Incognito, by Greenie

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Chapter Two- Of Pancakes and Crêpes

I awake from an uneasy sleep, from the familiar haunting dreams. Screams, tears, blood. An endless cycle of pain.

I awake from Hell and into someplace better, someplace lighter. Someplace where I'm not so lost in that dark and twisted abyss. And I've made a decision.

Those haunting dreams? They are the end, where it all stays. Where yesterday and everything before fade and disappear. Die.

Because none of it really happened.

See, this is what most people don't understand, where most people step in and say, "What bullshit!"

Well, they're wrong.

The lie can be lived because it isn't a lie. Not if you convince yourself, not if you fall under the spell of your own deception.

Yesterday is just a figment of imagination, a fallacy that occurs only in the darkness of one's mind. Today is today. Today is what's real.

I roll off the couch and follow my nose to the kitchen.

Tall manly Orlando is standing over the counter, juggling a frying pan, apron and all. Tall manly Orlando is bouncing, singing American Pie with a spatula as his microphone.

The image makes it all so easy. Easy to forget the pain and loneliness; easy to be deaf to my dead sister's screams, my mothers cries; easy to convince myself that this is what I wake to every morning; easy to imagine walking across the room, embracing the solid, dancing figure with my cheek pressed against the warm chest as if it were normal to do so.

"Juliana?" Orlando is standing over me, frowning. "Are you alright?"

I'm closing my eyes, reaffirming the slightly faltering illusion.

I'm breathing in deeply, smelling the sweet and musky scent emanating from Orlando.

I'm listening hard to his even breaths.

I'm thinking about this new reality. This reality that is right here, right now. Nowhere else.

I open my eyes, look at him, wonder if he knows how stupid a question that is.

Smile, smile, optimism.

"Great."

He doesn't return my smile, just sighs slightly and moves back to the counter.

"I hope you like crêpes."

I hate them, I want to respond. I nod instead and let him serve me a plate full.

We eat in silence. In this silence I'm thinking about crêpes. I'm wondering if crêpes came from pancakes or if pancakes came from crêpes or if they are completely unrelated.

I'm trying not to think about how much it doesn't matter.

Half way through the meal, and my contemplations, Orlando pushes a newspaper in front of me. A section of it is highlighted.

"It's just off Colby Ave., a block or so from here. I thought we could go look at it this morning."

It is an apartment.

I stop eating and look at him. I mean, really look at him. Past the perfectly chiseled face, the deep brown eyes and the messy hair. Past the tall, lean and muscular body.

What do I find?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because I don't know this man. I'm only seeing him for the first time. You can't just see someone, and read them. Just like that. That's bullshit.

All I know is the compassion he's showed me. The concern and overwhelming trust and kindness displayed towards a complete stranger.

I know this, I've seen this and I'm thinking, yeah right.

So who is this guy really? What truly lies behind this humane act? What makes him tick, what pisses him off, what are his problems, what does he hate, love, fear?

I sit here, wondering all of this, and I know that I really don't want the answers.

The man is gorgeous, generous and warm. He's a dream.

I think, Never trust something so good.

I say, Look for the flaw, for the deception. Interrogate, suspect, hate.

I command, Realize the dream is really a nightmare.

I remember how just minutes ago he was cooking and singing and how much I wanted him to be my life. A stupid desire, spurred by an illusion created in a burst of blindness.

My reality is here and now but it isn't him.

"Why are you doing this?"

Orlando shovels a big bite of crêpes into his mouth and keeps his eyes on the table as if he hasn't heard me.

I push my plate aside, lean over the table, strain importantly, "Orlando," He blinks up at me and I repeat, "Why are you doing this?"

I hope I don't sound too bitter.

Then again, maybe I hope I do.

Orlando blinks again, his eyes abruptly dark and hardened.

"Why did you cry yourself to sleep last night?"

It's my turn to blink, to block his words and sharp tone.

I sit back in my chair, look at the floor and shut up. Point taken.

"And it's Orli."

Another blink.

"What?"

"Friends call me Orli." The warmth is back in his voice, the softness in his eyes.

I'm staring at him like he has two heads.

I'm wondering when we became friends.

I'm thinking that maybe that isn't such a good idea.

I say, "Oh."

"So Jules- do you mind if I call you Jules?" He doesn't give me time to respond, yes. "What do you say?"

Imploring eyes smile at me.

I'm shrinking.

I'm shrinking, not because I am scared but because I really don't want to do this. I don't want this help, I don't want this kindness and, most of all, I don't want to be this mans friend. I don't even want to be his acquaintance.

So I don't respond. I just look at him, remembering how he saved me, how he took me in and sheltered me. I look at him and all I see is concealed danger. I look at him and I hate him.

"I don't need apartment," I tell him.

"You said you didn't have a place to stay."

I curse myself. A moment of truth equals a moment of weakness.

"I said what?"

"That you didn't have a place to say."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"You're crazy. I didn-"

My adamancy is interrupted by the doorbell.

