{"id":1654,"date":"2025-01-08T08:30:49","date_gmt":"2025-01-08T08:30:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/fabulousbeirut.com\/?p=1654"},"modified":"2025-06-27T10:46:39","modified_gmt":"2025-06-27T10:46:39","slug":"mademoiselle-julia-chapter-two","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/fabulousbeirut.com\/ar\/mademoiselle-julia-chapter-two\/","title":{"rendered":"Mademoiselle Julia – Chapter two"},"content":{"rendered":"
My name is Mademoiselle Julia.
I assassinate people for money.
More or less.
I take care of my ageing father.
He thinks he is an emperor.

I am a show girl.
More or less.

I long for an ordinary life.

I must find a way to escape.
Take my ageing father with me.
Stop the blood that sheds continuously and mercilessly.

And with no regret.

I am walking in a crowded street.
A busy neighborhood.
I stop under a two - floored building and I call out the name of a man.

A slender figure suddenly appears on the balcony of the first floor.

A young man with wavy hair and a loving smile sweetly asks:

\"What do you want Mademoiselle Julia?\"
I scream: \"Cheap sex\".

Suddenly I am 22.
My hair is severely pulled back in a knot.
I love fiercely, and my heart is repeatedly broken.

I am 22, and everybody passes in front of my hunger except you.

Stories that don't really happen are also love stories.
And I have aged, haven't I?

All my life I believed there was a cabaret dancer named Martha living inside my head.

On the fringe of schizophrenia.
Thank God I remained on the fringe.
No, Sir. I do not dance ballet.
I dance in the cabaret.
I belong in the realms of greatness.
I cannot end this way.

I feed the hungry stray dogs and cats in the empty streets of a dead city.

Please get me out of here.

My father paces the rooms of our old house in the dead city.

He is busy proving to himself that he has remained alone all his life.

Suddenly I am kneeling on my uncle Simon's grave.
I whisper softly: \"Don't be sad because you were always alone. In the end, we all are\".

My name is Mademoiselle Julia.
I do not exist.
I live inside the mind of a woman who used to dream.

One day I decide to change everything and move back to the country.
I pack my bags and persuade my ageing father to come with me.

For years I have been in love with a man who doesn't see me at all.
My father and I are waiting for the train.
My father thinks we are going to conquer new lands.

More or less.

I am wearing a small hat.

Ready to embark on what seems like a new adventure.

I shall stop assassinating people for money and I shall grow vegetables.

\"Him, he doesn't see me at all\", I whisper to my father.

Suddenly I am 22.
I am going to be a great actress.
But I am too afraid to be anything.
I do not even know that I am supposed to carry a handbag like proper young ladies do.

Instead, I place my stuff in a plastic bag.

My father decides that I am going to be a journalist.
I am too scared to be anything.
Yet, I have inherited his arrogance, perseverance.
And my mother's anger.

I am addicted to beginnings.
Yet, I suffocate if someone loves me.
My father loves me.
Too much.

I run away from him.
And he places his love delicately on top of my head.
And crushes me with it.

My name is Mademoiselle Julia.
I live inside the mind of a woman who used to dream.
I live for pleasure.
To give it.
To receive it.

I look at myself in the mirror.
My body is voluptuous.
I am in the mood for love.
Continuously.
I lather my body with velvety cream.
My Chanel numero cinq transforms the inevitable sweat created by desire into audible sighs.
My nails are painted with burgundy red.
My lips betray the sins I have ferociously devoured.
I slowly lift my skirt and offer my hungry flesh to be loved and covered with his weight.
He lifts my leg and it rests on his shoulders.

My name is Mademoiselle Julia.
I do not exist.
I live inside the mind of a woman who hasn't been one in a long time.
I might escape.
The church bells are ringing.
The storm has brought with it a frightening cold.

Almost a year ago, I lost my father, although he is still alive.
I saw him fly across the room.
Something hit me on the head.
When I managed to remove the blood from my face, my father had already died, although he remained alive.
He was replaced by a frail creature with hollow eyes, stretching his hand towards me.

Suddenly I am 22.
Maybe it was not such a bad idea to have been tricked by my father into becoming a journalist.
My hair is severely tied back in a knot.
I give my body freely to those I love.
I only give my soul to those who do not love me in return.

Suddenly I am in our old apartment in Beirut.
My father is praying to Saint Elias.
Mumbling his fears to his favorite Saint.

I quietly approach him and tell him reassuringly:
\"Don't be afraid of death, dad. I died a long time ago. It's not so bad\".

My name is Mademoiselle Julia.
I am a writer.
More or less.

I sit in a deserted cafe by the beach and I slowly sip my coffee.
I am writing my memoirs.
Trying to understand all that has happened.
Waiting for all that is yet to happen.
I do not exist outside the mind of a woman who used to dream.

Tonight it is cold.
I leave the cafe and suddenly I am in my bedroom.
I am wearing a lacy satin night dress.

I slither next to him in the huge bed that is ours.
He swiftly holds me inside his huge arms.

I whisper to him as my body melts into his:

\"All I ever wanted was an ordinary life\".

(To be continued).
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My name is Mademoiselle Julia.I assassinate people for money.More or less.I take care of my ageing father.He thinks he is an emperor.I am a show girl.More or less.I long for an ordinary life.I must find a way to escape.Take my ageing father with me.Stop the blood that sheds continuously and mercilessly.And with no regret.I am […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1657,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"set","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[23],"tags":[33,34,32,35],"class_list":["post-1654","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-a-writer-in-beirut","tag-fourth-of-august-2020","tag-lebanese-female-writers","tag-lebanese-literature","tag-short-stories-in-beirut"],"yoast_head":"\nMademoiselle Julia - 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