Marie DuBois
The chamber was empty.
One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.
One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.
“Best of three,” she said to Señor.
Marie DuBois sat, legs outspread beyond the seat of the single wooden chair, in a fashion that would have displeased her upbringing greatly. Of course, Marie DuBois was not her real name. No, of course it wasn’t. Marie DuBois was a moniker she awarded herself for her freedom, and to prevent herself from being found by searching eyes. Her husband must have been looking for her, desperately clinging to the hope that the mother of his children would return to her familial duties. He must have known that his hope was, in fact, desperate. It had been five years since he had last seen her face, and four and a half since any of their mutual relations had. Last anyone knew, she wandered off towards the sea and never returned. Swept away by a riptide, they wagered. What a horrible tragedy, they thought, since she had just recently learned to swim. How could anyone imagine the wife and mother of an upper class Southern family deserting them intentionally in 1901, unless afflicted with some sort of malicious madness or feminine hysteria.
One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.
One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.
She counted the chambers silently in her mind. The silver cylinder stopped spinning, and Marie DuBois fingered the mother-of-pearl inlaid handle gently as she swallowed her breath. She held the revolver up to her temple and looked over to the white rabbit with a single patch of black over his right eye, a rabbit she simply called Señor, sitting calmly in the dirt in the corner of the Mexican hut. His whiskers twitched slightly. She thought not of her husband, but of Robert. She pulled the trigger.
Click.
The chamber was empty again.
One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.
One, two, three, one, two, three, swing.
Sweat glistened on the swells of Marie DuBois’s breasts, exposing entirely too much skin for her breeding in her thin ivory peignoir, now stained by dirt and sweat. Her ash yellow hair and fair complexion were a sight unseen deep in the Mexican village she hid herself in. The village was somewhere between Mexico City and Puebla, at the base of an active volcano. She thought she might have felt some connection to Robert, being in a place that had called him away from her years before. Presumably, she would have felt the same allure of the opportunity and adventure that he had, but he had been gone from this place for quite some time, and all that remained was the merciless heat clinging to the walls.
“Still one more,” she said to Señor. She wasn’t offended when Señor didn’t seem to care for her plight, but then again, that was typical behavior for him.
She stroked the silver of the revolver, which was far too clean and shining for the scene. Surely her husband would be missing one of his prized revolvers, though he never would have thought it was taken by Marie DuBois. The rambunctious neighbor boy, perhaps, or even a dishonest maid, but not his devoted wife.
But he didn’t know her well. She thought Robert had, or at least she thought he had gotten a brief but genuine glimpse into her soul in their time together. He betrayed Marie DuBois by recusing himself from her affection, as he refused to grow accustomed to her untraditional ways in their unaccommodating lifestyles. She could hardly help it, though. She had completely wiped the sleep from her eyes, and remained—painfully—awake. Day in and day out, her spirit flickered like a flame against a breeze. It burned hot and bright, maddening her resolve to be an independent woman, free of constraint in constricting times. Moments later, it dipped into the dark agony of being utterly alone and presumed dead, the weight of her decisions, her responsibility, crushing any lingering liberation. The agony left as quickly as it came, and this is how Marie DuBois lived.
“But has the pleasure been worth the agony?” she asked Señor, beads of sweat hanging on her upper lip. His white ears seemed to rise a bit at her attention, but Señor could not be tempted to move closer to her. He sat quite contentedly in the dirt in the corner. She had thrown him some bits of lettuce earlier in the day, and he seemed happy to keep watch over what remained of them.
A bead of sweat finally dropped from her upper lip into her mouth, and she remembered the feel of his kiss. She touched her lips with her fingers, chalky from dirt. They were warm enough to be comforting. She remembered the shiver down her spine, following the touch of his hand. She remembered how their bodies felt like the art she created during her days of liberation, when her spirit burned hot. Marie DuBois closed her eyes and slowly threw her head back, allowing herself to feel the ecstasy of a long-gone memory.
A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. She saw a shadow through the slats of the wood, and reluctantly rose from her chair, the revolver hidden at her side. It was the Mexican man who had rented the room to her. He surveyed her through the crack of the door she had opened, his eyes reflecting compassion and perhaps even worry for this strange woman adrift. His young daughter stood behind him, eager to get a look at the American woman in bare feet and dirtied peignoir. The daughter was too beautiful to behold, with her shining raven hair and the glimmering hope of youth still in her dark eyes. How dreamy to be so young and beautiful, Marie DuBois thought as she obliged the man and his daughter with a smile. She thought she saw the man flash his eyes towards the revolver at her side.
The man smiled and spoke in Spanish, motioning to his daughter and their home behind them.
She didn’t speak the language, but she understood enough.
“No, no, gracias,” she muttered as she slowly closed the door on the disappointed pair. She saw that the Mexican man knew too much already, she could see it in his eyes. She knew he would sway her from her dangerous game if she had joined them, and her game was nearly over.
She returned to her seat, kicking up the dust on the floor as she walked.
“This is it,” she said to Señor as she held the revolver up to her temple one last time. Señor stood on his hind legs, looking to Marie DuBois as she smiled gently at him.
She remembered what it felt like to rise from the sleep of her lover’s arms. She remembered what it felt like to trace his shoulders, her fingers stained with paint and charcoal, as her unfinished work lay on the floor. She remembered the ultimate freedom of solitude she felt when he left her that day. She remembered the crushing loneliness when she realized he would never return. She knew that her life would be forever tainted by the burning fever of sensuality and the complete misery of burning as an island. The seductive voice of the sea would be the only voice she would hear as she burned into nothingness, as her passion turned everything she knew and loved into ash.
She pulled the trigger one last time.
Click.
The chamber was empty.
Marie DuBois breathed a sigh that was half longing, half relief, and rose from her chair. She scooped Señor into her arms, kissing him on the head.
“Today we keep going,” she cooed to him as she walked into the Mexican night, leaving the shining revolver in the seat of the chair.