Work Text:
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[Combeferre]
Statement of Professor Adeline Favourite regarding a short-lived relationship. Original statement given on May 9th, 2010. Audio recording by Michel Combeferre, head archivist of the Hugo Institute.
Statement begins.
It's very important that you understand that this story- it was many years ago. I'm no longer the woman I was, back then. I know that you're only here to write what I say down, but it's important that you know I am a changed person.
A little less than twenty years ago, I was in a relationship. Not a very good one, but a relationship nonetheless.
Blachevelle- the man I was with at the time- was a complete stick in the mud. I, on the other hand, was more of a... free spirit. Before him, I'd never been in a real, adult "relationship". It's a bit embarrassing, since I was turning thirty, but it's the truth.
Truly, I only stayed with him for so long because I figured it was how relationships should work. Both people mildly tolerating each other. It worked out well enough for my parents. I thought I was becoming a real adult, you know? Taking my first step into the real world.
Sorry- I'm wasting time trying to justify my actions. I'll get to the meat of the story, I promise.
I lived in an apartment complex with a less-than-stellar reputation. It was somewhat infamous for its greedy landlords and constant ant infestations. It was fine by me, though, since perpetual college students don't have money to spend on anything but the bare minimum.
The complex attracted all sorts of strange people, but there was one in particular who caught my eye.
The man who lived in the apartment next to mine was an actor. I'm not certain what type of actor, but I regularly heard him practice Chekhovian monologues through the walls. He was loud, to say the least.
He was also very... odd. I heard him talking to himself sometimes, rambling about the strangest things. Only, it was a dialogue- not a train-of-thought kind of thing, but a discussion between two people. He would speak as both parties in the conversation, changing his voice depending on who was "speaking".
My neighbor's voice wasn't anything of note. It was nice, but nothing stood out about it. The "other" voice, however? It was deep, gravelly, distinct in ways that felt impossible. Inhuman, almost.
It was still him, though. I swear that no one else lived in that apartment. The walls were thin- I would have noticed.
Usually, when I heard it, I could pass it off as the eccentricities of an actor. I'd been around some theatre growing up, and I knew that it wasn't too abnormal for a person to read a whole script aloud to themselves- taking on different voices to distinguish each character.
Only, it didn't seem like a script.
His tone was far too innane, the conversations themselves too unimportant for it to come from anything but his mind. It truly felt as though he was having a dialogue with himself.
I could ignore it, though, since he was so attractive. The kind of guy you see across the street and wonder whether it was your mind playing tricks on you, or if a person is truly allowed to look like that. And, best of all, he adored me.
We never exchanged names, but there's a certain kind of intimacy that comes with living so near a person. One that- well- it wasn't very surprising when we kissed. It was even less surprising when things escalated.
After a while, we began to spend time with one another, outside of anything physical. He made for excellent company, especially when compared to Blachevelle, who was hesitant to talk about anything other than how his stocks were doing.
My neighbor regularly visited my apartment. Always my apartment, never his.
It had become a habit for me to make us breakfast in the morning, while he showed off whatever strange hobby he'd gotten into recently. When everything came to an end, it was ventriloquism.
God. The ventriloquism.
At first he wasn't very good at it. I always saw his mouth moving, and it became a bit of a joke between us. He'd be sitting there as I made pancakes, and all of a sudden I'd hear something like "Mademoiselle, make your gloves into fritters, and I will eat them" in the silliest voice imaginable. I always caught him moving his lips, he wasn't very subtle.
I'd call him out, we'd laugh, and I'd lean over the counter to kiss him. It was all very romantic. It was all very normal.
Only, things changed. One day, he told me that he'd found someone willing to hire him- a children's puppet show. Apparently, his ventriloquism was good enough for them, and they offered him a job. I remember being so happy for him- all of his hard work was finally paying off.
His first day of rehearsal came, and it went well. Apparently, they wanted him to play a villain with a low gravelly voice. He said he'd never done anything like that before, and asked if he could practice it with me.
I didn't believe him, of course. I'd heard him sound exactly like that dozens of times, from the other side of the wall. But I figured that it was some kind of secret- some strange hobby that he didn't want me to know about. He was probably just working on using the voice in front of people, getting comfortable with it outside of his apartment.
In the end, I agreed to let him practice with me. I didn't mention anything about his one-man conversations, just shoved it to the back of my mind and pretended I'd never heard it in the first place. I let him sprinkle in bits of this strange, monstrous voice into our conversations, congratulating him when he was able to hold it for over an hour.
It's kind of embarrassing, how long it took for me to notice. How much time I spent hearing his voice, and never realised the edge it grew- the raspy vowels and deeper breaths.
In my defense, we didn't see each other nearly as often. He had his rehearsals and I, unfortunately, had Blachevelle.
Until suddenly, I didn't. He broke things off with me after a friend of his went missing. Blachevelle was a wreck, and being in a relationship was only making it worse. I remember feeling relieved that he was the one to break us up. Being grateful for his friend's disappearance.
I'm glad to no longer be that woman.
Anyways, my neighbor and I finally had time together. I won't get into the details, but it turned physical. Well, physical with one exception. He refused to kiss me.
It wasn't a big deal, just a little strange. Kissing had never been off-limits before, and I was confused. Instead of doing the mature thing and asking, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
Out of nowhere, I crashed my mouth against his. Our teeth bumped, it hurt a bit, but I was too focused to notice. And then I was distracted by... something else.
His saliva was bitter. Not a little bitter, but to such an extent that I found myself gagging. When I went to pull away, I felt his hands on my head, holding it in place. I didn't close my mouth. I should have, but it simply didn't occur to me at the time.
That's how I noticed that his tongue was gone.
No. Not gone. It was replaced.
Where there once was flesh, I felt something sharp. Something smooth. Something many-legged. Something scuttling its way in.
Have you ever heard about those mothers who gain unnatural strength to save their kid? Who could lift a car despite never going to the gym?
Because, well, I felt a rush of adrenaline. My body felt electric, my bones made of pure steel. In a matter of seconds, I'd shoved him off of me, and ran out of my apartment. I didn't stop running until my legs gave out several blocks away.
I never returned to that apartment. It was for the best.
I don't know why it took me so long to speak with you. Maybe I've finally allowed myself to think about it, after so long.
Sometimes, I wonder if he's still around. He was a good man, and he deserved better than that... thing... making a home in his mouth. I hope I never see him again, but I still wish him happiness, you know?
Statement ends.
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[Combeferre]
Supplemental.
Professor Favourite asked to not be contacted about any leads in our investigation after this interview. Not that we had anything to show her.
We were unable to find her neighbor, to no ones surprise. What little information she gave us was not helpful in our research, and the passage of time has not shed any light on his identity.
Something far more fruitful has been research into the professor's landlords- Mme. and M. Thernardier. According to Courfeyrac, they're a name that pops up quite regularly in statements. Looking into their activities hasn't led to much, just some less than stellar reviews on Google and a few victories in child pageantry circuits. Despite that, I can't help but wonder if they had any influence over this event. We should keep an eye on them.
In other news, Courfeyrac has developed an interest in ventriloquism.
God save us all.
[Click.]