Orlando gets up, looking at me sternly before leaving the room. "You did and we are going to look at the apartment."

The finality in his voice makes me feel like a scolded child. A big, steaming twenty-two year old child.

I glare at his retreating form, wondering who the hell he thinks he is anyways and, with an unfamiliar rage, pop up from my place at the table.

I'm going to rinse my dish and then I'm gone.

I can hear Orlando talking to someone, his voice getting louder as he moves back towards the kitchen.

"...So we are going to see it this morning," He's saying matter-of-factly. I turn, jaw set, to flash him a defiant stare as he walks through the door.

But instead of brown eyes I lock onto piercing blues ones.

I freeze, my muscles clenching with panic.

The plate in my hands slides, hits the floor shattering.

I don't hear it. I don't hear anything. All I see are those eyes, angry and accusing.

Eyes whose stare I'd planned on never being under again.

"Juliana?!"

I tear my eyes from my mothers and look frantically around for an escape.

"Juliana!"

Orlando is shaking me, frowning at me oddly. I disregard that I am supposed to be hating him and peer up desperately, silently pleading for him to do something, anything.

But he just frowns more, says, "I didn't take you for one to be star struck."

There's a subtly in his voice, an underlying disgusted tone.

Did he just say star struck?

I look back over to where my mother is.

Only it's not my mother.

The panicked tension flows out of me and is quickly replaced with humility.

"Uh...hi."

I stare face reddening as none other than Elijah Wood gives me an awkward smile.

Under all my embarrassment I'm thinking,

Wow, he's real.

I smile back sheepishly, blurt out lamely, "Oh! Hi. You're...ah, not who I thought you were."

I step back abruptly from Orlando, who I remember I should be hating but have instead been clinging to, and watch the two of them exchange a baffled glance.

Orlando shrugs, introduces us nonchalantly and bends down to pick up the broken plate pieces. I'm about to apologize when he says, "We should probably leave with in the hour."

All traces of panic and humiliation disappear completely.

"No," I say firmly, "I'm not going."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to Bosnia with my father," I tell him. Elijah looks at me, intrigued.

"Really?!" I nod. "That is fabulous! Wh-"

"It's bullshit, is what it is." Orlando's blunt statement conjures a confused blink from Elijah and a furious glare from me.

I attempt to concentrate on my annoyance rather than ponder the apparent transparency of my lie.

"It's not bull-" My protest is cut off by the ringing of the phone.

I'm starting to really hate ringing objects.

"Hello?" I drum my fingers on the table. "Oh, hey Fio- what?" Orlando pauses, eyes widening. "Today?...Oh shit. I am so sorry, I completely forgot." Another pause. Elijah and I frown at each other. "Uh-huh. Okay, I'll be there as soon as possible."

Orlando slams the phone down and twirls to face us. "Fuck! I was supposed to meet Fiona thirty minutes ago. I have to go!"

I smile, "That's too bad."

He rushes around the apartment frantic, skidding to a halt in front of the door to face me and Elijah a minute later. In his fluster his cheeks have become all flushed, his hair even more tousled.

I wonder if Fiona is his girlfriend.

I remember I don't care.

"I'll be back in a few hours," He says quickly, and turns to go.

I start to follow him but he stops again, narrowing his eyes at me. "Where do you think you are going?"

"Bosnia," I dead pan.

He laughs, looks past me. "Hey 'Lij, you think you could do me a favor?"

I feel like I should be stomping my foot, the guy is so incorrigible.

"Orlando, no ."

"Orli," He shots back, annoyed, raising an inquiring eyebrow at Elijah.

"Um...sure."

I say, "No," But nobody is listening.

"Take Jules-"

I say, "Juliana," But I've become transparent.

"-Over to look at the apartment, will you?"

I say, "Don't," But I'm not even here.

I'm beginning to realize this really doesn't have anything to do with me.

Elijah nods, "Of course man."

I try one more time, "No."

I must have reappeared because Orlando looks at me. He looks at me hard, knowingly, and I wither under it all.

The determination, the compassion, the sincerity.

He questions quietly, "No?"

I shake my head. "No."

I'm getting pretty good at this assertive thing.

I'm thinking, thank you sex ed.

"And where are you going to go?"

I don't like that tone. That sad, insightful tone.

It roots me to the ground.

I'm thinking, goodbye assertiveness, goodbye sex ed.

Orlando nods and walks out the door.

I've got this sinking feeling that my control has been stolen. I've got this feeling where I'm falling, falling fast, and there's nothing to hold onto. I'm flailing to grasp the edge but I'm even not moving.

The door clicks shut softly.

I'm feeling like a caged animal.

I'm thinking reality played a cruel trick on me.

I'm wishing I could just stick my head in hole and never come out.

"So, you're not going to Bosnia?"

I'm wondering if these two have any clue what they are getting themselves into.

I'm deciding I should stop feeling, thinking, wishing and wondering and just go eat some more pancakes. Or crêpes. Or whatever the hell they are.