Black Letter Days

Thank-you to Niah, my wonderful Beta and to completely miscellaneous sources of inspiration. Oh, and by the way, I apologise beforehand for any errors about the setting. I've never been to L.A or London. ^.~

Warning: This story contains swear words and content which may be considered 'blasphemous'. Please do not read if you can't stomach either. (Although, a moderately open mind should be able to survive the horrors within. ^.~)

Best wishes and please enjoy. All reviews/feedback will be appreciated and devoured in gratitude.


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ACT ONE - MOMENTOS

feel the presence all around

the tortured soul

a wound unhealing

no regrets or promises

the past is gone

but you can still be free

if time will set you free

The smoke, the candour, the warmth of a city swamped by Pacific Ocean blues, the concrete roads radiating heat. The flashy cars, the superfluous rich in their minks, sweating as the sun said ‘hello’, and the promise of a good time.

Los Angeles was calling her.

Neon lights, swanky cars, heart-pounding music, that was the idea. Somewhere where she could loose herself, loose the pain and the cuts and just be free. Drown herself in a swirl of martinis and heroin, die the glamourous death. Try to reach heaven by surpassing hell, kick your way in through the gates, and castrate the saints. She had plans.

So she answered, because L.A was what she was looking for.

Took a plane, flew over the land and sea, touched down in Los Angeles International Airport. Clean, immaculate floors, potted palms. They pretended they could rebuild paradise with some steel and concrete, pretty lights and new technology. She dropped her cigarette on the floor and crushed it, leaving it lying there. Life was ugly, get used to it.

Two faces, so hide the one you don’t want them to see. Cruising the streets (she walked because cars cramped her style) she trod on rubbish, empty drink cans and cigarette buts, broken syringes in the alleys. This was her place after all. You only saw the pretty side on the screen, tall palm trees, peaceful water, the whole sticky summer breeze of it. But she knew that L.A was where the misfits came. To dirty this place up, set it on a dizzy.

It was going to be nice place to die.

Finding an apartment was easy (cheap rentals, if you don’t mind squalor) and she bought the furnishings from a second-hand shop down the street (Rodeo Drive, it aint). A lumpy mattress, low table, and cushions were her saviour. Without cushions and candles she couldn’t have survived. And then she went shopping for everything else she needed.

Coffee. The best standard Peruvian coffee, the rest wasn’t worth drinking. Not unless you were in Starbucks buying the image along with the gunk. Chocolate, because she was addicted to it. Belgian, Swiss, dark, white, milk, Cadbury, she bought anything she could get her hands on. A six-pack of beer and a cooler, two glasses and a lime, a bottle of vodka and some tequila, she had all the ingredients she needed.

It was nightfall when she stepped out, stars half veiled by the smog. Red silk, black leather, pallid, glistening skin. Red lipstick, crushed elderberries staining her pretty mouth, black eyeliner and fake eyelashes adorning her black eyes. There was a time when they were golden, but then the flame burnt out, coals left behind. Black hair coiled and sprayed to a plastic sheen, gold chains woven in. Oh, she was ready for a night out on the town, vamped up and waiting for the Batmobile to whiz around the corner. When it showed up, she was going to kick the dude out; she didn’t need no Superman tonight.

One, two...seven, eight, ten. By midnight, she forgot what she was counting as she poured fiery liquor down her throat. Could have been the hours, or the clubs she strutted into, making the brain-numbed crowd part for her. Maybe it was the drinks...no, she had far more than that (she knew, because of the glasses stacked around her). Maybe it was guys that had sidled up to her, whispered pretty lyrics in her ear (Wanna go somewhere with me, baby?), their tongues sliding down her marble neck, hands roaming her drunken body. She giggled at their ridiculous words, promises with no intentions to be kept and then kicked them away when her amusement wilted.

Boys were like puppies, if you knew how to handle them. And Blaise knew, because she had learnt, the hard way.

Dawn crept into the city, met with a chorus of groans. She threw herself back to her little flat with its run down grounds, graffiti covered walls, paint so badly cracked it flaked off like ice sheets from glaciers, exploding into dust. Up the stairs, through the door and she crashed. (Wake her up when 11pm comes around again; she’ll be ready to party.) Sleep trod in, squashing a beer can on the way. Heavy sleep, without dreams, pulled her down and she fell into the darkness, a smile on her face.

