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Scene #72
The voices clamored with familiar impatience, pushing, prodding,
demanding my attention. From the shrillest wail to the faintest
whisper, the hordes rushed together to form the excruciating and
endless roll of thunder in my skull. I clamped by hands over my
ears; but, they were too many, and I was too tired to fight. Last
week's bout with an unnamed virus had left me operating at far less
than one hundred percent but try telling that to them, or to my new
effervescent roommate, Jazz, who'd dragged me into this hellhole in
the first place. The cacophony of scents permeating the room
turned my stomach upside down then kicked it about like a child's
rubber ball. Pungent tobacco. Tangy lemon verbena. And overlaying
it all, the dominant and almighty flavor of death. “This is
gorgeous! You have to buy it. It matches your eyes!” I
whirled around to face Jazz but I was too late. Already, I felt the
icy touch of vintage sterling resting at the base of my throat as
she fastened the box clasp with a click. I should have told
her. Too late. The mirrored wall opposite me revealed
a glittering amethyst set with care decades before this day. I
watched the pale violet crystal hum slowly and smoothly into
vibrant life, the natural energy of the stone paired with the hopes
and fears of its previous owner flowing from the brilliant center
and rippling like heat waves until its power surrounded me
completely. The rapid and inevitable descent began.
For a single, breathless moment, I prayed the fall would be slow,
gentle, easy. Sometimes it was so. The pain, knife-sharp and
sudden, pierced me in the center of my chest. The agony shuddered
through me, shrouding my entire being with the soul-rending crush
of betrayal. I clutched at my throat, struggling to imbue my
trembling fingers with enough strength to remove the delicate stone
from its resting place against my skin. Darkness draped across my
shoulders and chest, coiling round and round, tighter and tighter,
squeezing the air from my aching lungs. I saw her then, in my
mind's eye, young and achingly beautiful, terror flaring like icy
starbursts in her pale green eyes. I watched her hands reach for
her throat, as if in so doing she could prevent the angry vise of
her enemy's grasp, which soon fell upon her pale fragile flesh.
I choked against his vicious control, gasping for breath,
watching helplessly as tears streamed down her cheeks. Weakened by
lack of oxygen and fear, I gave in to the collapse of my legs
beneath me, curling into myself, my hands still tight against my
throat. Silently, I begged for mercy. The hands which had
felt so cold against my own suddenly warmed, their heat scalding
the backs of my own small hands. His long, able fingers worked
efficiently at the clasp, freeing it, freeing me, and I sensed more
than heard the amethyst choker tumble to the floor, landing with
scarcely a whisper of distress. Why did he stop? Why did he
not finish her? Finish me? “Colette, let go,” he commanded.
His voice, smooth as melted chocolate slid lazily across my skin. I
could see him, in my mind, as I had done a thousand times before
this. My connection with the green-eyed beauty and her tormentor
shattered into memory and was replaced by him. Always him.
Damien. How many times had he saved me? When I was eight
years old, I had made the rather unfortunate decision to rummage
through my grandfather's wooden box of antique coins and carving
knives. My reaction had been startling, horrifying. My parents had
declared me imaginative and required my solemn vow to never repeat
such unseemly behavior. Certainly, I had never seen Damien,
aside from the glimpse of his coal black eyes he sometimes granted
me in my mind‘s eye, but I could not bear to believe he does not,
or at some time or other did not, exist. I leaned back
against the counter, wondering not for the first time, when I would
grow a backbone. Simple refusal was all that was wanted. “No, Jazz,
I don't care for antique shops or vintage clothing stores.” Had I
but mustered enough courage to speak, this would not have happened.
It had been months since he'd found his way into my mind.
Had I come here on purpose? Knowing I would need him? Knowing he
would not fail to forge our unfathomable connection?
Pathetic. Long fingers wrapped round my shoulders, shaking me
out of my stupor. Funny, I couldn't recall ever feeling his touch
before today. In the past, it had been his voice, strong and sure,
that had rescued me from the abyss. “Colette,” he whispered,
his breath hot and sweet against my cheek. I was at long
last truly losing my mind. “Look at me,” he demanded. I
looked, and I could see him there, in my mind, his expression one
of concern and some other unrecognizable emotion. “No, Colette.
Open your eyes.” No, I didn't want to follow his instruction. When
I opened my eyes, the connection would be severed. He would be
gone. “The time for hiding is past, Colette. For both of us.”
“What a strange thing to say, Damien.“ The tips of his strong
fingers dug into the bare flesh of my shoulders, and I forced my
eyelids to lift, resigned to lose him once more. Crouched
before me on the floor of Birdie's Vintage Apparel and Antiques was
my savior. His coal black eyes were slightly hooded by thick, dark
lashes. His long, aristocratic nose was saved from perfection by a
small, sliver of a scar across its bridge. And his mouth. Dear god,
his mouth. “How?” I whispered for him alone to hear. “Today,
it begins.”
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