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I. Home.
Cesare remembers blue skies, and wide, green fields. He remembers warm, damp summer breezes, the smell of fresh-cut hay in the air. The faces all have faded, but he remembers the smells of his mother (baking bread, sweat, sometimes perfume), and a sense of enveloping warmth; he remembers the smells of his father (pipe tobacco, a different flavor of sweat, engine grease), and a quiet, reassuring strength. He remembers open spaces, and freedom, and ease.
And then Cesare slept. Cesare slept for a long time.
II. Awakening.
He'd been asleep so long, everything had changed by the time he woke up. The world outside was much larger, and closer to him than it had been before; walls seemed to lean in, stopping just short of crushing him with their weight, and everything was dark and angry. And there was a man.
A cockeyed, wild little man, perfectly suited to this attacking, unpredictable new world. The little man understood Cesare right away: He woke Cesare up and he calmed him down, offering soothing sounds and little, reassuring caresses, where everyone else had only loud noises and increasingly frantic blows for him in his slumber.
The man took Cesare home, gave him a place to sleep, told him there was nothing wrong with being what he was. The man protected Cesare from the wild blackness outside; the man made him feel safe.
Cesare's old life came to him in dreams full of color -- bright greens and blues, flashes of blinding sunlight -- but even those soon faded. He remembered his mother dimly, sometimes, when he lay in his cabinet with the man watching over him. It felt like being in his crib again, safe and warm, sure he would be protected no matter how canny the attack. Cesare still slept, but he slept happily; contentedly. The world outside frightened him, but he was safe inside.
III. Hands.
The man made him clothes. Sewed them, by hand. He'd wake Cesare gently to feed and dress him, and his fingers would be covered with plasters from wayward needles; sometimes, Cesare could see faint marks from thimbles on the tips of the man's fingers, so long had he been wearing them, and so fiercely focused had he been his work.
IV. Blood.
It's everywhere, he's drowning in it. His clothes -- the soft, new clothes the man just finished -- are soaked in it, so heavy with blood he can hardly move. It's in his shoes, and it's in his hair, and he can't smell anything but the blood's cloying tang. He wants to scream, but when he breathes in, the air is so heavy with blood, he chokes as if his lungs are full; chokes and wraps his arms around himself and starts to sob. He stands, and he stares down at the body he's destroyed, and the sobs tear through his body and he shakes convulsively, and he's stuck. He knows he needs to go back, to the man, but the blood has glued his feet to the floor.
When the man finds him, dawn has broken.
V. Love.
The man touches his face, whispers in his ear, takes his bloody hands. He wraps him in a blanket, rubs his back and smooths his hair, like his mother used to do. Cesare stops shaking.
VI. Forgetting.
The man teaches Cesare to leave the blood outside, where it belongs. The world is a terrible, brutal place, where people are killed at random, every day; there is nothing they can do about it but keep themselves safe. Cesare comes to understand that, sometimes, they all have parts to play in the deaths, because the violent world around them demands it. When Cesare's days come, he must do the work quickly and quietly; do the world's bidding and then returning to the safe haven of the man's house. When he crosses the threshold, the world is forgotten; when they wash the blood away, Cesare lets the memories go.
The man dries Cesare's hair with a towel, carefully wiping the flecks of blood away from the curve of his ear. He dresses Cesare is his warm, clean pajamas, and tucks him into his cabinet for the night. Cesare doesn't dream anymore.
VII. Love (Again).
When Cesare wakes, he sees the man. No matter where they are, the first thing he sees is the man, letting him know he's safe. Even when they're on stage, the man is what he sees, and the man is the one who tells him what to do; lets him know how to be.
Except once. Once, Cesare opened his eyes and he could see nothing but a woman's face, filling his field of vision. The shock was so great Cesare found he physically couldn't breathe, but didn't think to worry about it until after she was gone; so great he didn't even remember to look for the man until he was breathing again.
What Cesare remembers most is how she smelled. She smelled of lilacs, so strongly and so naturally that, as he stared at her face and struggled to understand, he decided his dreams had come back, and that he'd dreamed a woman made of flowers. And then she was gone so quickly, he wasn't sure he hadn't dreamed her; the world outside seemed incapable of creating something so delicate, and so pure. The world outside was dark and violent and unforgiving, and she was none of those things.
He never asks the man about her. Cesare doesn't have the words.
VIII. Sleep.
Cesare knows where he is by the smell. Even before he reaches her building, he can smell the lilacs, and he wills his feet to hurry before he remembers. Even then, though, he doesn't try to stop; he knows he can't, and he doesn't want to. He wants to be near her again, and doesn't think to care what the reason is.
He knows it's time for killing, but he can't do it. Not because he wants her to live, but because he worries that, when she dies, the smell will fade away as the blood leaves her body. So he picks her up, and he takes her with him. And it's heaven, the most perfect moment he can remember: With her, in the lilac, there's nothing more he could ever want. Here, with her, he feels protected. It's like being in the man's house; he feels the same comfort, the same contentment and sense of profound safety.
But his body is weak, even with her and the lilac to help, and he falters. And then she's gone, far too soon, and when she leaves, the lilac leaves, and he doesn't know quite what to do.
He wait for the man, but the man doesn't come. So he sleeps again, alone.