Schism
02.27.2016
I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
I can't... I can't do this.
One thought resonating, reverberating inside her skull, it overwhelmed and eclipsed anything, everything else. Crowding out all logic, all reason, all memory until she was nothing but staccato heartbeat and choked off sobs.
Saila had been off balance for some time, honestly. She attributed it to her conversation with eight-but-three Max, but really it had started on the night of Quinn's initiation at the Gypsy Camp. Sitting on the hood of his truck, her head leaned on his shoulder, Saila had felt the ripple shock of a revelation he'd made without the usual host of companion images. Startled, she'd lifted her head then, peering up at him curiously, and saw that he knew the information hadn't transferred. Surprise like a lightning flash across quicksilver eyes, there and gone again, he'd covered it -- or tried to -- with a casually reassuring smile. "I just realized that you remind me of someone..." he'd said, kissing her forehead lightly, as he always did.
Saila had known instantly who she'd reminded him of, just not why.
The puzzle had very nearly slipped her mind, too, until her encounter with the young Reaper brought it flooding back. The quandary about age and time had monopolized her waking thoughts (and nearly all of them were waking) in the week since then, driving the purple haired girl to distraction. So much so that she'd even asked her warlock mentor about it during their rescheduled lesson.
There was a spell he could do, he'd told her, that would gauge her maturity. It would take a few days to get the results, though, and was she sure she wanted to know? Cane was always so careful not to guide or persuade her. He always presented the facts as he saw them and let her decide.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Careful what you wish for.
***
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers' souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
In that tangled frame of mind, sleepless Saila had met the morning of their two month 'anniversary'; dawn streaking the black sky in long fingers of grey and silver that spread until they split, painting the whole world in bloody reds and yellows. Lyric, the fluffy little white poro she'd rescued during the snowstorm a month ago sat perched on her knee, singing softly, drifting. With a dim smile, she'd stroked the sleepy creature affectionately, rising to place her in one of the two cages Coilin had made for her when she brought Lyric home, on the first one.
Shuffling on socked feet to the kitchen, she'd trailed her fingertips lightly over the walls and counter surfaces as she always did, soaking herself in the history of the house. It was a beautiful space, one they'd chosen together, and yet with one thing and another she'd never yet had a chance to really tell anyone, much less have anyone come over.
Anticipating that the Irish wolf would soon rise, Saila lost herself in the trivial task of brewing a fresh pot of coffee in silence. The last one finished more than an hour ago, it was high time for another, besides. Switching on the machine, she filled the carafe with water from the tap, measured out the right amount from the beans she'd ground the night before, replaced the filter, pressed the button.
When she was finished, she took a lean against the counter, her forearms pressed flat against the chilly granite. The chaotic swirl of colorful runes and sigils that swept her skin stood out garish-bright against the muted grey of the counter, the porcelain pallor of what little skin still showed through. Long, tousled tresses spilled around her shoulders like a violet waterfall, pooling between her outstretched arms. Rings still scattered her delicate fingers, a single leather band with a white-metal disc on it adorned her left wrist.
Oddly unpaired eyes snagging on the bracelet, a faint smile flitted across her features. Her Valentine's gift, she shifted her weight to that hand, lifting the other to run the pad of one finger lightly over the silvery little circle. Pressing down, she activated the bracelet's secret; a familiar voice filling the morning quiet by enchantment, deep and rumbling, a perfect rendition.
"I love you."
"I do," the wolf himself echoed then, and Saila rose from the counter, turning to look at him as he, too, padded into the kitchen. Closing the distance between them, there was a smile on his face when he leaned in to kiss her, his voice thick with sleep. "Happy anniversary."
Schism
Moderators: KhaoticBliss, Amare Kellis
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KhaoticBliss
- Adventurer
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- Joined: Tue Dec 08, 2015 2:33 am
- Location: Elsewhere
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KhaoticBliss
- Adventurer
- Posts: 70
- Joined: Tue Dec 08, 2015 2:33 am
- Location: Elsewhere
- Contact:
Re: Schism
Schism
Part Two
02.27.2016
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot seem to reach an end crippling our communication.
Just a few hours later, they were back on his family's land, having lunch with the pack. As usual, it was a crowded affair; the jostling and good-natured heckling between the siblings decorating the atmosphere of a cold, clear day with enough colorful punctuation that her lack of contribution went unnoticed, or seemed to.
Beyond the occasional innuendo aimed more at their brother than at his girlfriend, they mostly left her alone to enjoy the afternoon. Her elbows propped on the picnic table behind her, Saila tipped her face back, eyes closed, to catch the fleeting warmth of the sun when it occasionally peeked through its veil of clouds.
Even the jagged snarl of uncertainty had begun to wipe itself from her brow, narrow shoulders just beginning to relax at last, when one of the women-- a cousin, perhaps, though the muse had long since given up keeping track-- jolted her from her quiet reverie.
"Ma wants to see you," she said with a smile, a young child peeking curiously at Saila from where he straddled his own mother's hip, one knee angled awkwardly to accommodate her swollen belly.
"Thanks," Saila replied, raking one set of fingers through her hair with a subtle clearing of her throat before she rose. Swallowing once, she offered the pregnant wolf a friendly smile she hoped was reassuring, hoped didn't betray the ice water that had just been splashed on her still-nascent sense of serenity. She even gave the little boy a friendly wave, her smile stretching into a funny grin to make him laugh before she turned to answer the summons, seeking out the elderly woman who might one day be her mother-in-law.
Saila should have been ready for what was coming, should have taken a moment to herself to prepare. With every step that carried her closer, she should have been steeling herself against the onslaught, walling off the sinking dread coalescing in the pit of her stomach. But she wasn't, and she didn't.
And maybe that, more than anything, was her downfall.
***
I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame, it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
Blind with unshed tears and struggling to breathe, Saila barely remembered the transport home. She had the vaguest impression of clutching the braided cord she'd grabbed from her bag, of choking on the words of the incantation. There was the suffocating squeeze that used to nauseate her, and for a fraction of a second she wished wildly that it would just crush her, squeeze the life right out of her, stop her trip-hammering heart.
And then she was back on the porch, gasping. For the first time in ages, the vertigo found her, the wooden plank flooring swaying uncertainly underneath her for a perilous moment or two. A thick sludge of panic clogging her blood stream, it was all she could do to catch herself on the railing, dash inside, a single phrase like bullet ricochet battering the inside of her skull.
I can't...I can't do this.
It wasn't just the excruciatingly graphic talk of pregnancy and childbirth-- images of Kierra's horrific experience still tabloid-fresh in her mind-- imparted with the kind of lecherous glee a pedophile displays at a daycare. Not just the talk of ovulation and menstrual cycles and uterine linings and other grotesquely vivid images Saila might have gone her whole life without. It wasn't the police-interview style interrogation over the minutia of their sexual habits, the humiliating intrusions regarding frequency, position and duration. It wasn't even the offhanded and seemingly non-negotiable inclusion in the upcoming solstice ritual, described in the same movie-quality detail with flashing eyes in conspiratorial whispers.
It wasn't any one thing; suddenly it was everything.
It was all of that, every terrifying second of it, and also everything else.
Her age. The house. The bracelet. The ring. The lake. Everything.
