Marty sat on the floor, jean clad knees tucked up to her chest, a cigarette shaking in her hand. It was a little more than a month before the D?Mourirs arrived in RhyDin and Martyna was hiding out in her boyfriend?s dive of an apartment, chain-smoking as if her life depended on it. A little mountain of ash on Lemar?s tray was her current achievement.
She paid no heed to the rickety iron post bed that she was leaning against or the rumpled form of her boyfriend collapsed upon it. She ignored the sink in the kitchen that always dripped and the pipes rattling as someone on the floor flushed the toilet. She didn?t care that her green hair was in a bed-head disarray or that the kohl under her eyes had smudged or even that she had burnt a small hole in her Diesel jeans a moment ago with her cigarette.
Marty was listening. As the sound of bombs impacting and buildings deconstructing into rubble neared the shake of her hand grew worse and her face, hidden beneath that kohl and dramatic green shadow that matched her hair, paled. She had been holed up in Lemar?s apartment for the last day, afraid to dare the streets to go home. She knew Elly would be worried, more than worried, but she was too terrified to leave.
And now the bombings were getting closer again. She didn?t know how Lemar was still sleeping, unaware of the danger they were in, while she hadn?t closed her eyes in over twenty-four hours. It was time to wake him up, to move. They were no longer safe there?Marty no longer felt safe. She stabbed her current smoke out and jumped up, shaking her boyfriend into the world of consciousness. He was barely coherent as she began to shout at him, throwing a pair of jeans and a tight t-shirt for him to wear, ?We need to go, we need to go now! They?re coming and we have to get out.?
?Marty?what? Just stop, what are you doing??
What she was doing wasa throwing anything valuable into her Prada backpack like a mad woman, stopping only for a moment to screech out at him, ?Fucking Christ, Lemar! Can?t you hear them?? There were tears mixing with her makeup as she tied up her Converse.
It took only a moment?s comprehension before he too was up, barking orders out at her and throwing his clothes on before he was dragging himself, his guitar, and Martyna down the two flights of stairs to the foyer of his apartment building. It had been far from posh in the good ol? days and now framed pictures had fallen to shatter on the ground and the plaster was sporting new cracks every minute.
They had barely made it to the door before the whine alerted them to the fact that they were going too slow, had gone too slow. There was a basement in the building, reachable through the adjacent alley, which they had been heading for. They didn?t make it before a bomb hit the street outside and blew the front wall of the foyer, a mixture of cement bricks and glass, in at and on top of them.
It took Marty a day to wake up to the blue eyes that perfectly mirrored her own, filled with worry. She had broken her arm, got a nice bump on her head, some serious bruising on her back and more scratches and minor bruises then they could count. Lemar hadn?t made it. His head had been smashed in by the door he had been reaching to open, he lost too much blood from his injuries, they hadn?t found him in time, there weren?t enough competent doctors left in the city anymore. They all fed her any number of excuses; she could choose the one that made her feel better.
They all skirted the truth- that he was simply not a D?Mourir and therefore not as important as Martyna, not important enough to save. Marty never found the words to express how that made her feel.
She paid no heed to the rickety iron post bed that she was leaning against or the rumpled form of her boyfriend collapsed upon it. She ignored the sink in the kitchen that always dripped and the pipes rattling as someone on the floor flushed the toilet. She didn?t care that her green hair was in a bed-head disarray or that the kohl under her eyes had smudged or even that she had burnt a small hole in her Diesel jeans a moment ago with her cigarette.
Marty was listening. As the sound of bombs impacting and buildings deconstructing into rubble neared the shake of her hand grew worse and her face, hidden beneath that kohl and dramatic green shadow that matched her hair, paled. She had been holed up in Lemar?s apartment for the last day, afraid to dare the streets to go home. She knew Elly would be worried, more than worried, but she was too terrified to leave.
And now the bombings were getting closer again. She didn?t know how Lemar was still sleeping, unaware of the danger they were in, while she hadn?t closed her eyes in over twenty-four hours. It was time to wake him up, to move. They were no longer safe there?Marty no longer felt safe. She stabbed her current smoke out and jumped up, shaking her boyfriend into the world of consciousness. He was barely coherent as she began to shout at him, throwing a pair of jeans and a tight t-shirt for him to wear, ?We need to go, we need to go now! They?re coming and we have to get out.?
?Marty?what? Just stop, what are you doing??
What she was doing wasa throwing anything valuable into her Prada backpack like a mad woman, stopping only for a moment to screech out at him, ?Fucking Christ, Lemar! Can?t you hear them?? There were tears mixing with her makeup as she tied up her Converse.
It took only a moment?s comprehension before he too was up, barking orders out at her and throwing his clothes on before he was dragging himself, his guitar, and Martyna down the two flights of stairs to the foyer of his apartment building. It had been far from posh in the good ol? days and now framed pictures had fallen to shatter on the ground and the plaster was sporting new cracks every minute.
They had barely made it to the door before the whine alerted them to the fact that they were going too slow, had gone too slow. There was a basement in the building, reachable through the adjacent alley, which they had been heading for. They didn?t make it before a bomb hit the street outside and blew the front wall of the foyer, a mixture of cement bricks and glass, in at and on top of them.
It took Marty a day to wake up to the blue eyes that perfectly mirrored her own, filled with worry. She had broken her arm, got a nice bump on her head, some serious bruising on her back and more scratches and minor bruises then they could count. Lemar hadn?t made it. His head had been smashed in by the door he had been reaching to open, he lost too much blood from his injuries, they hadn?t found him in time, there weren?t enough competent doctors left in the city anymore. They all fed her any number of excuses; she could choose the one that made her feel better.
They all skirted the truth- that he was simply not a D?Mourir and therefore not as important as Martyna, not important enough to save. Marty never found the words to express how that made her feel.