Post by dahlia on Aug 9, 2011 21:41:39 GMT -5
Her thin fingers clenched and relaxed around the safety bar of the bridge, clammy, holding back the pain of whatever it was she was feeling.
Dahlia recalled being sick like this just as her father's health was failing; seizures, vomiting, and this trembling, with that cold sweat that she was experiencing now. She knew that she had been a very sickly baby, too, separated from her two sisters. Death had been imprinted into her from birth. She had spent the first minutes of her life in the presence of her sisters, both silent, while she wailed. But it hadn't been long until her voice had withered into the rancid air that flowed through her lungs.
She should have seen it. She should have seen the pattern. But she was, apparently, blind as well as mute. Looking back on her stance at the bridge, she thought that she must have been blind.
Her light knitted trench fell in front of her as she leaned against the railing, hazel eyes searching in the water below. Traces of lives remained there, she knew. But the past wasn't her plain. She wondered, ignoring the sting, what Holly would think of the bridge. What kind of people had died here. Where they were now... there, at the bottom.
Another jolt of the sting entered sourly directly through her lower stomach, and she slung one arm over it with a wince. Her hand tugged at the light fabric of her coat and dipped into the pocket, picking out a few rather flat white flowers. From Damien. Dahlia smiled. He was coming along well, and she was proud of him... she had even given herself to him, had spent the night with him upon his surprisingly gentlemanly request. She'd surprised even herself with that one, and she hoped he knew that it had been her choice.
She kept her smile, twirling the little branch delicately between her thumb and forefinger.
Red. No, silver.
She was choking.
The stinging hit her hard again, in her eyes and mouth this time. The sudden lurch sent the flowers spiraling from her fingers, toward the water. Dahlia clenched the rail tightly again, craning herself over it to watch them with wide eyes. It was the last thing she remembered, the flowers, before the vision hit.
HATE! Oh, God, there was so much hate! Tangible, with a distinct taste, not unlike when she had met the Dark Man, the Ripper. She felt a leather jacket sticking to her clammy arms, clawing at her throat; there was a wire there. Cutting off the breath. Cutting off the world. A grunt behind her, and she felt herself being dragged.
And then she saw herself. She saw herself stumbling in the rain, toward his home; saw herself sitting with him in Central Park; saw herself smile a million times over. Her own smile. A sweet one, one that told him 'I love you' without needless words. Tears blurred her vision, and then...
...and then there was nothing at all.
Dahlia tried to hold the smile. She tried to bottle it, contain it in glass like a captive butterfly. The tears came and almost seemed to scream out themselves, but the smile stayed. The smile he loved- loved- that of a silent, dead woman.
Dead. Thinking the word made her throat close up, and she would not have been able to speak if she could. Something was missing from her, like someone had reached into her and torn out her lungs. It was the word, the word that drove her feet. She didn't know where she was going or when she was going to get there, or even if he would still be there.
He'll be there, something whispered to her. He would always be there. Her boots clipped the pavement faster, careening through Manhattan now, letting the sting force itself into her. She wanted the pain, she wanted it- to tell her where he was. She wanted to know that he was there.
The police had already arrived, and a crowd gathered around. Her breathing was already labored, and she knew that the last thing the authorities needed was a frantic mute slowing them down. How could she be thinking of anything but that lifeless man on that stretcher? There were too many deaths touching her right now, and all plains had shut themselves down. Like she was some sort of machine; she needed to cool off. She'd been restored to her factory settings. She was in Safe Mode.
This sting was a virus.
But a fragment of light seemed to drift toward her, fluid and hopeful, penetrating the poison in her eyes. A rusty, used sort of light, like a nightlight which was low on batteries. Without another thought, her mind pulled it in- kept it. The light was the only thing there. It was the only thing protecting her, cooling the sting. But it didn't feel right. The light was like a tumor, even if it relieved her.
She was hurting it.
She was.
But the mind she was in, the body it was squatting in, couldn't grasp that. Not fully. Not for more than a second, or the sting would come back.