+ + + + +

ACT TWO - CAFE du RAGE

cool breeze and autumn leaves

slow motion daylight

a lone pair of watchful eyes

oversee the living

The haze cleared around noon, when she was sitting in Starbucks, sipping her short black, wishing the world would go away. Or at least, stop staring at her.

Because that’s what it was doing. Every man and his dog, and his children, wife, cat, goldfish, hamster, was staring at her (gorgeous, isn’t she?). Could they tell she was different? But she wasn’t. Just another loner, trying to blend in, live her life, wake up with a hangover. Wasn’t L.A flooded with these types every year, more varieties of losers and musos, poverty struck artists and runaways than you could care to count?

Then she realised it was because she’d forgotten to wear long sleeves in her daze. She didn’t have to look down to know it was there. She was branded, like the cattle at those farmyard auctions, stamp of ownership and all that shit. A skull devouring a snake, symbol of her past sins, the Dark Mark.

Well, fuck that. Hadn’t anyone seen a pretty tattoo before?

It didn’t mean anything anymore. The reign of terror and all those horror stories were over. Their precious Dark Lord had fallen. Her fling as a Death Eater intern (oh, she had been a good one. Seducer, liar, torturer, apprenticed in all the arts) was over. She had come to L.A to forget it. Not to wallow in those bloody memories. Hand her a S&W .38 and she’d blast a couple of holes into those lingering recollections, let them leak and bleed and die.

If only.

She could pick herself up from this green-cloth covered sofa, saunter over to the door and pour herself out onto the streets. Walk in the L.A sunshine (promised to be different from other sunshine because, hey, it’s L.A) and browse past the shops where those posh ladies, with their fake nails and fake lips and fake breasts simpered and preened themselves in the mirror, believing that maybe enough collagen could restore their youth. It couldn’t. That’s why Blaise wasn’t going to let old age get to her. After all, she had plans.

But she didn’t get up. Couldn't. Legs and feet weren’t quite in the co-operating mood. Sit there, keep sipping, and let the dark thoughts simmer. Let the anger boil and then bathe in the residual waters. Don’t let the memories get you down. You’re on a roller coaster ride, baby, and it ain’t stopping till it gets to the end. No one’s going to slow it down, or else you’re gonna free fall through six thousand feet and land on your face on the fried concrete. That ain’t gonna be pretty, babe. So she sat there and listened to the voice in her head, because it was the only thing that knew where she was going.

Why did they think she had come here, anyway? She was here to loose herself in the booze and the drugs, not to tell her life story. But their eyes were begging her, prodding her, commanding her to think back. Make them cry with her tales, wring them empty of tears for sympathy.

Outside the window there were no eyes watching her mournfully. There were cars instead, corvettes, convertibles, four-wheel-drives, taxicabs, buses, semi-trailers. Driving down the grey, deadbeat roads, adding to the pollution. Well, it didn’t matter anyway. This was L.A. The city was invincible; a little smog couldn’t destroy its summery charm. The city would never die, only the people in it. And there were plenty of people waiting in the wings, to come and try out their fortune in this place, this City of Angels.

The man in the corner picked up his guitar. Café music and a peaceful life, watching the world roll past on their rubber and stainless steel wheels. Her coffee was cold. His fingers struck against the strings (perfect fingernails, you could tell he did this everyday) and two chords sounded out before Blaise knew it would be a mournful dirge. Melancholy was hollow and bitter, over-romanticised by Hollywood. Did people really believe that living in watered shadows and faded memories would have a point?

Blaise didn’t. It was technicolour and acid rock for her, thanks. And when she bombed out, she would do it with style, not tears on her cheeks and a life of regrets. She was going to have fun.

But that wasn’t to happen now. Not while he kept playing that tune. And singing. Words segueing with the music, climbing crescendo’s together. Something for everyone, and this was something for everyone who wanted to cry. Well, that meant Blaise wasn’t going to be sticking around for much longer. Not if it brought back everything she’d shoved away.

She wasn’t trying to run away. She stopped that a long time ago. She was trying to get over it. C’est la vie, so move on. And she might try it, if they’d stop staring at her Dark Mark, because she couldn’t really hold back her thoughts now. No coffee to sip, no alcohol to get inebriated on. Just that damn music that was tearing her reality apart. (Talk about a cosmic rift.)

