An early first draft of something I've been playing around with this evening. I know that I have set it after the events of 'Lost Glory', but not decided whether it is going to be part of the sequel. Depends how well received it is, I suppose. Please bear in mind it is a very early draft, so miles to go with it yet. Anyway, let me know what you think...
Siren Call.
The
subtle glow from a candle on each circular table threw its bright shade over
the darkness. Where the light flickered, small snatches of gold and sequins
pinched at the air, before retreating into the shadows. An odd sense of
anticipation seemed to hum in the air; strange for such a small venue, Faye
thought.
Taking a sip of her tonic water, she reclined back
in her seat, her eyes darting from face to face. Each one locked into an
animated conversation. A cacophony of buzzing chatter, a seamless harmony of
excitement and plans. Switchblade smiles were painted onto their edged faces.
At the front of the collection of tables stood a
small platform, raised less than two feet off the sticky ground. A solitary
stool was placed in the middle of a deflated black stage. Bedraggled maroon
curtains hung limply at each side of the stage, remnants of the old theatre the
space had once been. Faye had never been to ‘The Wreck’ before, though she had
heard rave reviews, particularly of its monthly ‘Open Mic’ night. It had seemed
like the perfect place to meet. Neutral. Non-threatening. Public.
And he was supposed to be here half an hour ago.
The fact that he was late didn’t surprise her. It
was his default setting. To make her wait around for him. He made her
impatient. Briefly, she glanced at her phone.
Vacant.
When the remaining lights around the stage dipped
and a single cylindrical shimmer descended on the tiled noir floor, she had
given up hope that he was going to show. A few months ago, this might have
provoked an emotional response. A tightening of the gut. Tears. Despair. There
was not a remote possibility of that now. It was over. She was over. He was
dead to her…
Absent-mindedly, she twirled a chocolate brown
strand of brown hair into a spiral around her finger. When the blonde peroxide
had been stripped from her hair, it had felt like a cleansing. An exorcism of a
part of her that clung on inside begging to be heard. It nagged at her still,
haunted her even, but she was hardly going to allow it to plague her night.
Just to satisfy a ghost of what had once been.
The thump of a drum and the upbeat jangle of an
acoustic guitar lifted the air and provided a window of light in the darkness. Until
that point, she hadn't even realised that the band had started to play. It made
sense to stay, to hear them out, to escape the familiar barbs of home. It would
be the same as every night now was. Her mother’s anxiety, her friends’
interrogation, the haunting voice of regret taunting her late into the cold
night…
This was going to require something stronger than
tonic water.
Turning her back on the appreciative crowd, she made
her way to the empty bar, fumbling in her purse for what remained of her 24
hours. A flimsy, fake ID, matching her own flimsy, fake sense of self. Tapping
her foot along to the infectious rhythm, she flashed the ID at the non-plussed
bar man and downed the amber liquid in one mouthful. Placing the glass back on
the bar’s edge, she ordered another one.
When the sound of polite applause resounded against
the slick grey of the walls, signalling the end of the first act, Faye was five
shots down and counting. Her blood felt ignited now, the liquor blazing through
her veins. Instinctively she knew it, she wanted to dance. A hazy sweep of the
room told her that there was little chance of her wish being granted here.
Faye reached the door and inhaled a sharp intake of
iced air. The shiver that trembled down her spine took her completely by
surprise, mostly because it wasn't prompted by the air. It was the melancholic
chords of a guitar brushing and soothing the hushed atmosphere.
That voice.
To call it velvet wouldn't do it justice. Velvet was
smooth, unruffled, blameless. This sound was more like…she groped for the word…taffeta.
Ruched, uneven, ridged. The words were emotions. The emotions were words. Inseparable.
When her feet moved back to their old seat, they
almost seemed to be levitating above the ground. There was no reason. No
choice. Like her body was on an intangible cord. Like that golden thread was being
extracted all over again.
Sitting obediently in her chair, the wick of each
candle was so low now it seemed only an ember remained. Just a spark, but enough
to direct her submissive eyes to the stage. To illuminate the reason her skin
was crawling with desire. He sat there, posture relaxed, his guitar cradled to
him almost as if it was a natural extension of himself. His tousled brown hair
hung low over his eyes, and they were directed downwards, focused only on the flex
and coil of each string when his fingers plucked them. Faye felt her cheeks
blush, as if she were intruding on something personal. Feeling that unnatural
pull exerting its hold over her, she felt herself leaning forward, her elbows on
the table, her eyes glazing over. When he briefly tore his eyes away from the
sharp smoothness of the guitar strings, and the drenched blue pool of his
irises met hers, she knew she was supposed to look away. That her heart was a
traitor. But the melody erased the guilt. His seductive smile erased whatever
was left of her soul.
As the song progressed, the lyrics ebbed and flowed
from his honeyed lips like waves upon the shore. Each word caressed lovingly by
his tongue. Each word meant for her.
A
siren call. A hidden warning.
A
fool’s promise. A new day dawning.
When the song came to a close, she
watched the people around her clap nonchalantly, as if they were watching someone
else. Detached. Disjointed. She wanted to shout, to scream, to shake them one
by one until they felt an ounce of the flood of feelings she felt now. But they didn't see it, and a small tinny voice at the back of her mind didn’t see it
either. An insignificant mumble that something wasn't right. That she should
leave…
Pulling herself to her feet, she
made her way back to the bar, desperate for a glass of water and some fresh air
to clear her busy mind. The frosty burn of her skin where someone’s hand
lingered on her wrist forced her body to turn to a slender frame. Fitted jeans
and checkered shirt. A taffeta voice.
‘Come with me.’ A command, not a
question. Her muscles moved on cue to follow him into the dim light ahead.
Tonight she was his puppet, and he was pulling all her strings…