So, slowly, Dahlia turned away from the scene. And began to walk back to the bridge.
Dahlia recalled being sick like this just as her father's health was failing; seizures, vomiting, and this trembling, with that cold sweat that she was experiencing now. She knew that she had been a very sickly baby, too, separated from her two sisters. Death had been imprinted into her from birth. She had spent the first minutes of her life in the presence of her sisters, both silent, while she wailed. But it hadn't been long until her voice had withered into the rancid air that flowed through her lungs.
She should have seen it. She should have seen the pattern. But she was, apparently, blind as well as mute. Looking back on her stance at the bridge, she thought that she must have been blind.
Her light knitted trench fell in front of her as she leaned against the railing, hazel eyes searching in the water below. Traces of lives remained there, she knew. But the past wasn't her plain. She wondered, ignoring the sting, what Holly would think of the bridge. What kind of people had died here. Where they were now... there, at the bottom.
Another jolt of the sting entered sourly directly through her lower stomach, and she slung one arm over it with a wince. Her hand tugged at the light fabric of her coat and dipped into the pocket, picking out a few rather flat white flowers. From Damien. Dahlia smiled. He was coming along well, and she was proud of him... she had even given herself to him, had spent the night with him upon his surprisingly gentlemanly request. She'd surprised even herself with that one, and she hoped he knew that it had been her choice.
She kept her smile, twirling the little branch delicately between her thumb and forefinger.
Red. No, silver.
She was choking.
The stinging hit her hard again, in her eyes and mouth this time. The sudden lurch sent the flowers spiraling from her fingers, toward the water. Dahlia clenched the rail tightly again, craning herself over it to watch them with wide eyes. It was the last thing she remembered, the flowers, before the vision hit.
HATE! Oh, God, there was so much hate! Tangible, with a distinct taste, not unlike when she had met the Dark Man, the Ripper. She felt a leather jacket sticking to her clammy arms, clawing at her throat; there was a wire there. Cutting off the breath. Cutting off the world. A grunt behind her, and she felt herself being dragged.
And then she saw herself. She saw herself stumbling in the rain, toward his home; saw herself sitting with him in Central Park; saw herself smile a million times over. Her own smile. A sweet one, one that told him 'I love you' without needless words. Tears blurred her vision, and then...
...and then there was nothing at all.
Dahlia tried to hold the smile. She tried to bottle it, contain it in glass like a captive butterfly. The tears came and almost seemed to scream out themselves, but the smile stayed. The smile he loved- loved- that of a silent, dead woman.
Dead. Thinking the word made her throat close up, and she would not have been able to speak if she could. Something was missing from her, like someone had reached into her and torn out her lungs. It was the word, the word that drove her feet. She didn't know where she was going or when she was going to get there, or even if he would still be there.
He'll be there, something whispered to her. He would always be there. Her boots clipped the pavement faster, careening through Manhattan now, letting the sting force itself into her. She wanted the pain, she wanted it- to tell her where he was. She wanted to know that he was there.
The police had already arrived, and a crowd gathered around. Her breathing was already labored, and she knew that the last thing the authorities needed was a frantic mute slowing them down. How could she be thinking of anything but that lifeless man on that stretcher? There were too many deaths touching her right now, and all plains had shut themselves down. Like she was some sort of machine; she needed to cool off. She'd been restored to her factory settings. She was in Safe Mode.
This sting was a virus.
But a fragment of light seemed to drift toward her, fluid and hopeful, penetrating the poison in her eyes. A rusty, used sort of light, like a nightlight which was low on batteries. Without another thought, her mind pulled it in- kept it. The light was the only thing there. It was the only thing protecting her, cooling the sting. But it didn't feel right. The light was like a tumor, even if it relieved her.
She was hurting it.
She was.
But the mind she was in, the body it was squatting in, couldn't grasp that. Not fully. Not for more than a second, or the sting would come back.
So, slowly, Dahlia turned away from the scene. And began to walk back to the bridge.