Yeah, seventeen when she got it done. Thought it looked fashionable at the time, morbid pictures of skulls being very hip back then. Sure she knew it was passé now, but who was going to pay her bill to get it surgically removed? What did it mean? Something you couldn’t even begin to comprehend, buster. Yeah, I’m talking to you over there in the corner. A cult. Does she look like a fanatic to you? No? Well, she was. Freaking hell, she’d never believed in anything more than that cause. Why? What do you mean, why?

She could hear a conversation drumming away inside her skull. Was she saying it aloud? She reached for a cigarette. Not leaving just yet, she wasn’t done with this place.

Do you want to hear a real story? About someone who gave everything to a cause and then had the freaking bigwig defeated by a pathetic teenage boy? Did I mention the freaking boy was a sissy? Never even knew the meaning of all the shit she had gone through, but that didn’t stop the little prat from blowing her world apart. You’re sorry? Sorry mister aint gonna be enough to mop up all the blood spilled. So, her family died, but they were evil, so maybe they deserved it, right? And her fiancée, the only bloody guy she’d ever even looked at died, but he was evil too. So here’s the question, why didn’t she die? Why didn’t someone kill her off? She was fucking evil too! Does anyone even care about the people she killed, murdered in the night, poisoned, tortured, ripped from limb to limb?

Blaise sat back into her chair and blew out a tunnel of smoke. She was beginning to enjoy this.

Do you know what she did next? She cried. She fucking sat down, and cried. Pathetic? Yeah, she was. But then she got tough, made up her mind, figured it out, came to L.A. Why? Why would I tell you? Coz you’re interested? Look, Mister, I don’t know anything about you, but you’re striking me as someone who chases little girls around, so excuse me saying this, but I don’t freaking trust you. I’m a freak? You’re starting to piss me off now. Full of stupid questions, stupid accusations. Well, I just might. Excuse me, everyone; I’m not staying in this shithole anymore. One last thing though, stop fucking staring at me!

She stood up, sending her chair crashing into the couple behind her and spat her cigarette out. (Real ladylike, that would’ve been.) Unsteadily, she made her way to the glass doors and then fell against them, about to tumble onto the asphalt outside. But first she stopped and flung a handful of change at the music man, because he deserved it. Then she left, a trail of open mouths and shocked stares following her willowy form, clad in red cotton and black jeans. The voice in her head kept talking though, because it knew the moment it shut up, she was going to fall apart.

It was her life, so everyone else could all bugger off and offer their opinions to someone else. She didn’t need them. (Because she didn’t care, never did. Fools care and fools die.)

+ + + + +

ACT THREE - EXOTICA

time now to spread your wings

to take to flight

the life endeavour

aim for the burning sun

you’re trapped inside

Another night, another chance to get completely wasted, and Blaise was making the most of it. She had chosen to go bingeing on the cocktail selections instead of sinking into a pool of straight liquor. It was all about colour, she decided, and drinking yourself into limbo. Every shot was another tick on the time clock. Acknowledgements were made to her liver, before she defiled it again with a purple drink that flamed flamboyantly.

A pretty smile and a sashay of her hips bought her cocaine in a fifty-dollar note. One hit and she was hooked. Stronger than magic (and she knew, because she had lived magic everyday of her eighteen years), it took her up to visit the stars, the closest to heaven she would ever get. Her purveyor clamped his hand on her waist, offering to take her home with him, offering her more than she could ever dream of (you’re such a pretty thing…), but she knew a pervert when she saw one. Sold her soul to the devil’s mother for that skill, then seduced the lot of them (ah, the good old days). So she sashayed away from him, stunning him with one quick flick of her magic stick.

She was all about savage beauty, black for death, red for passion, white for the innocence she never had. The world was fucked, but everything was all right as long as she looked beautiful. And from the lusting gazes and drowning eyes cast her way, most of the crowd agreed. So hit me again, God, strike me down with your lightning bolts and your righteous might. You can’t keep me down. You can’t make me regret. You can’t do a freaking thing.

Youth and beauty were for the night; coffee and cigarettes for the day. Treat the sun, tip the moon and whistle at the stars as they saunter by in their constellation car made by Lexus. Nothing was real before, now she has the music knocking at her skull, looking for a trapdoor in. And that’s fine by her, because she’s cut herself, let all the blood escape (can you say ‘red’?) and replaced it with Bacardi rum and coke.

‘Kiss me, kiss me’ was the song she sang for them tonight, igniting the ice with her angel’s breath, her plush red lips lip-synching to the half-digested lyrics in her head. They came to her like bees to honey, flies to fresh meat, moths to a lantern so much brighter than the moon. Could her intoxicated body lift them up beyond the clouds? No penalty for trying.

