shoulders. Some of the customers turned their heads, then went back to their business. “Sorry,” she said, turning to face them.
Her manager peeked through the door, watching her. “Rose, where are you going? Don’t leave the counter!”
“I’m sorry! Monsieur Robert, I was just going to give the customer his change. I’ll be right back!” she exclaimed.
He scoffed at her before returning to his office.
Rose stopped for a moment, thinking as she stood at the door, her cheeks the color of carnations. She lingered there. I couldn’t tell if she was hesitating or rehearsing. When she reached the sidewalk, she looked flustered and walked slowly in my direction.
“I’m sorry…but I just need to give you your change,” she stuttered, as she handed me the bill.
“Are you okay? You seem anxious,” I asked while following her gaze. Rose seemed frantic. “Is your boss always like that?”
Rose wiped the sweat from her forehead before responding to my question. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” I lowered my head, trying to further meet her gaze. “Why do you keep looking at the manager’s office?”
“Nothing, just a busy day. Nothing to worry about,” she said, turning her face toward me. “Thank you, sir.”
“No problem,” I replied, clearing my throat. “So, you mentioned wanting to show me the book?”
“Yeah, but maybe some other time. When are you going to come back?” she asked.
“Probably tomorrow afternoon?” I said, thinking. I was hoping that she would agree. “What about lunch?”
“Okay.” She smiled. “Thanks, see you around.”
I smiled at her, still holding the bills in my hand, feeling the warmth she had left on them. Rose was closer than before. I wanted to brush her golden hair or even touch her soft face. Her figure was slim. I towered over her, and she smelled of florals, as her name suggested.
I nodded at her, smiling softly as I brushed my hair, still looking at her.
Rose’s eyes lingered on the store before she decided to turn around and leave. I immediately introduced myself.
“I’m Arthur, Arthur Lyons,” I added, smiling as I extended my hand to her.
“I’m Rose.” She smiled faintly, the tension slowly leaving her shoulders as she took my hand. I felt the warmth of her palm against my skin. Though she was trembling, it still felt like cashmere.
Suddenly, Robert burst out of the door, his face flushed as he shouted at Rose. He eyed us as if he were about to pull her off the sidewalk and drag her back inside the store.
“Rose! What are you doing flirting here? The customers are lined up at the counter! Get back this instant!” He yelled, almost spitting, as his eyebrows narrowed.
Rose didn’t get the chance to respond. Instead, she followed him back to the store, not once glancing at me. The pest disrupted the moment, just as I was about to reach her.
Later that night, I returned to Rose’s apartment building. The fading cream-painted walls of the structure seemed neglected, as if forgotten by the owner. An old woman was putting away her merchandise, preparing to close her flower shop.
Every other night, I came to this area where Rose lived, sometimes standing beside the lamppost a few meters away, or sitting in a pub on the east side where I could still observe her window. I made sure to note her schedule and see if anyone came to visit. In the past few days, no one had.
Tonight, was different. Rose suddenly stepped outside her door to check her mail. She seemed annoyed by the letters, tore them apart, and threw them into the nearest bin. She wore a navy coat with a white scarf around her neck. I left the pub immediately, following her from behind.
Rose stopped on the sidewalk, turning her head toward the bin. Her eyes lingered there for a moment before she resumed walking toward a bench near a tree. She stayed there for a few hours before finally deciding to leave. I noticed her wiping her cheeks, as if she had been crying, while I remained a few meters away, watching.
I took my phone from my pocket and snapped a few photos of her before quickly hiding behind a parked car. I scanned the area for other people and noticed two drunkards walking toward Rose. They didn’t notice her; instead, they sat on the bench where she had just been and fell asleep.
Then I turned my attention back to Rose. She was now in front of her building’s entrance. I waited until she finally disappeared inside before turning my gaze back to the two drunkards. Their faces were turned away, still in slumber.
When I had walked a few steps and was almost near the bin where she had thrown the letter, the old woman from the flower shop suddenly pushed the door open. I quickly turned away, changing my direction to cross the main street.
My mind swirled with those letters. Why? Why? Why would she tear them apart and throw them away? Was it Franz Moroz? The questions spiraled into a nauseating chaos in my head, lingering with me all the way to the manor.
☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎☘︎·༻☘︎༺·☽·༻☘︎༺·☘︎
Copyright © 2026 by Mari Montclair. All Rights Reserved.