Mismatched eyes saucer wide, Saila rushed into the house, stopping short in the kitchen. She only had a few minutes before Coilin realized she'd gone on without him--that is if he hadn't already. Without looking, she unhooked the bracelet from her wrist, pulled the ring from her finger. Groping around in her bag, she tugged two of the three enchanted cords she carried from its depths, dumping them onto the table alongside the jewelry.
Next came the wallet. Flipping it open, she tugged one of the two identification cards from the clear plastic viewing window, tearing the vinyl in her haste, and slipped the blue credit card from its sleeve. These followed the jewelry and the rope onto the counter, the wallet itself dumped unceremoniously back into her bag.
Hurried strides carrying her into the bedroom, Saila moved straight for the closet. She took only what was most essential, a few pairs of jeans, a hoodie that had been Quinn's, a jacket that had most likely belonged to Mark or maybe Levi, a handful of shirts. These were stuffed into the mouth of the open bag unceremoniously. Stooping, she swiped her spare boots off the floor, her gaze snagging on the quilt she'd never traveled anywhere without since the day he'd given to her. A strangled sob rising in her throat, she let her fingers sweep its surface once, but left it.
Turning to pull a drawer open, Saila shoveled its contents into her bag, socks and underwear and journals and pencils all tumbling into the mouth of a relatively small sack that never seemed to get any bigger or any heavier despite the sheer volume of things she was cramming into it.
Her vision swam as she gave the room a rushed once over, looking for anything she might have missed. Blood pounding in her temples, booted feet carried her to the bed, sweeping one hand lightly over what had been her pillow. Willing herself not to break down, not yet, she swept the little stuffed toy wolf out from under the tangled covers, stuffing him, too, into her bag.
On her way out of the bedroom, Saila lifted a small cloth pouch off the hook next to the door, slinging the strap across her body so that the pouch itself hovered at her midsection. Cooing gently in a trembling voice, she made her way to Lyric's cage, carefully transferring the little creature into the pouch. Pushing open the adjacent cabinet, she grabbed food, treats, and a couple of dishes for it. These too got shoved unceremoniously into her bag.
Retracing her steps to the kitchen table, Saila snagged a piece of unopened mail from the counter, fumbling in a drawer for a pen. Scrawling sloppily, she penned her final message, leaving it on the table with the other items before she pulled out the last braided cord and wished herself away.
Coilin,
I will always love you, but I just can't do this. I can't. I wish you a long and happy life with a warm and loving wife who knows herself, more than a dozen babies and all the stupid sheep you could ever hope for. Please be happy. Please. I'm so sorry.
Goodbye,
Saila.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy
any sense of compassion between supposed lovers.
I know the pieces fit, I know the pieces fit...
*****
((OOC: Huge thanks to the player of Coilin for all the contributions you have made to her story. Song credit: Schism, Tool)))
Part Two
02.27.2016
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot seem to reach an end crippling our communication.
Just a few hours later, they were back on his family's land, having lunch with the pack. As usual, it was a crowded affair; the jostling and good-natured heckling between the siblings decorating the atmosphere of a cold, clear day with enough colorful punctuation that her lack of contribution went unnoticed, or seemed to.
Beyond the occasional innuendo aimed more at their brother than at his girlfriend, they mostly left her alone to enjoy the afternoon. Her elbows propped on the picnic table behind her, Saila tipped her face back, eyes closed, to catch the fleeting warmth of the sun when it occasionally peeked through its veil of clouds.
Even the jagged snarl of uncertainty had begun to wipe itself from her brow, narrow shoulders just beginning to relax at last, when one of the women-- a cousin, perhaps, though the muse had long since given up keeping track-- jolted her from her quiet reverie.
"Ma wants to see you," she said with a smile, a young child peeking curiously at Saila from where he straddled his own mother's hip, one knee angled awkwardly to accommodate her swollen belly.
"Thanks," Saila replied, raking one set of fingers through her hair with a subtle clearing of her throat before she rose. Swallowing once, she offered the pregnant wolf a friendly smile she hoped was reassuring, hoped didn't betray the ice water that had just been splashed on her still-nascent sense of serenity. She even gave the little boy a friendly wave, her smile stretching into a funny grin to make him laugh before she turned to answer the summons, seeking out the elderly woman who might one day be her mother-in-law.
Saila should have been ready for what was coming, should have taken a moment to herself to prepare. With every step that carried her closer, she should have been steeling herself against the onslaught, walling off the sinking dread coalescing in the pit of her stomach. But she wasn't, and she didn't.
And maybe that, more than anything, was her downfall.
***
I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame, it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
Blind with unshed tears and struggling to breathe, Saila barely remembered the transport home. She had the vaguest impression of clutching the braided cord she'd grabbed from her bag, of choking on the words of the incantation. There was the suffocating squeeze that used to nauseate her, and for a fraction of a second she wished wildly that it would just crush her, squeeze the life right out of her, stop her trip-hammering heart.
And then she was back on the porch, gasping. For the first time in ages, the vertigo found her, the wooden plank flooring swaying uncertainly underneath her for a perilous moment or two. A thick sludge of panic clogging her blood stream, it was all she could do to catch herself on the railing, dash inside, a single phrase like bullet ricochet battering the inside of her skull.
I can't...I can't do this.
It wasn't just the excruciatingly graphic talk of pregnancy and childbirth-- images of Kierra's horrific experience still tabloid-fresh in her mind-- imparted with the kind of lecherous glee a pedophile displays at a daycare. Not just the talk of ovulation and menstrual cycles and uterine linings and other grotesquely vivid images Saila might have gone her whole life without. It wasn't the police-interview style interrogation over the minutia of their sexual habits, the humiliating intrusions regarding frequency, position and duration. It wasn't even the offhanded and seemingly non-negotiable inclusion in the upcoming solstice ritual, described in the same movie-quality detail with flashing eyes in conspiratorial whispers.
It wasn't any one thing; suddenly it was everything.
It was all of that, every terrifying second of it, and also everything else.
Her age. The house. The bracelet. The ring. The lake. Everything.
Mismatched eyes saucer wide, Saila rushed into the house, stopping short in the kitchen. She only had a few minutes before Coilin realized she'd gone on without him--that is if he hadn't already. Without looking, she unhooked the bracelet from her wrist, pulled the ring from her finger. Groping around in her bag, she tugged two of the three enchanted cords she carried from its depths, dumping them onto the table alongside the jewelry.
Next came the wallet. Flipping it open, she tugged one of the two identification cards from the clear plastic viewing window, tearing the vinyl in her haste, and slipped the blue credit card from its sleeve. These followed the jewelry and the rope onto the counter, the wallet itself dumped unceremoniously back into her bag.
Hurried strides carrying her into the bedroom, Saila moved straight for the closet. She took only what was most essential, a few pairs of jeans, a hoodie that had been Quinn's, a jacket that had most likely belonged to Mark or maybe Levi, a handful of shirts. These were stuffed into the mouth of the open bag unceremoniously. Stooping, she swiped her spare boots off the floor, her gaze snagging on the quilt she'd never traveled anywhere without since the day he'd given to her. A strangled sob rising in her throat, she let her fingers sweep its surface once, but left it.
Turning to pull a drawer open, Saila shoveled its contents into her bag, socks and underwear and journals and pencils all tumbling into the mouth of a relatively small sack that never seemed to get any bigger or any heavier despite the sheer volume of things she was cramming into it.
Her vision swam as she gave the room a rushed once over, looking for anything she might have missed. Blood pounding in her temples, booted feet carried her to the bed, sweeping one hand lightly over what had been her pillow. Willing herself not to break down, not yet, she swept the little stuffed toy wolf out from under the tangled covers, stuffing him, too, into her bag.
