It happened in the middle of a dance. I can still remember the pattern of my steps, my hand around her waist, bringing her to me until I could smell the sweet honey of her lips. When we heard the shouts and the earth cracking, thunderous beneath our feet, we decided to keep on dancing. At least we would be next to the ones we loved, all of us together, holding each other close until the very end. In the final moments, before we died, I felt a dull ache in the left side of my chest, the same spot where my heart would all too soon stop beating. We kept on dancing, turning our heads to the music fast enough so we couldn’t see each other’s tears. Like glass figurines in the fractured sun, spinning before we shattered.
Like a kaleidoscope’s last turn.
*
Before the end, our city was filled with nearly 20,000 men, women, children, and those of ages in between. We had many resources- elegant houses, elaborate villas, paved streets. We had small factories and artisan shops, taverns and cafes, bathhouses and brothels. We had an aqueduct and running water in our homes. We had tourists and a 20,000 seat arena in the middle of the marketplace. We had a forum. We had temples dedicated to Venus, Jupiter, and Apollo. We had love and thunder, sun and light.
We also had a volcano.
We had a volcano the way the Titanic had an iceberg.
*
My life ended, much like it began, with dancing. My feet would ache from dancing long after the light would pass and the night would give way to a waking sun- a pause for my feet to rest before I’d jump up and do it all over again. I was the dancer of the village and the evidence was all over my callused toes and shredded heels. Every time I looked at my feet at the end of each day, swollen and neatly disfigured, I’d observe the blisters, the scars of so many years passed, and I’d marvel at how such ugliness could be caused by so much beauty.
On that historical day, Aurore was beside me. People knew us as the closest of friends. Even though she was secretly more than a friend. Amongst those we loved most, we were as close as sisters. Only when alone were we ourselves.
When lovers don’t want to appear as lovers, they call each other family.
That seemed to help forgive the trespasses- the nights spent together in bed, the light tap of lips. Many nights we’d collapse, danced out and drunk on wine and love, holding each other until our embrace became so much more than friendly.
Such close friends. As close as sisters.
In a way, it’s true. We are the family we choose.
*
There are 1,350 potentially active volcanoes in the world and approximately 500 have erupted at one point or another.
Some erupt every year.
Some never will.
*
That day, Aurore came over with a new ribbon in her hair colored a deep, dark blue. She took it off and tossed it around my neck, pulling me to her. “An innocent way to get a kiss,” I say as I let her lasso me. “The appearance of innocence, but not quite the case,” she says as she leads me into the bedroom.
Outside the window, we watched the sunset from our nest of tangled limbs. The bright blue sky turned to fire and gold and I admired the glittering light against her naked skin.
“But how can we tell them?”
“I don’t know, they’re our friends. They love us, they’ll understand.”
I want to eat honey off her, so sweet my teeth will break.
“What if they don’t?”
“Aurore, if they don’t then at least we will have each other, out in the open, no more hiding.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I know,” I told her, petting the soft hairs that ran along the edge of her ears.
That is why people hide.
*
We decided to bring ourselves out of hiding by hosting a party. We invited our closest friends and were going to tell them that we love each other and always have, and if they gave a damn about either of us then they would have to be alright with it, or else they could walk right into the river.
Little Roar (as was my nickname for her) was still nervous. It didn’t help that my mysterious neighbor who I’ve never seen, was in one of her moods again. Every night, for an unplanned amount of time, I would hear muffled sounds coming from her home.
“I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying,” Aurore said.
“It must be crying.”
“How are you sure?”
“People laugh when they’re in company. They cry when they’re alone.”
“I didn’t think of that but you’re right. It reminds me of something my magister said. That no one questions someone crying in the street because they can easily imagine them suffering some terrible heartbreak or tragedy. That sorrow is unspoken, understood, but if a man is walking by himself and laughing, people think he’s crazy.”
She takes my hand and weaves her fingers through mine and continues.
“Isn’t it upsetting. Why would people think happy sounds mark insanity?”
“I suppose it’s because they can’t see the source of what’s causing the man to laugh?” “Exactly- how sad that they can imagine the reasons for someone’s tears but not for someone’s joys.”
