[original; fiction] Ours are Collective Paths that will Never Cross
Quick thing. Four different people, all at the hour of three in the morning.
It is three in the morning, but the world never sleeps. Even in seperate places and eras, people remain wide awake at an hour like this; laughing, crying, loving, living.
What are you doing at this hour?
- - -
He sits, tattered robes pooling at his once decorated--now calloused, bloody, and bare feet. Crimson runs down along his smooth skin, his head tilting backward onto the high throne behind him; his headdress (and how elegant it is, adorned with gold and ivory, fit directly to his head and cascading down along the long, black hair that falls upon his back.) crashing onto the ground and shattering into fine, tiny remnants of a life that he took for granted.
His eyes fall to his frail, tanned hands, studying the cracks in them; focusing all of his attention to them and paying no mind to the bloodied corpses beyond his polished nails. Flags burn on the ground, his palace alight with vicious flames that scream failure, failure, and what a selfish boy you were.
He is a fallen angel; the last hope of his dynasty. He is a slaughtered prince, breathing in the fumes of death.
He closes his eyes, and weeps, as the flames rise around his shaking form.
- - -
There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Blue eyes stare hopefully upward, as he fixes his hat and rolls his shoulders against the hard back of his seat.
The plane is old, unsafe, and loud, it's engines echoing through his head; sending off vibrations of war and nightmares that he has lived for the past handful of years. He closes his eyes, and listens to the engines roar, as his hand slowly tightens around a tiny frame in his grasp.
He smiles. She insists through her letters and phone calls that time has taken it's toll on her, and I'm getting fat, and I found a grey hair, and, God, I miss you, baby--but he knows that she is as beautiful as she was on the day that he left. Just like that day, his eyes will find her; shaking, crying, smiling, hopeful, and anxious. He swallows momentarily, his adam's apple giving a bob, as he takes off his hat.
His heart begins to pound, and he knows that he will not sleep until she is in his arms again.
- - -
She had to wonder, momentarily, whether anyone else was still in the theatre. She had been sitting there for hours, staring at her own reflection; a curled, blonde wig covering her own dark hair, a beauty mark painted just under her eye. She had become Roxie Hart within a matter of five minutes, and she did not want to leave her role.
The night had been one surprise after another--the actual lead falling terribly ill, her director screaming like a madman for organization, the makeup artists rushing in and grabbing her. She had forgotten all of her lines ten minutes before the show (she had studied them every night, but she was just an understudy. Things like this didn't happen to girls like her.) and nearly tore her script apart while trying to memorize them all. She let her co-star guide her into dance after dance, and did her best to ignore the way her heart pounded with a completely off-beat, violent rhythm during her solo numbers.
Tapping a long nail against the marble of the counter, she gave herself one last look, and burst into tears.
Her dream had come true.
- - -
"This was your own fuckin' fault, Assface." Hers is a voice that many don't expect to hear before they die; rough, but so young, with hints of womanhood in it's light, haunting tone. Her partner has long since left to take care of other matters, both knowing that she could easily go this alone.
The room is left near-perfect; in fact, were one to walk in and not look back toward the wall where the door was bolted in (and what a masterpiece it is--bright red liquid dripping down along the once-shining hardwood, bulletholes piercing into the frame of it, making the room smell of lead and fear.), they would easily mistake this room as a common den.
Holstering her gun--Fuck yes! I have enough ammo left over for the next job.--she reaches into her victim's jacket pockets, digging through his slacks and picking up his fedora, securing it onto her own head as a personal prize. The grey contrasts her wild, red hair, and she finds herself suddenly very fond of the hat, adjusting it with the view of an broken antique mirror and giving herself a wink.
She takes her time in sauntering over to the telephone; a new model, with a round dial that she knows takes forever to get through, but she has time. Clean, and polished with black, she examines the telephone momentarily before snorting, and slipping a slender finger into the "One" hole of the dial. Lifting the large phone to her ear, she sits back upon the stomach of the corpse, picking at the tip of her shoe.