On her way out of the bedroom, Saila lifted a small cloth pouch off the hook next to the door, slinging the strap across her body so that the pouch itself hovered at her midsection. Cooing gently in a trembling voice, she made her way to Lyric's cage, carefully transferring the little creature into the pouch. Pushing open the adjacent cabinet, she grabbed food, treats, and a couple of dishes for it. These too got shoved unceremoniously into her bag.
Retracing her steps to the kitchen table, Saila snagged a piece of unopened mail from the counter, fumbling in a drawer for a pen. Scrawling sloppily, she penned her final message, leaving it on the table with the other items before she pulled out the last braided cord and wished herself away.
Coilin,
I will always love you, but I just can't do this. I can't. I wish you a long and happy life with a warm and loving wife who knows herself, more than a dozen babies and all the stupid sheep you could ever hope for. Please be happy. Please. I'm so sorry.
Goodbye,
Saila.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy
any sense of compassion between supposed lovers.
I know the pieces fit, I know the pieces fit...
*****
((OOC: Huge thanks to the player of Coilin for all the contributions you have made to her story. Song credit: Schism, Tool)))
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KhaoticBliss
- Adventurer
- Posts: 70
- Joined: Tue Dec 08, 2015 2:33 am
- Location: Elsewhere
- Contact:
Re: Schism
Fall Out
Part One
02.29.2016 - Red Dragon Inn
It had been a rough night, perhaps an even more bizarre morning. Saila shuffled down the hall, her violently hued tresses still piled haphazardly atop her head, twisted curls spilling this way and that along her face and throat. The fancy clothes of the night before were long since shed, replaced with the more customary black -- jeans that were artfully tattered, a sweater that wrapped and draped her skinny frame in mostly flattering ways. Boots on her feet, not ones stained in lube thankfully, and the white paper stick of a sucker planted firmly to the right side of her mouth. Mismatched eyes were glassy bright, semi vacant as she made her way down the stairs.
Stepping off the landing, the girl is in pursuit of more liquor and not much else when her gaze sweeps by habit over the box of mail slots. She's almost past it when her brain registers what her eyes are seeing, and Saila checks herself mid-stride, reversing course. Over to the mailbox now, there's a letter in it where there normally wouldn't be, never had been before. Hmmm. Fingers tracing the edge of the mailbox once, she plucks the envelope from its cubby, reading what's on the face. A scowl forms, storm clouds rolling over mismatched eyes. This can't be good.
"The ****," she mumbles to herself, turning the envelope over in her hands, fingers gliding over every inch of the paper. Resuming her trek for the bar, she maneuvers around people without actually looking up at them, though a "Hello Sal," is muttered to the man in question on her way past. The Spaniard was sitting on a bar stool, seemingly zoned out and carefully tearing apart the label on a bottle of bourbon. Scooting past him, she heads straight for the liquor she wants, rolling the lollipop from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue.
There was a sorrowful set to Sal's expression that he couldn't smother. The sound of his name startled a blink and quick shake of his head, and then he looked at Saila. Oh. His attention lingered a moment longer on the stick in Saila's mouth. His fingers tightened around the base of the bottle he had. The fingers of his other hand flexed along his thigh, rubbing at the denim indecisively, as if to scratch an itch on his fingerpads or wipe them clean of sweat. All of the above maybe.
Selecting the bottle she wants, Saila takes a lean against the back of the bar, twisting the cap off the bottle without bothering to put the envelope down first. Whoops. In a better frame of mind, she might have made conversation, but for right now it was impressive that she was even upright. Pulling the little stick with its blue sucker out of her mouth altogether for a moment, she takes a long drink directly from the bottle before she replaces it. Mmm. Whisky and ....blue lollypop. Yum.
Only then does she set about opening the letter, abandoning the open container on the counter beside her as she tears the envelope open. Unfolding the rectangle, her expression clouds further. "Oh what the actual ****," an unconscious exclamation, a scowl setting her jaw. "A ****ing safety deposit box? What the **** is that?"
Saila's voice was tugging on his ear. It took him a moment to rip his attention off the door, but Salvador forced his head to turn the other way to look at her. What was she going on about?
Silvery brows drawn together, there's lightning in mismatched eyes when she lifts them. Answers. She needed answers, and there weren't enough people here to pull them easily. Frowning, her gaze swept the room and... landed on Sal. Lips twitched once, and because he was already looking at her, she chose him to ask. Moving closer, she places the typed letter on the bar between them, her hand splayed on the body of the letter itself with her finger pointing out the Bank logo across the top. "...Can, I mean, would you tell me where this bank is, please?"
Noticing the little pile of peeled off scraps of bourbon label at the base of the bottle, he sighed. Then he lifted his hands to scrub at his face. He would've left his face there had Saila not moved closer. He rubbed a neutral mask back into place before his hands fell away. He looked down at the paper she'd placed between them, squinting at the logo. "Move your hand." He made a shooing gesture with his own.
Oh, fine. Saila moved her hand. It didn't say much, just that her presence was requested at a bank to take possession of a set of keys that had been left for her and a safety deposit box, whatever the hell that was. "Also, what's a safety deposit box?" Y'know. While she's asking questions.
Once her hand was out of the way, he tugged the paper closer with the edge of his fingernail. "Something people use to store valuables in at a bank." Leaning one way, he dug a half chewed stub of a pencil out of his pocket while studying the logo on the letter. He turned it over after a moment. Then he shut his eyes and bowed his head, hovering the pencil over the paper with his hand in pause. Concentration. Processing. After a minute or two, he started blindly drawing her a map.
Saila watched Sal, a glimmer of fascination peeking through the turmoil in her eyes. He had a steady hand and quite an attention to detail. From point A, the Red Dragon Inn, to point B, the bank. He drew the lines of streets, scrawled the names parallel beside them. The final box indicating the building where the bank itself was at the end of the street maze. He drew the logo in that box. When he was done and he opened his eyes, there was a fading shimmer in his irises. He nudged the paper back toward Saila and put the pencil back in his pocket. There you go.
And probably caught her looking, but she was well beyond being worried about that at present. Touching two fingers to the edge of the map, Saila gave him a smile around the candy stick still stuck between her lips. There's genuine gratitude in her expression, a shimmering, ephemeral edge of fragile vulnerability that disappears almost as quickly as it appeared under the chemical artifice that currently held her together. "Gracias," she says softly, and then the mask is back, her head tilting. "Also, why is there a baby pig here?"
"De nada." The response was automatic. He brushed her thanks aside with a low fan of his fingers before pulling the bourbon bottle closer. Other arm folded just on the edge of the bar, he leaned into it and let his hand dangle. Then he looked over at the booth and smirked for all of a second. "It's for Melanie. I have to take it to her." Right now it was sleeping under the booth table.
It took her a second to put that together in her head. You could practically see her weaving the disparate thoughts together, her processing skills made a whole lot slower by, erm, present circumstances. The alien wanted a ...baby pig? Just before a million questions exploded in her mind and derailed her train of thought entirely, she registered the second half of his sentence. "You... carried it here?" Forgive her Sal, she's slow.
"Mm." That was an affirmative hum. Salvador nodded as well, in case that wasn't clear. Being reminded of having been in physical contact with the animal, for several blocks, made him sneer and rub his hand on his jeans again. Then he picked the bourbon up and took a very long drink.