My little Roar was special, so sensitive and gentle in understanding others. She went on, “Even sad songs are beautiful, so why shouldn’t sad people be seen as beautiful too?”
I hoped that people would be gentle with her this evening.
*
My birth brother, Oreste, came over with his girlfriend and a small dog they named Homer. Our school friends Napoleon, Tisa, and Francesca came too. We had recently graduated from university and were ready to begin the rest of our lives, completely unaware that this was the day we were going to die.
If I had known, I would have danced even harder, faster. I would have danced until my feet broke. What future would I need them for?
“What are we celebrating? Please don’t tell us we forgot your birthday!” “Don’t worry,” I reassured our friends, “Both mine and Aurore’s are in winter. No, we wanted to tell you, tell all of you, that Aurore and I…” Suddenly, I was at a loss for words. I should have practiced, should have prepared. I had felt such courage before but now, staring into the faces of people I have known so long, some my whole life, I wondered how they would soon look at me, how they’d think of me, and how I’d have to explain so much more than I could ever put into words. How, once I told them, they would see us as different, changed, forever. How could I make such a move? How could I—
“We’re in love and have been for some time, and we want you to know because you’re our closest friends and we love you just the way you are, and I hope- we hope- that you will love us just the way we are too,” Aurore spat out.
She looked less nervous, her eyes gleaming and large, like they were looking at the whole world all at once.
“And if you don’t, well, you can go straight to Pluto’s,” Aurore added as she grinned and placed her hand around my waist, in front of others for the first time.
I looked at the quiet faces around us. No one said anything and I was afraid to look at Aurore’s face, I hate to see it disappointed. “Is that all?” my brother asked in between mouthfuls of olives and cheese. “We already know!” our friend exclaimed. “You do?” I ask, mildly stunned. “Yeah, it’s so obvious I’m surprised you didn’t know we know,” Francesca added. Aurore let out a breath and I realized she had been holding it this whole time, her cheeks round and flushed pink like the most beautiful peach. “Come on, we love you both. You couldn’t possibly believe that we wouldn’t want you to be happy. Our parents know, too” my brother says. “They do?” “Of course. They’re perfectly happy about it and always speak of Aurore’s kindness and charity.”
My little Roar. I look into her eyes and I swear, in that moment I saw the rest of my life, soft and lovely and covered in stars.
*
We had been dancing, drinking, and laughing unceasingly. Never had I felt I could so freely experience such happiness. “Did you hear that?” one of us said, but we couldn’t stop laughing long enough to hear anything besides ourselves. “Hey!” Aurore shouted. “Really, be quiet for a moment.”
I knew something was wrong as I watched her looking out the window. “What’s happened?” I asked, even though, judging by those eyes, those firework eyes I knew so well, I already had a dreadful idea.
In a strangled voice, quieter than the footsteps of a ghost, Aurore whispered.
“Vesuvius.”
*
For once, I was completely certain that my neighbor’s cries were not of happiness.
The city shouted all around us, in the middle of a nightmare it would never wake from. I used to think that if you can’t sleep, you can’t have nightmares. Now I know that is untrue.
Outside the windows, we saw people running, but in no way fast enough. No speed could outrun our ending. Nature had spoken and its word was a law even the Gods could not silence. As we watched the cloud in the sky come toppling towards us, we all linked arms and stood together, a wall made of family that have nowhere to hide.
Hiding never suited me anyway.
That was how they found us, so many years later, arm in arm with those we loved most.
Aurore’s lips and mine, touching forever.
Christine Vartoughian is an award-winning Armenian-American writer and film director. Her debut feature film about love and suicide, Living with the Dead: A Love Story, received the Audience Choice Award at Art of Brooklyn Film Festival, Best Feature Film at Aberdeen Festival in the U.K., and is available on iTunes and Amazon in the United States and internationally. Christine is a member of Lincoln Center Theatre Director’s Lab, SAG-AFTRA, and the female filmmaker collective, The Film Fatales, as well as the founder of (Screen)Play Press, a publishing company for unproduced film scripts. Her feature script, Young Monsters, was published in 2022. She lives in New York City. Instagram @christinewritesaboutyou