And they kept coming.

Predator and prey felt each other up, trying to understand the other’s motives while only thinking of one thing. (L.A, City of Sin.) Was she willing? They would have asked her, if her hypnotic movements hadn’t stolen their ability to think, knotted their tongues like black boot laces. They didn’t know her, so they thought that she would be easy, slick charms sliding off their sleeves onto her new dress, iron impressions made in an instant, character descriptions imprinted on their foreheads.

And she broke them all, with a smile and a laugh. Broke them before they saw it coming and sent them home to cry to their mothers.

A good time, that’s what she had came here looking for. Never disappointed her yet, this town wrapped in tinsel and confetti, but she’d only been here twice. Do it all again, patch things up a bit and she’d be as good as new. But she didn’t want to fix up her problems; the doll hospitable was too sterile for her liking. Too many Barbies here already, skinny girls with blonde hair and perky breasts. So she’d keep her imperfections, just wished to sleep easy at night.

Never a sorrow vodka couldn’t cure.

Lights flashed in her eyes, and she sighed. Decadent paradise, Eden made from chocolate and alcohol, sweet fruity spirits and cigarette smoke. The pulsing beat pulled her back onto the dance floor. Moving, grinding, swaying to the unattainable rhythm. Tonight was hers. She stabbed the cigarette violently in the gleaming granite surface of the bar, watching embers burn themselves into ash, slithered into the mass of gyrating bodies, pursuing their own brand of religious frenzy and zeal. If she crashed, then she crashed. Heaven wasn’t such a long from here, after all. If hell had air-conditioning, Sex Pistols CD’s and cigarettes, than she was willing to give into its embrace.

But tonight was still hers.

but you can still be free

if time will set you free

but it’s a long long way to go

+ + + + +

ACT FOUR - MISGIVEN

sail through the crimson skies

the purest light

the light that sets you free

if time will set you free

She thought about taking him back to her lair because he was cute and sweet. A young thing, watching her dance, face stamped by uncertainty. Innocence flashed his age like an ID card across the room. He smiled at her, hesitation marking his movements. Gilded hair and apple blossom skin, pretty as Ganymede. This place would ruin him; corrupt him (save him).

Blaise melded back into the crowd. There was nothing she could do, the angel of darkness could only seduce and destroy.

Brink of dawn, sunrays held back by gravity, when she trod up the stairs, fatigue and nicotine clouds enshrouding her footsteps. Pushed open the door and threw herself down. Tonight (this morning) she wasn’t going to wait for Sleep to find its way through the concrete jungle and claim her with a vampiric kiss.

Light a candle for your lost ones, so she lit thirty-eight and scattered them on the floor. Candles didn’t make a church, they made a Jewish holiday. Grabbed a cigarette and relaxed, because carbon monoxide was her favourite perfume, and watched the wax swallow her carpets (home, sweet home).

From London to L.A and she hadn’t bought any luggage aside from the clothes she was wearing and a wad of cash. Paper money, she could burn it, watch it fizzle, watch the bankers break down and cry. Burn it, the way London was burning, scorching in one corner, moving to the next, curling up on itself, engulfing the wretched heart. The flames would lick at it, till it browned like obedient toffee and blackened like her brother’s corpse. They burnt him in his bed, because he was evil. Her lips twisted at the thought, her mattress became an ashtray.

She had left the chaos behind her though, like stiletto heel marks in the sand, sharp, painful and puncturing holes in her perfect escape. America, land of the free. They had no idea. The war hadn’t come here or else it would have crumbled in on itself like England did. Like London was, ashes falling as commonly as rain, dousing the streets and watering the plants. Dead, dead, dead, it didn’t matter who the corpses were. Another dead meant a victory for either side. One less person to kill, one less to protect, it was all the same.

Thirty-eight candles burning viciously. Not one lit for her. So, this was it. She had been left behind. Why? To watch on at the funeral, to bring flowers to their grave, to keep fighting for an empty cause, living her empty life. It was a story carved out by some sadist bastard posing as a novelist. Nothing left to live for but the hangovers and the highs. Look outside the window, cold cement, stoned teenagers, crude neon signs a-flashing and pliant whores, pushing for a buck, lipstick smeared, looking cheap in the cold rays of morn. Was this is what she was living for?