It might have been the drugs. Or maybe the emotional firestorm just barely checked by the drugs. Or maybe it was just that the image this painted in her mind really was that hysterical? Saila slapped both hands over the lower half of her face ---narrowly avoiding impaling herself on the candy in her mouth as her fingers split around the stick -- to hold off the giggles. Turning away to retrieve her own bottle of whisky while she got herself under control....ish, Saila bowed her head over it for a moment, her shoulders shaking with the effort of restraint. Swallowing roughly, she bit the rest of the candy off the stick and threw the paper in the trash so that couldn't happen again. Fingers closing around the liquor she'd commandeered, she felt... mostly composed enough to face him again, and turned. "I...wow. That's..." At a loss for words, she just smiles. "I desperately needed that, too. Thank you."
His mouth twitched and stuck with a shadow of a smile at one corner and he nodded a few more times, silently conveying that appropriate 'you're welcome' response without saying anything at all. His pocket buzzed and he twisted to dig his horrifically bedazzled phone out of his pocket. He held it under the lip of the bar, looking down at his lap, while reading the text and typing up a reply.
Still grinning, she slipped the map he'd drawn her off the bar, folding it once without putting it in her pocket because she was about to need it. Giving him a quick nod of acknowledgment, Saila slipped out from behind the bar again, bottle in hand, feeling sufficiently armed -- or stupid, one-- enough to go... see what the bank had for her.
The phone buzzed again in his hand and he typed up another reply before looking up. Saila was moving and he noticed her nod, so he gave her one back, a little belatedly.
There was a place in the middle of the room that shimmered. The air went funny, like the visible ripple of heat coming off of pavement. Static snapped and crackled shortly before Cane appeared out of thin air. He was dressed for summer, despite what the scene outside looked like. Flip-flops, board shorts, a sleeveless shirt and a backwards hat.
Saila's reflexes are super slow, but thankfully they're not quite that slow. She pulls up short, wobbling unsteadily with a graceless flail of her hands, as a Cajun materializes in front of her. This also makes her giggle.
Cane beamed at everyone, even Saila who nearly collided with him. The Cajun took a step back, offered her a wink, and then peered around her at the man seated on a stool at the bar.
To be honest, he hadn't expected Cane to just zap into the room either, so Sal was equally surprised. His smile was not so guarded now that Cane was there and looking at him. Though it was still sort of subdued. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and pointed at the booth that the piglet was snoozing in.
The wink makes her peer back at Sal over her shoulder. Hang on, Sal's the one who does the winking! It seems Sal and the baby pig have kicked her giggle box over, because it's getting harder and harder to restrain it, with less and less reason for the laughter in the first place. Belatedly, she sidesteps Cane.
His eyes ticked over to the booth, then moved back to study Salvador. Cane's smile gave nothing away to anyone who was not Salvador. Instead of moving to collect the pig, he crossed the room to invade the Spaniard's space for a brief, one-armed sort of hug while pressing a warm kiss on his mouth. Chaste and full of feeling, though while his touch did not linger, his eyes did. Backing away, he asked the man a question. "You comin' wit' me an' de pig, or feel like walkin' alone?"
Salvador's fingers instantly clutched board short fabric on the side of Cane's thigh, the next best thing to a belt loop to silently express his neediness during that kiss. Not letting go, even when the Cajun backed away. Instead of accidentally depantsing him, he moved with the man, gathering the bourbon bottle up in his other hand as he stood. "With you," he said quietly. Once on his feet, he let go of shorts and reached higher to gather a handful of sleeveless shirt by Cane's hip.
Still snickering, Saila was on the porch now, studying Sal's map. If ever there was a time Saila didn't get lost, this was likely to be it. He was an amazing map-maker, doubtlessly. Studying it again, mismatched eyes peer at the street ahead of her, squinting a little like that's going to help her sense of direction. She can read just fine, so it obviously isn't that. Coming to the street, she's looking down at the map again, like this is a particularly difficult math question or something. Ultimately, she turns, and praise be to Elvis she actually went the right way.
-------------------------------
((adapted from writing with Sal and Cane. Huge shout outs to both players for your contributions! xox))
Part One
02.29.2016 - Red Dragon Inn
It had been a rough night, perhaps an even more bizarre morning. Saila shuffled down the hall, her violently hued tresses still piled haphazardly atop her head, twisted curls spilling this way and that along her face and throat. The fancy clothes of the night before were long since shed, replaced with the more customary black -- jeans that were artfully tattered, a sweater that wrapped and draped her skinny frame in mostly flattering ways. Boots on her feet, not ones stained in lube thankfully, and the white paper stick of a sucker planted firmly to the right side of her mouth. Mismatched eyes were glassy bright, semi vacant as she made her way down the stairs.
Stepping off the landing, the girl is in pursuit of more liquor and not much else when her gaze sweeps by habit over the box of mail slots. She's almost past it when her brain registers what her eyes are seeing, and Saila checks herself mid-stride, reversing course. Over to the mailbox now, there's a letter in it where there normally wouldn't be, never had been before. Hmmm. Fingers tracing the edge of the mailbox once, she plucks the envelope from its cubby, reading what's on the face. A scowl forms, storm clouds rolling over mismatched eyes. This can't be good.
"The ****," she mumbles to herself, turning the envelope over in her hands, fingers gliding over every inch of the paper. Resuming her trek for the bar, she maneuvers around people without actually looking up at them, though a "Hello Sal," is muttered to the man in question on her way past. The Spaniard was sitting on a bar stool, seemingly zoned out and carefully tearing apart the label on a bottle of bourbon. Scooting past him, she heads straight for the liquor she wants, rolling the lollipop from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue.
There was a sorrowful set to Sal's expression that he couldn't smother. The sound of his name startled a blink and quick shake of his head, and then he looked at Saila. Oh. His attention lingered a moment longer on the stick in Saila's mouth. His fingers tightened around the base of the bottle he had. The fingers of his other hand flexed along his thigh, rubbing at the denim indecisively, as if to scratch an itch on his fingerpads or wipe them clean of sweat. All of the above maybe.
Selecting the bottle she wants, Saila takes a lean against the back of the bar, twisting the cap off the bottle without bothering to put the envelope down first. Whoops. In a better frame of mind, she might have made conversation, but for right now it was impressive that she was even upright. Pulling the little stick with its blue sucker out of her mouth altogether for a moment, she takes a long drink directly from the bottle before she replaces it. Mmm. Whisky and ....blue lollypop. Yum.
Only then does she set about opening the letter, abandoning the open container on the counter beside her as she tears the envelope open. Unfolding the rectangle, her expression clouds further. "Oh what the actual ****," an unconscious exclamation, a scowl setting her jaw. "A ****ing safety deposit box? What the **** is that?"
Saila's voice was tugging on his ear. It took him a moment to rip his attention off the door, but Salvador forced his head to turn the other way to look at her. What was she going on about?
Silvery brows drawn together, there's lightning in mismatched eyes when she lifts them. Answers. She needed answers, and there weren't enough people here to pull them easily. Frowning, her gaze swept the room and... landed on Sal. Lips twitched once, and because he was already looking at her, she chose him to ask. Moving closer, she places the typed letter on the bar between them, her hand splayed on the body of the letter itself with her finger pointing out the Bank logo across the top. "...Can, I mean, would you tell me where this bank is, please?"
