Behind the Curtain
Something was wrong. Something" was very' wrong. What it was she just couldn't put her finger on exactly. It was like d"j" vu" but not. Something more like vu j'd?"
Maybe.
Ugh! The Mock Avenue Bell Tower clock struck nine-thirty, which puts it at around seven-fifteen, and she sits up in bed, dragging a hand through dandelion fluff hair. Smacking her tongue around a pasty mouth, she blinks tired eyes and looks about the flat. She'd been tossing and turning since coming in last night, and she is getting nowhere in puzzling this out.
It's like a bad peca trip, but transitory. Leaving a lingering aftertaste like chocolate turned rancid from too long out of the World, and a dull ache that has nothing to do with sore muscles or sickness or morning-afters; nothing physical at all. That is what causes the sleeplessness, the racing of thoughts in frenzied patterns until she lurches out of bed sweaty and drained.
Bare feet swing out and back as she perches on the edge of the bed. Fingers curling over the mattress's border, sleeveless Danceland t-shirt twisting about her pale frame she eyes the coffee pot all the way across the flat with some disdain.
When had it all started" There'd been the time when she'd spied Finni Steel, and then the incident with GoGo, Rayne and Melantha. But last night' last night with Rickshaw, that was" No. If she is going to sort this she needs to go step-by-step, pull out the memories and lay them in a line to try and make sense of just what is going on with her.
Heaving out of bed and shuffling across to the kitchen area to start the magic fire, the coffee pot is clunked to the plate with an exasperated sigh. Possibly, this whatever-it-is has been going on for quite some time.
Standing at the sink she reaches for her favorite cup, looking out over the garishness that is the daytime streets of SoHo. Has she overlooked this nagging before, caught up in the breeze that is her life - running the loop, keeping track of all the info bouncing about in case it comes of import to the Bloods" What about that halfie and her friend she'd come across" What was it, almost a year or more ago"
That is as good a place to start as any, she thinks, pouring the black brew into her cup and pulling out one of the chairs from the dinette. The large pattern of bright yellow flowers on shiny, cracked plastic cushions and its pitted chrome frame makes her feel inordinately sad at that moment. Slumping down at the table, cup cradling between fine-boned hands, she lets the potent steam wash over her, staring out at the rusted fire escape and the breaking day.
Yes, over a year ago now; Sundown, Sundown and Pockets that was their names. Though, Pockets was forever calling the halfie Sundance. Even now with the memory laughter bubbles up and falls out to waft upon the steam rising from her cup.
See" Weird that. Weird that while she doesn't really know the two, only hooking up with them in passing that one night, the thought of the pair brings such familiarity; familiarity and something else, something not quite" right. Like grief, but different.
The feeling is fleeting, though. Like the night at the Ferret she'd glimpsed a shock of lemon yellow amidst the throng and felt compelled to push her way through to search it out. The halfie was not hard to miss, to be sure. Brightest yellow hair, unsettling violet eyes and an outfit reminiscent of the color left burned into retinas when one has stared too long at the sun. She'd maneuvered herself on the dance floor close enough, managed to strike up club talk with Sundown and her friend Pockets, and then simply parted company when the band took a break. But, it wasn't right and she remembers catching a sense of that back then.
Damn! It is like an itch inside her brain. Long fingers splay atop the table's chipped and faded Formica, liquid silver eyes dropping to the butter-cream swirls of its pattern.
Moving on then" Sitting in the Hard Luck Caf" one afternoon, absorbing all the conversations and the possible information they spill as voices reverberate off the former bank's marble floors and walls, she had spied a fellow Blood entering. Arrogant and self-assured with an overconfidence that rode him like the leathers he wore. He was well known to all, and bore the colors of his conquests as proudly as she did her own; Finni Steel. She knew him in transient fashion, of course; long time Blood of legendary rep. He'd picked up cartons of food from Peaches and joked a bit with Mongo, then turning for the door he'd nodded her way and flashed a rakish smile. Such a simple, everyday gesture of camaraderie for a colleague in arms. Yet, she remembers the reaction it had produced; a sensation of her stomach dropping out akin to taking hills at top speed and flying down the other side. There was no reason for that. Even now she can't fathom one, or why the reflection of that day currently causes tears to well.
Shoving back the chair, she rises. Walking the coffee cup over to the pot and pouring its undrunk contents back inside, she looks intently at the glass carafe. Seems she's been doing similar things a lot lately; food picked at before setting it aside, drinks ordered then left to the tables and bars where they sat as she moves on to other matters. Must be whatever is nagging, her mind too jumbled and disordered to focus on the routine things of life like eating. In fact, most of it all seems rather tasteless of late, unfulfilling...
She is tired finally. Maybe she can catch a few winks after all, wake up without that drained sensation and take a shower before heading out. Scuffling back to bed, she curls into the covers. Sunlight streaming through dirty windows, her eyes close and soon she is off?
perchance to dream.