Hell yeah.

So she poured herself a vodka, filled the cup to the brim. When she drained it, she tossed the glass out the window and listened to it smash onto the walkway. Ah…there was music for you, the strains from heaven descending, herald angels singing. Pulled on her leather jacket and shoved her way out the door. (Let the candles burn; let them burn in London’s memory.)

She strolled her way down the roads, taking the scenic route around L.A, slowly heading towards Beverly Hills (where the rich kids hang). In high heels and leather, her chin high and a pleasant smile, she twinkled against the powdered sky. She could replace the morning star, dwell among the celestial heights. But she had other plans.

Pretty day with blue eye shadow sky and yellow glitter sunshine. Lipstick red cars on grey nail-polished roads and tall palm trees, sporting the latest celebrity style haircuts, posing for the cameras. Everything buffed down, exfoliated (no scaly, peeling skin), soaked in expensive creams and then whitewashed to perfection in heavy, thick foundation. Emphasis placed on money with extra lashings of mascara, outlined in black kohl. So this was the other side of L.A, made-up and glossed to extra shine.

She felt sickened already, the cotton-candy world stealing her oxygen supply with its matte-finish colours.

She visited Rodeo Drive and left richer for the experience. Shops spilling down as far as she could see, gorged on money from fat cat purses. Clothing boutiques and jewelry shops attracting well-dressed, well-manicured women into their gaping cavern, extracting their promise to spend money and leave soothed by new purchases. Blaise examined the offerings in the windows. Overpriced, overdone and absolutely gorgeous.

In and out of Tiffany & Co. quickly, flashing pearly whites at the sales ladies, looking like an expensive, pampered, rock-chic rebel. The sales assistants simpered and implored her to examine their wares. She left with a pocketful of necklaces and bracelets and rings, left the sales people blank and panicking, memory of her presence eradicating itself. (It felt so good to be bad.) A thrill ran up her spine, one last spin on the old merry-go-round. Play with Muggle minds; mock their fruitless material pursuit. It was simple, an old friend, and an easy trick for a little laugh.

She left Rodeo Drive, waltzed out of perfect-and-gleaming-on-the-surface land and headed for the closest alleyway, hoping for a dumpster. Click-clack went her heels on the ground; jingle went the jewelry in her pocket. She whistled as she walked – stealing was like being doped up on a high, euphoria stole your mind.

The sun was setting, reversing from its parking spot in the sky, when she found the spot she was looking for. Dark, murky and repulsively cluttered with pet food cans, newspaper, torn blankets and empty packets of biscuits. A carton of double cream lay, in front of the cardboard entrance to a makeshift palace, spilling a river. It had tattered wooden boards for walls and canvas cloth for a roof, the pride for a gang of run-away country kids trying to make it in the big city.

Emptied her pockets of the diamonds and rubies, green livid emerald and secret sapphire, gold and platinum creations of awe and beauty. Let them fall into the cream puddle, metal and gem soup. Father Christmas was coming earlier this year; remember to write your thank-you notes. (Manners get you into Heaven, so start early and put your foot in the door.)

Wealth could lead to decadence and corruption. Maybe these kids would do nothing more than waste it on crack and pot, enough here for them to smoke a joint every hour for the next month. Maybe she should have set it up in a trust fund, put them through college, teach them how to live their lives properly. Become honest, respectful folk. Maybe she would have if she cared. Let them live in luxury, burn themselves into ash. It didn’t matter.

She turned on her heel as a sleepy head poked itself out, leaving the alley of blue shadows and despair behind. She didn’t need to be thanked. What she needed was another tequila.

+ + + + +

ACT FIVE – LIBERATION

sail through the wind and rain tonight

you’re free to fly tonight

She could hear the voices soaring around her; see the feathered wings spread out, golden halos glistening. No one else could see them though; they continued to dance in blissful rapture, unaware. But she saw them and she knew what they meant. Instead of the pounding music and the soul-tearing riff on the guitar she heard a promise.

The nightclub was called Angel Sanctuary, and ladies drinks were free tonight.

She hadn’t been here yet (there’s more of L.A to see, love) but it was the same drill. Poor boys throwing up in the corner, couples (more or less) copulating for others voyeuristic pleasure. Drinks, drugs and dancing, a high promised to lift you straight to the pearly gates, propel you in and land you a place among the Seraphim. Only it never worked.