Noticing the little pile of peeled off scraps of bourbon label at the base of the bottle, he sighed. Then he lifted his hands to scrub at his face. He would've left his face there had Saila not moved closer. He rubbed a neutral mask back into place before his hands fell away. He looked down at the paper she'd placed between them, squinting at the logo. "Move your hand." He made a shooing gesture with his own.
Oh, fine. Saila moved her hand. It didn't say much, just that her presence was requested at a bank to take possession of a set of keys that had been left for her and a safety deposit box, whatever the hell that was. "Also, what's a safety deposit box?" Y'know. While she's asking questions.
Once her hand was out of the way, he tugged the paper closer with the edge of his fingernail. "Something people use to store valuables in at a bank." Leaning one way, he dug a half chewed stub of a pencil out of his pocket while studying the logo on the letter. He turned it over after a moment. Then he shut his eyes and bowed his head, hovering the pencil over the paper with his hand in pause. Concentration. Processing. After a minute or two, he started blindly drawing her a map.
Saila watched Sal, a glimmer of fascination peeking through the turmoil in her eyes. He had a steady hand and quite an attention to detail. From point A, the Red Dragon Inn, to point B, the bank. He drew the lines of streets, scrawled the names parallel beside them. The final box indicating the building where the bank itself was at the end of the street maze. He drew the logo in that box. When he was done and he opened his eyes, there was a fading shimmer in his irises. He nudged the paper back toward Saila and put the pencil back in his pocket. There you go.
And probably caught her looking, but she was well beyond being worried about that at present. Touching two fingers to the edge of the map, Saila gave him a smile around the candy stick still stuck between her lips. There's genuine gratitude in her expression, a shimmering, ephemeral edge of fragile vulnerability that disappears almost as quickly as it appeared under the chemical artifice that currently held her together. "Gracias," she says softly, and then the mask is back, her head tilting. "Also, why is there a baby pig here?"
"De nada." The response was automatic. He brushed her thanks aside with a low fan of his fingers before pulling the bourbon bottle closer. Other arm folded just on the edge of the bar, he leaned into it and let his hand dangle. Then he looked over at the booth and smirked for all of a second. "It's for Melanie. I have to take it to her." Right now it was sleeping under the booth table.
It took her a second to put that together in her head. You could practically see her weaving the disparate thoughts together, her processing skills made a whole lot slower by, erm, present circumstances. The alien wanted a ...baby pig? Just before a million questions exploded in her mind and derailed her train of thought entirely, she registered the second half of his sentence. "You... carried it here?" Forgive her Sal, she's slow.
"Mm." That was an affirmative hum. Salvador nodded as well, in case that wasn't clear. Being reminded of having been in physical contact with the animal, for several blocks, made him sneer and rub his hand on his jeans again. Then he picked the bourbon up and took a very long drink.
It might have been the drugs. Or maybe the emotional firestorm just barely checked by the drugs. Or maybe it was just that the image this painted in her mind really was that hysterical? Saila slapped both hands over the lower half of her face ---narrowly avoiding impaling herself on the candy in her mouth as her fingers split around the stick -- to hold off the giggles. Turning away to retrieve her own bottle of whisky while she got herself under control....ish, Saila bowed her head over it for a moment, her shoulders shaking with the effort of restraint. Swallowing roughly, she bit the rest of the candy off the stick and threw the paper in the trash so that couldn't happen again. Fingers closing around the liquor she'd commandeered, she felt... mostly composed enough to face him again, and turned. "I...wow. That's..." At a loss for words, she just smiles. "I desperately needed that, too. Thank you."
His mouth twitched and stuck with a shadow of a smile at one corner and he nodded a few more times, silently conveying that appropriate 'you're welcome' response without saying anything at all. His pocket buzzed and he twisted to dig his horrifically bedazzled phone out of his pocket. He held it under the lip of the bar, looking down at his lap, while reading the text and typing up a reply.
Still grinning, she slipped the map he'd drawn her off the bar, folding it once without putting it in her pocket because she was about to need it. Giving him a quick nod of acknowledgment, Saila slipped out from behind the bar again, bottle in hand, feeling sufficiently armed -- or stupid, one-- enough to go... see what the bank had for her.
The phone buzzed again in his hand and he typed up another reply before looking up. Saila was moving and he noticed her nod, so he gave her one back, a little belatedly.
There was a place in the middle of the room that shimmered. The air went funny, like the visible ripple of heat coming off of pavement. Static snapped and crackled shortly before Cane appeared out of thin air. He was dressed for summer, despite what the scene outside looked like. Flip-flops, board shorts, a sleeveless shirt and a backwards hat.
Saila's reflexes are super slow, but thankfully they're not quite that slow. She pulls up short, wobbling unsteadily with a graceless flail of her hands, as a Cajun materializes in front of her. This also makes her giggle.
Cane beamed at everyone, even Saila who nearly collided with him. The Cajun took a step back, offered her a wink, and then peered around her at the man seated on a stool at the bar.
To be honest, he hadn't expected Cane to just zap into the room either, so Sal was equally surprised. His smile was not so guarded now that Cane was there and looking at him. Though it was still sort of subdued. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and pointed at the booth that the piglet was snoozing in.
The wink makes her peer back at Sal over her shoulder. Hang on, Sal's the one who does the winking! It seems Sal and the baby pig have kicked her giggle box over, because it's getting harder and harder to restrain it, with less and less reason for the laughter in the first place. Belatedly, she sidesteps Cane.
His eyes ticked over to the booth, then moved back to study Salvador. Cane's smile gave nothing away to anyone who was not Salvador. Instead of moving to collect the pig, he crossed the room to invade the Spaniard's space for a brief, one-armed sort of hug while pressing a warm kiss on his mouth. Chaste and full of feeling, though while his touch did not linger, his eyes did. Backing away, he asked the man a question. "You comin' wit' me an' de pig, or feel like walkin' alone?"
Salvador's fingers instantly clutched board short fabric on the side of Cane's thigh, the next best thing to a belt loop to silently express his neediness during that kiss. Not letting go, even when the Cajun backed away. Instead of accidentally depantsing him, he moved with the man, gathering the bourbon bottle up in his other hand as he stood. "With you," he said quietly. Once on his feet, he let go of shorts and reached higher to gather a handful of sleeveless shirt by Cane's hip.
Still snickering, Saila was on the porch now, studying Sal's map. If ever there was a time Saila didn't get lost, this was likely to be it. He was an amazing map-maker, doubtlessly. Studying it again, mismatched eyes peer at the street ahead of her, squinting a little like that's going to help her sense of direction. She can read just fine, so it obviously isn't that. Coming to the street, she's looking down at the map again, like this is a particularly difficult math question or something. Ultimately, she turns, and praise be to Elvis she actually went the right way.
-------------------------------
((adapted from writing with Sal and Cane. Huge shout outs to both players for your contributions! xox))
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KhaoticBliss
- Adventurer
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Re: Schism
Fall Out
Part Two
02.29.2016
Sal's map was perfect.
Uncertain at first, Saila found herself understanding it better with each turn she successfully navigated. Were it not for the anxiety building up like so much toxic sludge behind a ribcage gone glass-fragile in the unceasing onslaught of her pounding heart, she might have smiled. This was, under different circumstances, an experience worth celebrating. Her first time ever going somewhere new without getting lost.