Something was wrong. Something" was very' wrong. What it was she just couldn't put her finger on exactly. It was like d"j" vu" but not. Something more like vu j'd?"
Maybe.
Ugh! The Mock Avenue Bell Tower clock struck nine-thirty, which puts it at around seven-fifteen, and she sits up in bed, dragging a hand through dandelion fluff hair. Smacking her tongue around a pasty mouth, she blinks tired eyes and looks about the flat. She'd been tossing and turning since coming in last night, and she is getting nowhere in puzzling this out.
It's like a bad peca trip, but transitory. Leaving a lingering aftertaste like chocolate turned rancid from too long out of the World, and a dull ache that has nothing to do with sore muscles or sickness or morning-afters; nothing physical at all. That is what causes the sleeplessness, the racing of thoughts in frenzied patterns until she lurches out of bed sweaty and drained.
Bare feet swing out and back as she perches on the edge of the bed. Fingers curling over the mattress's border, sleeveless Danceland t-shirt twisting about her pale frame she eyes the coffee pot all the way across the flat with some disdain.
When had it all started" There'd been the time when she'd spied Finni Steel, and then the incident with GoGo, Rayne and Melantha. But last night' last night with Rickshaw, that was" No. If she is going to sort this she needs to go step-by-step, pull out the memories and lay them in a line to try and make sense of just what is going on with her.
Heaving out of bed and shuffling across to the kitchen area to start the magic fire, the coffee pot is clunked to the plate with an exasperated sigh. Possibly, this whatever-it-is has been going on for quite some time.
Standing at the sink she reaches for her favorite cup, looking out over the garishness that is the daytime streets of SoHo. Has she overlooked this nagging before, caught up in the breeze that is her life - running the loop, keeping track of all the info bouncing about in case it comes of import to the Bloods" What about that halfie and her friend she'd come across" What was it, almost a year or more ago"
That is as good a place to start as any, she thinks, pouring the black brew into her cup and pulling out one of the chairs from the dinette. The large pattern of bright yellow flowers on shiny, cracked plastic cushions and its pitted chrome frame makes her feel inordinately sad at that moment. Slumping down at the table, cup cradling between fine-boned hands, she lets the potent steam wash over her, staring out at the rusted fire escape and the breaking day.
Yes, over a year ago now; Sundown, Sundown and Pockets that was their names. Though, Pockets was forever calling the halfie Sundance. Even now with the memory laughter bubbles up and falls out to waft upon the steam rising from her cup.
See" Weird that. Weird that while she doesn't really know the two, only hooking up with them in passing that one night, the thought of the pair brings such familiarity; familiarity and something else, something not quite" right. Like grief, but different.
The feeling is fleeting, though. Like the night at the Ferret she'd glimpsed a shock of lemon yellow amidst the throng and felt compelled to push her way through to search it out. The halfie was not hard to miss, to be sure. Brightest yellow hair, unsettling violet eyes and an outfit reminiscent of the color left burned into retinas when one has stared too long at the sun. She'd maneuvered herself on the dance floor close enough, managed to strike up club talk with Sundown and her friend Pockets, and then simply parted company when the band took a break. But, it wasn't right and she remembers catching a sense of that back then.
Damn! It is like an itch inside her brain. Long fingers splay atop the table's chipped and faded Formica, liquid silver eyes dropping to the butter-cream swirls of its pattern.
Moving on then" Sitting in the Hard Luck Caf" one afternoon, absorbing all the conversations and the possible information they spill as voices reverberate off the former bank's marble floors and walls, she had spied a fellow Blood entering. Arrogant and self-assured with an overconfidence that rode him like the leathers he wore. He was well known to all, and bore the colors of his conquests as proudly as she did her own; Finni Steel. She knew him in transient fashion, of course; long time Blood of legendary rep. He'd picked up cartons of food from Peaches and joked a bit with Mongo, then turning for the door he'd nodded her way and flashed a rakish smile. Such a simple, everyday gesture of camaraderie for a colleague in arms. Yet, she remembers the reaction it had produced; a sensation of her stomach dropping out akin to taking hills at top speed and flying down the other side. There was no reason for that. Even now she can't fathom one, or why the reflection of that day currently causes tears to well.
Shoving back the chair, she rises. Walking the coffee cup over to the pot and pouring its undrunk contents back inside, she looks intently at the glass carafe. Seems she's been doing similar things a lot lately; food picked at before setting it aside, drinks ordered then left to the tables and bars where they sat as she moves on to other matters. Must be whatever is nagging, her mind too jumbled and disordered to focus on the routine things of life like eating. In fact, most of it all seems rather tasteless of late, unfulfilling...
She is tired finally. Maybe she can catch a few winks after all, wake up without that drained sensation and take a shower before heading out. Scuffling back to bed, she curls into the covers. Sunlight streaming through dirty windows, her eyes close and soon she is off?
perchance to dream.