Blaise knocked back a gin and tonic, and then a mineral water with a twist of lime. Staying sane tonight, she had plans. Until the clock ticked midnight, she’d let the good times roll around her, absorbing it in. Call it her goodnight round, watching the pattern of deterioration spell itself out for her. One more memory to lock up in her little steel box, an extra coin for her piggy bank, and then it would be over. She was going home, going where she belonged.

No more pretty smiles, no more willing victims to the viper’s nest, no more getting pissed for the dawn of light, she sat on her stool, content to watch. Dance for me one last time. She watched the young girls shimmy, laughed at them. She knew all their moves, had walked in their four-inch fuck-me shoes for a hundred miles. The crowded dance floor spun her an invitation and she declined politely. Older and wiser now, ‘twas time to turn in her dancing shoes and buy herself place in a retirement home. Not that she’d need it.

Blonde hair, bronze highlights and deftly flushed cheeks caught her eye across the crowd. The boy from yesterday, Ganymede. He was watching her, kingfisher blue eyes mournful, a secret on his lips.

So fate was dealing her the same card again, another chance, something to hold onto, a buoy in choppy seas. Maybe a lifejacket that could stop her drowning, release her from the undertow. You rolled the dice and got a seven, do you want to play?

She wanted to walk over and speak to him, kiss him, ask him questions that burned her tongue, seduce him. So young, she’d make him hers.

Ahh…temptations.

But she didn’t. Midnight hit the clock on the wall; she leapt up, threw on her jacket and was out the door.

Sorry kid, maybe another day. You look like you know how to find me. Understand, I’ve got places to go, an appointment that just aint gonna wait.

Maybe he did know, because when she turned back for a last look, a silent farewell, he was gone from the seat in the corner, his chair empty.

and going higher than mountain tops

and go high the wind won’t stop

and go high

She hopped in a compact little BMW, painted black with leather seats (their owner’s going to miss it) and gunned the engine. Learnt to drive a couple years ago, her secret from her Death Eater pals. (You share souls, but not lives.) Up onto the highway, along the fairy light strung roads until she arrived. She knew where she was going, always had. The Palos Verdes peninsula, a lovely scenic spot where the ocean smashed against the cliffs.

She got out of the car, breathing in a mouthful of salt air; pungent enough swallow the city scents.

Blaise walked towards the edge and stared out at the churning water, obsidian black waves thrashing like a turbulent nightmare. An overcast sky, moon and stars kidnapped by a mob of gangster clouds, stolen for tonight. The tide raged in, pulled towards her magnetically.

Sharp wind swept back her hair and everything fell into place.

Wind.

Water.

Peace.

The city of London was burning, burning. The inhabitants trapped between flame and debris. Her brother was burning, in life and hell. Her family was burning, fiancé was burning, memories were burning, fires that could never be extinguished. She was burning too, sulphur and brimstone gnawing away at her.

So this was it. Her roller coaster ride was coming to a halt. Get off, walk a couple steps, topple over on unsteady feet. This was what was waiting for her.

Nothing more than a watery grave, a last ditch effort to be profound. Well, she’d met her Waterloo long ago, what was there left to kill anyway? An empty shell, a broken doll. Shattered china can never be the same, even if you put it back together with glue the cracks will still remain. Now she’d found her fountain of knowledge, waters of wisdom. God be fucked, this was it.

Let London keep burning. Let her keep burning. Like a phoenix she’d explode across the sky in fireworks and ashes. She’d crash to earth like a meteorite, a memory of the distant past, the unknowable, the uncontainable. There was no end, no cure, and no fucking doctors for this disease. The world was rotting from the core and it was over. The Messiah had come and someone shot him with a Desert Eagle because they thought he was an Arab terrorist.

Jesus died in vain. She was going to prove it.

She jumped.

Into the frigid air, too thin to hold anything more than a feather. Into the night because darkness was her home. For a minute she glided on the wind, whipped up like thistledown. And she was going higher. Higher and higher, soaring through the inky heavens. There was a crashing crescendo but she couldn’t hear it, straining to see the stars and when she found them she fell back to earth.

And then the boiling waters received her torn body, the rocks buried her deep.

keep moving way up high

you see the light

it shines forever

When they found her body the next day, she was in leather pumps, a red cocktail dress wrapped around her like kelp and large hoop earrings, a half smile on her lips and eyes that stared. As though they could see. As though did see.

See the light.

but you can still be free

if time will set you free

free to fly tonight