The bank itself was a faceless monolith, an imposing structure all arched windows and forbidding-looking columns, like the guard house of a castle plopped down in the middle of the business district. The girl stood outside its doors for a time, watching busy looking people of all varieties moving in and out of its various doors in a fair to steady stream. There was a wide stone staircase leading into the mouth of the building split down the middle by a concrete divider, and this is where Saila sat for a time, the form letter half folded and seemingly forgotten in one outstretched hand.
Dear Ms. DeFortes,
This letter is to request your presence at our branch located in New Haven to complete the Transfer of Ownership Authorization forms regarding one (1) safety deposit box (hereafter, "the box") and certain other items left for you by one of our clients. Our office hours are 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. Monday - Thursday, and Friday 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Please check in with our front desk staff and ask to see the Asset Transfer Specialist on duty. You will need to bring with you two (2) forms of identification to access the box. The process should take approximately twenty (20) minutes.
Should you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact us at (866) 123-4567, option 4. We look forward to seeing you.
Sincerely,
Miriam Jackson,
Account Representative
Though she doubted Salvador not in the slightest, Saila still checked the address against the one on the stationery at least a dozen times, more for a reason not to go inside than for actual confirmation. A minute passed, then two, then ten, and suddenly the girl was scowling, forcing herself to her feet. This is so stupid, she grumbled, a muscle in her jaw twitching as she shoved her free hand over her hair once, checking it for general presentability and pushing one loose twist of violet behind an ear. Chiding herself for her cowardice, the girl stood, brushing her clothes with her hands to clear away any imagined specks of dirt before marching resolutely up to the glass double doors and pushing her way inside.
At the front desk, she did as the letter instructed, identifying herself simply by her first name and asking to speak to the Asset Transfer Specialist. Saila had no idea what that title was supposed to mean, but it sounded pretty serious, a notion reflected in the way the gentleman at the front desk seemed to give her a dismissive once over, surveying her dark wardrobe and garishly bright tresses with undisguised disdain. "Do you have identification?"
Saila fished the wallet out of her bag, pulling out the one remaining card with her picture on it. It listed her as Saila DeFortes with a randomly selected birthday in October, because that was the first month she could remember. The man on the other side of the burnished mahogany desk polished to a gloss she could almost see her reflection in studied the id at length as though looking for errors, his gaze sliding back and forth between the little plastic card and the girl before him. Saila drummed her fingertips on the desk's surface, rocking back on her heels once as she waited for his scrutiny to pass.
Her attention was snagged by the machine on his left, the one he now lifted a cover on and placed her id inside. Consternation ignited in Saila's unusual eyes -- am I getting that back? Did he just destroy it? and she held her breath for several beats while the contraption hummed and clicked, until a piece of paper with the mirror image of her license on it emerged from one of its lower trays. The man leaned closer, peering at her over the tops of his wire rimmed glasses with her card scissored gingerly between two fingers, as though he found it distasteful. "And do you have a second piece of identification?" The question was posed in a dry, doubtful voice, dripping with condescension.
Saila took her card back first, her fingers not-so-accidentally brushing those of the man who judged her in the exchange. His lip curled, and Saila grinned despite herself. Probably told him she was pregnant,, the thought rang clear as though he'd spoken it aloud, reverberating in Saila's mind. She doesn't look pregnant. The accompanying images were no less unflattering -- her youthful appearance and colorful hair had him pegging her for a miscreant; some streetwalker who had cornered an 'innocent' celebrity and bilked him for money. If the vision of the wolf as she'd seen him on the internet hadn't flashed through her mind next, Saila might actually have laughed outright.
Thumbing through her bag for the requested second document, she pulled the folding thing Coilin said you needed to move between countries on Earth from its depths and slid it across the oily-slick surface of the desk. This was the one thing she'd meant to return and hadn't, the night she'd fled, and handling it now brought her a dozen little memories, each a needle sharp pinprick that brought blood -- Japan, New York, Louisiana, Ireland.
The gatekeeper looked down his nose at it and did a doubletake when he saw the name. This one had both names, actually, DeFortes and the other one hyphenated together-- the one that matched and messed up every one of his righteously made assumptions. His mouth twitched like he was thinking about saying something, but as he studied first the girl and then the picture, he folded it closed and slid it back to her.
"Just a moment, Ms. M'Govern," he said imperiously, and the name made her breath catch in her chest, made her throat go dry, made her flinch, but she squared her shoulders and took a shallow breath, her hands balling reflexively into fists at her sides. He stepped away from her, then, moving to confer with someone standing at a computer terminal not far away. When he returned, that smug look was back. "One more thing to verify, Ms. M'Govern. There's a security pass-phrase on this account. Do you know it?"
Saila ground her teeth together so hard there was an audible scrape. "Just 'Saila' is fine, thanks," she said in a quiet voice that left no room for questioning, her mismatched eyes that much more strange under the overhead fluorescents. "Or if y're insisting on a last name, use DeFortes. The pass-phrase..." The girl trailed off, trying to think what Coilin might have set up. Unless this whole affair was just some sort of elaborate revenge torture, it had to be something she would guess. "Is it...purple?"
The man shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, that's not it.". The smile on his face grew by a notch, giving him the look of some self satisfied rat. Saila wanted to wipe that smile off his face with her knuckles, an impulse that surprised her. She took a breath to steady herself, forcing herself to unclench her fists and shake out her hands a little. Thinking back, her mind stumbled on a common thread that had popped up lately -- the lake, the drawing she'd given him, the dance, Japan. She swallowed, and it was like trying to choke down shards of glass, her eyes threatening to film over. "...Uh." The words were a harsh whisper. "...Try Wisteria."
The attendant's expression soured. "Yes, Saila, that's it. Right this way, please." He gestured with a beckoning of outstretched fingers and turned crisply, leading her deeper into the bank. Of ****ing course that's it, Saila thought to herself, trailing after the man she was fantasizing about decapitating, trying to ignore the full body trembling that had started somewhere in the pit of her stomach.
They wound down a long corridor to an empty office, where she was shown a seat. Lacking the resolve to do anything else, Saila sat, sinking into the obnoxiously overstuffed chair. Willing herself to go numb, she waited in silence, one hand folded white knuckle over the other, barely hearing the pseudo-polite inquiry as to whether she wanted any water. Silent, she gave her head a single shake. No.
A few minutes later, a pleasant looking woman with curling brown hair and friendly hazel eyes moved into the office, taking a seat in the only other chair which left the wide expanse of a plain brown desk between them. "Hi, Ms. M'--I mean, DeFortes. I'm Miriam," the woman said, extending one hand across the divide expectantly. She wore a plain dark blue suit with a soft pink satiny shell type top, a strand of pearls that were either fake or a family heirloom, and a scent like synthetic roses that made Saila wrinkle her nose just a little. The girl in black just stared at that outstretched hand for a second or two before lifting her own to take it, doing the customary handshake thing despite herself.
Long silvery lashes fluttered once as the two women's hands connected; bile rising up the back of her throat as her mind flooded with images of screaming children, a barking dog, harsh words with a husband. Squeezing her eyes that much more tightly closed, she took a shallow breath, releasing the woman's hand to press her fingertips against the center of her forehead, as though she might actually drive the image out by force. "On second thought," Saila rasped, lightheaded. "I think maybe I would like some water afterall."
There was a flurry of activity as Miriam bustled up from her desk, positively dashing out into the hallway. Saila got the impression the woman wasn't exactly built for dashing, but she sat quietly with her eyes closed, trying not to touch anything, until the woman returned with a water bottle. Seizing it with two fingers at the opposite end, the girl gave her a slight nod of thanks, finishing almost half of it in one swallow once she'd twisted the cap off.