"Job's done. You owe me a grand."
- - -
It is three in the morning, but the world never sleeps. Even in seperate places and eras, people remain wide awake at an hour like this; laughing, crying, loving, living.
What are you doing at this hour?
- - -
He sits, tattered robes pooling at his once decorated--now calloused, bloody, and bare feet. Crimson runs down along his smooth skin, his head tilting backward onto the high throne behind him; his headdress (and how elegant it is, adorned with gold and ivory, fit directly to his head and cascading down along the long, black hair that falls upon his back.) crashing onto the ground and shattering into fine, tiny remnants of a life that he took for granted.
His eyes fall to his frail, tanned hands, studying the cracks in them; focusing all of his attention to them and paying no mind to the bloodied corpses beyond his polished nails. Flags burn on the ground, his palace alight with vicious flames that scream failure, failure, and what a selfish boy you were.
He is a fallen angel; the last hope of his dynasty. He is a slaughtered prince, breathing in the fumes of death.
He closes his eyes, and weeps, as the flames rise around his shaking form.
- - -
There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Blue eyes stare hopefully upward, as he fixes his hat and rolls his shoulders against the hard back of his seat.
The plane is old, unsafe, and loud, it's engines echoing through his head; sending off vibrations of war and nightmares that he has lived for the past handful of years. He closes his eyes, and listens to the engines roar, as his hand slowly tightens around a tiny frame in his grasp.
He smiles. She insists through her letters and phone calls that time has taken it's toll on her, and I'm getting fat, and I found a grey hair, and, God, I miss you, baby--but he knows that she is as beautiful as she was on the day that he left. Just like that day, his eyes will find her; shaking, crying, smiling, hopeful, and anxious. He swallows momentarily, his adam's apple giving a bob, as he takes off his hat.
His heart begins to pound, and he knows that he will not sleep until she is in his arms again.
- - -
She had to wonder, momentarily, whether anyone else was still in the theatre. She had been sitting there for hours, staring at her own reflection; a curled, blonde wig covering her own dark hair, a beauty mark painted just under her eye. She had become Roxie Hart within a matter of five minutes, and she did not want to leave her role.
The night had been one surprise after another--the actual lead falling terribly ill, her director screaming like a madman for organization, the makeup artists rushing in and grabbing her. She had forgotten all of her lines ten minutes before the show (she had studied them every night, but she was just an understudy. Things like this didn't happen to girls like her.) and nearly tore her script apart while trying to memorize them all. She let her co-star guide her into dance after dance, and did her best to ignore the way her heart pounded with a completely off-beat, violent rhythm during her solo numbers.
Tapping a long nail against the marble of the counter, she gave herself one last look, and burst into tears.
Her dream had come true.
- - -
"This was your own fuckin' fault, Assface." Hers is a voice that many don't expect to hear before they die; rough, but so young, with hints of womanhood in it's light, haunting tone. Her partner has long since left to take care of other matters, both knowing that she could easily go this alone.
The room is left near-perfect; in fact, were one to walk in and not look back toward the wall where the door was bolted in (and what a masterpiece it is--bright red liquid dripping down along the once-shining hardwood, bulletholes piercing into the frame of it, making the room smell of lead and fear.), they would easily mistake this room as a common den.
Holstering her gun--Fuck yes! I have enough ammo left over for the next job.--she reaches into her victim's jacket pockets, digging through his slacks and picking up his fedora, securing it onto her own head as a personal prize. The grey contrasts her wild, red hair, and she finds herself suddenly very fond of the hat, adjusting it with the view of an broken antique mirror and giving herself a wink.
She takes her time in sauntering over to the telephone; a new model, with a round dial that she knows takes forever to get through, but she has time. Clean, and polished with black, she examines the telephone momentarily before snorting, and slipping a slender finger into the "One" hole of the dial. Lifting the large phone to her ear, she sits back upon the stomach of the corpse, picking at the tip of her shoe.
"Job's done. You owe me a grand."
- - -