What followed was a blur of dialogue. Legal and technical terms Saila had never heard and still had no use for. She was only kind of following, her fingers grazing Miriam's when she reached for a pen to sign her name. It was still an awkward thing, this name-signing, signature writing. Saila wrote well enough when she needed to clear her head or take notes, but when it came to defining herself, affixing a label with which to be synonymous, her fingers became clumsy wooden things, stiff and cumbersome.
The gist of it, as far as she could tell, was that Coilin had .. left her things?
Perplexed, she only barely glanced at the account balance on the statement that Miriam handed her. Money still seemed imaginary, an immaterial thing of marginal relevance. The constant stream of birdlike chattering that accompanied the statement copy was of slightly more interest -- something about opening an account and then making it joint and then adding a third name and dropping the first two? Saila didn't understand and didn't care enough to parse it. "So what y'saying is that this account is... mine?" The assent made her mouth run dry.
But there was more. Miriam turned, bending at her ample waist to unlock a filing cabinet behind her desk. Reaching in, she set a strange looking document and a set of keys on the surface between she and Saila. She was saying something about how highly unusual it was to hold such items for a client but given the circumstances... and Saila quit listening again, because hearing other women gush about the retired rugby star used to make her laugh, but right now it just made her want to throw up or cry or punch something. She nodded, the gesture as wooden as her fingers had been, absorbing the words without retaining a single one of them.
Wanting nothing so much as to escape, Saila collected the deed and the keys. There was a familiar warmth to them that made her heart somersault awkwardly in her chest, thumping once in a curious offbeat pattern. He'd had them in his possession recently. As recently as this morning, in fact. He did this today. The realization nauseated her, and she finished the rest of the water. Now that she was aware of it, Saila could see it everywhere. He'd been in this office, in this chair, smiling at this woman, holding this pen. She dropped it like it had burned her, rising swiftly to her feet.
"Oh, no. We're not done quite yet, Ms. M'--I mean, Saila." Miriam reached across the desk as though to grab her wrist, though Saila had stepped back quickly enough to prevent the contact. "I still have to take you to the safety deposit box."
***
An hour later, Saila was back outside. Perched once more on the concrete divider separating the stairs into left and right, up and down, the ongoing sea of busy business people swept all around her, a mindless and maddening swarm like so many buzzing bees. Her expression was vacant, her strange eyes focused somewhere a million miles beyond the items she held in each hand.
In one, a hand-written letter, dated more than a month ago. In the other, a small black box made of crushed velvet, the fabric tickling unpleasantly at her fingers. Its contents had triggered an avalanche of the Irish wolf's memories, more than a dozen moments lifted here and there from his past sweeping over her like a steam roller. Paralyzed, she just sat there, mute and dumb and staring.
Her gaze kept snagging on the last lines on that single page, her mind rejecting or otherwise refusing to make sense of it.
I've always been a believer in the idea of everything happening for a reason.
I do love you,
Coilin
A dawning horror seeped into her expression by degrees, her eyes going wide just as the line of her mouth went slack. Oh **** she whispered, equal parts disbelief and denial, and even as she tried to talk herself out of it she knew she wasn't wrong. Sick with dread and yet compelled beyond reason by a desire to know, Saila stood abruptly. No no no no no no... Mantra as much as prayer, she shoved both items into her bag in a rush, then bolted for the Inn.
Part Two
02.29.2016
Sal's map was perfect.
Uncertain at first, Saila found herself understanding it better with each turn she successfully navigated. Were it not for the anxiety building up like so much toxic sludge behind a ribcage gone glass-fragile in the unceasing onslaught of her pounding heart, she might have smiled. This was, under different circumstances, an experience worth celebrating. Her first time ever going somewhere new without getting lost.
The bank itself was a faceless monolith, an imposing structure all arched windows and forbidding-looking columns, like the guard house of a castle plopped down in the middle of the business district. The girl stood outside its doors for a time, watching busy looking people of all varieties moving in and out of its various doors in a fair to steady stream. There was a wide stone staircase leading into the mouth of the building split down the middle by a concrete divider, and this is where Saila sat for a time, the form letter half folded and seemingly forgotten in one outstretched hand.
Dear Ms. DeFortes,
This letter is to request your presence at our branch located in New Haven to complete the Transfer of Ownership Authorization forms regarding one (1) safety deposit box (hereafter, "the box") and certain other items left for you by one of our clients. Our office hours are 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. Monday - Thursday, and Friday 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Please check in with our front desk staff and ask to see the Asset Transfer Specialist on duty. You will need to bring with you two (2) forms of identification to access the box. The process should take approximately twenty (20) minutes.
Should you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact us at (866) 123-4567, option 4. We look forward to seeing you.
Sincerely,
Miriam Jackson,
Account Representative
Though she doubted Salvador not in the slightest, Saila still checked the address against the one on the stationery at least a dozen times, more for a reason not to go inside than for actual confirmation. A minute passed, then two, then ten, and suddenly the girl was scowling, forcing herself to her feet. This is so stupid, she grumbled, a muscle in her jaw twitching as she shoved her free hand over her hair once, checking it for general presentability and pushing one loose twist of violet behind an ear. Chiding herself for her cowardice, the girl stood, brushing her clothes with her hands to clear away any imagined specks of dirt before marching resolutely up to the glass double doors and pushing her way inside.
At the front desk, she did as the letter instructed, identifying herself simply by her first name and asking to speak to the Asset Transfer Specialist. Saila had no idea what that title was supposed to mean, but it sounded pretty serious, a notion reflected in the way the gentleman at the front desk seemed to give her a dismissive once over, surveying her dark wardrobe and garishly bright tresses with undisguised disdain. "Do you have identification?"
Saila fished the wallet out of her bag, pulling out the one remaining card with her picture on it. It listed her as Saila DeFortes with a randomly selected birthday in October, because that was the first month she could remember. The man on the other side of the burnished mahogany desk polished to a gloss she could almost see her reflection in studied the id at length as though looking for errors, his gaze sliding back and forth between the little plastic card and the girl before him. Saila drummed her fingertips on the desk's surface, rocking back on her heels once as she waited for his scrutiny to pass.
Her attention was snagged by the machine on his left, the one he now lifted a cover on and placed her id inside. Consternation ignited in Saila's unusual eyes -- am I getting that back? Did he just destroy it? and she held her breath for several beats while the contraption hummed and clicked, until a piece of paper with the mirror image of her license on it emerged from one of its lower trays. The man leaned closer, peering at her over the tops of his wire rimmed glasses with her card scissored gingerly between two fingers, as though he found it distasteful. "And do you have a second piece of identification?" The question was posed in a dry, doubtful voice, dripping with condescension.
Saila took her card back first, her fingers not-so-accidentally brushing those of the man who judged her in the exchange. His lip curled, and Saila grinned despite herself. Probably told him she was pregnant,, the thought rang clear as though he'd spoken it aloud, reverberating in Saila's mind. She doesn't look pregnant. The accompanying images were no less unflattering -- her youthful appearance and colorful hair had him pegging her for a miscreant; some streetwalker who had cornered an 'innocent' celebrity and bilked him for money. If the vision of the wolf as she'd seen him on the internet hadn't flashed through her mind next, Saila might actually have laughed outright.
Thumbing through her bag for the requested second document, she pulled the folding thing Coilin said you needed to move between countries on Earth from its depths and slid it across the oily-slick surface of the desk. This was the one thing she'd meant to return and hadn't, the night she'd fled, and handling it now brought her a dozen little memories, each a needle sharp pinprick that brought blood -- Japan, New York, Louisiana, Ireland.
The gatekeeper looked down his nose at it and did a doubletake when he saw the name. This one had both names, actually, DeFortes and the other one hyphenated together-- the one that matched and messed up every one of his righteously made assumptions. His mouth twitched like he was thinking about saying something, but as he studied first the girl and then the picture, he folded it closed and slid it back to her.
"Just a moment, Ms. M'Govern," he said imperiously, and the name made her breath catch in her chest, made her throat go dry, made her flinch, but she squared her shoulders and took a shallow breath, her hands balling reflexively into fists at her sides. He stepped away from her, then, moving to confer with someone standing at a computer terminal not far away. When he returned, that smug look was back. "One more thing to verify, Ms. M'Govern. There's a security pass-phrase on this account. Do you know it?"
Saila ground her teeth together so hard there was an audible scrape. "Just 'Saila' is fine, thanks," she said in a quiet voice that left no room for questioning, her mismatched eyes that much more strange under the overhead fluorescents. "Or if y're insisting on a last name, use DeFortes. The pass-phrase..." The girl trailed off, trying to think what Coilin might have set up. Unless this whole affair was just some sort of elaborate revenge torture, it had to be something she would guess. "Is it...purple?"
The man shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, that's not it.". The smile on his face grew by a notch, giving him the look of some self satisfied rat. Saila wanted to wipe that smile off his face with her knuckles, an impulse that surprised her. She took a breath to steady herself, forcing herself to unclench her fists and shake out her hands a little. Thinking back, her mind stumbled on a common thread that had popped up lately -- the lake, the drawing she'd given him, the dance, Japan. She swallowed, and it was like trying to choke down shards of glass, her eyes threatening to film over. "...Uh." The words were a harsh whisper. "...Try Wisteria."
The attendant's expression soured. "Yes, Saila, that's it. Right this way, please." He gestured with a beckoning of outstretched fingers and turned crisply, leading her deeper into the bank. Of ****ing course that's it, Saila thought to herself, trailing after the man she was fantasizing about decapitating, trying to ignore the full body trembling that had started somewhere in the pit of her stomach.
They wound down a long corridor to an empty office, where she was shown a seat. Lacking the resolve to do anything else, Saila sat, sinking into the obnoxiously overstuffed chair. Willing herself to go numb, she waited in silence, one hand folded white knuckle over the other, barely hearing the pseudo-polite inquiry as to whether she wanted any water. Silent, she gave her head a single shake. No.
A few minutes later, a pleasant looking woman with curling brown hair and friendly hazel eyes moved into the office, taking a seat in the only other chair which left the wide expanse of a plain brown desk between them. "Hi, Ms. M'--I mean, DeFortes. I'm Miriam," the woman said, extending one hand across the divide expectantly. She wore a plain dark blue suit with a soft pink satiny shell type top, a strand of pearls that were either fake or a family heirloom, and a scent like synthetic roses that made Saila wrinkle her nose just a little. The girl in black just stared at that outstretched hand for a second or two before lifting her own to take it, doing the customary handshake thing despite herself.
Long silvery lashes fluttered once as the two women's hands connected; bile rising up the back of her throat as her mind flooded with images of screaming children, a barking dog, harsh words with a husband. Squeezing her eyes that much more tightly closed, she took a shallow breath, releasing the woman's hand to press her fingertips against the center of her forehead, as though she might actually drive the image out by force. "On second thought," Saila rasped, lightheaded. "I think maybe I would like some water afterall."
There was a flurry of activity as Miriam bustled up from her desk, positively dashing out into the hallway. Saila got the impression the woman wasn't exactly built for dashing, but she sat quietly with her eyes closed, trying not to touch anything, until the woman returned with a water bottle. Seizing it with two fingers at the opposite end, the girl gave her a slight nod of thanks, finishing almost half of it in one swallow once she'd twisted the cap off.
What followed was a blur of dialogue. Legal and technical terms Saila had never heard and still had no use for. She was only kind of following, her fingers grazing Miriam's when she reached for a pen to sign her name. It was still an awkward thing, this name-signing, signature writing. Saila wrote well enough when she needed to clear her head or take notes, but when it came to defining herself, affixing a label with which to be synonymous, her fingers became clumsy wooden things, stiff and cumbersome.
The gist of it, as far as she could tell, was that Coilin had .. left her things?
Perplexed, she only barely glanced at the account balance on the statement that Miriam handed her. Money still seemed imaginary, an immaterial thing of marginal relevance. The constant stream of birdlike chattering that accompanied the statement copy was of slightly more interest -- something about opening an account and then making it joint and then adding a third name and dropping the first two? Saila didn't understand and didn't care enough to parse it. "So what y'saying is that this account is... mine?" The assent made her mouth run dry.
But there was more. Miriam turned, bending at her ample waist to unlock a filing cabinet behind her desk. Reaching in, she set a strange looking document and a set of keys on the surface between she and Saila. She was saying something about how highly unusual it was to hold such items for a client but given the circumstances... and Saila quit listening again, because hearing other women gush about the retired rugby star used to make her laugh, but right now it just made her want to throw up or cry or punch something. She nodded, the gesture as wooden as her fingers had been, absorbing the words without retaining a single one of them.
Wanting nothing so much as to escape, Saila collected the deed and the keys. There was a familiar warmth to them that made her heart somersault awkwardly in her chest, thumping once in a curious offbeat pattern. He'd had them in his possession recently. As recently as this morning, in fact. He did this today. The realization nauseated her, and she finished the rest of the water. Now that she was aware of it, Saila could see it everywhere. He'd been in this office, in this chair, smiling at this woman, holding this pen. She dropped it like it had burned her, rising swiftly to her feet.
"Oh, no. We're not done quite yet, Ms. M'--I mean, Saila." Miriam reached across the desk as though to grab her wrist, though Saila had stepped back quickly enough to prevent the contact. "I still have to take you to the safety deposit box."
***
An hour later, Saila was back outside. Perched once more on the concrete divider separating the stairs into left and right, up and down, the ongoing sea of busy business people swept all around her, a mindless and maddening swarm like so many buzzing bees. Her expression was vacant, her strange eyes focused somewhere a million miles beyond the items she held in each hand.
In one, a hand-written letter, dated more than a month ago. In the other, a small black box made of crushed velvet, the fabric tickling unpleasantly at her fingers. Its contents had triggered an avalanche of the Irish wolf's memories, more than a dozen moments lifted here and there from his past sweeping over her like a steam roller. Paralyzed, she just sat there, mute and dumb and staring.
Her gaze kept snagging on the last lines on that single page, her mind rejecting or otherwise refusing to make sense of it.
I've always been a believer in the idea of everything happening for a reason.
I do love you,
Coilin
A dawning horror seeped into her expression by degrees, her eyes going wide just as the line of her mouth went slack. Oh **** she whispered, equal parts disbelief and denial, and even as she tried to talk herself out of it she knew she wasn't wrong. Sick with dread and yet compelled beyond reason by a desire to know, Saila stood abruptly. No no no no no no... Mantra as much as prayer, she shoved both items into her bag in a rush, then bolted for the Inn.
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