Back...
Wyn shuffles into her apartment, letting the door close listlessly behind her. Her eyes take a quick inventory of the one room studio: ripped sofa/bed, a tottery coffee table and a stool that has been repainted so many times that its color has faded into an indistinguishable mass. Nothing here offers any comfort. Shrugging off her jacket, she drapes it over the stool, kicking off her sleet-covered boots. Feet damp, shivering, she makes her way over to the tiny bathroom, ignoring the scattering of roaches as the flourescent bar flickers to life.
She reaches out to the person who stares back at her, but her hand meets the cold glass of a mirror. It is the hollow eyed face of a stranger. She brushes her fingers lightly across its surface as if to dispell the mirage, and turns toward the bathtub. As if in a dream she eases herself into it, not feeling the lukewarm water as it washes over her. She stares at the slightly rusty razorblade, not really seeing it. She remembers when she first came here, how hopefull and alive she had been. People had always told her that her voice was magical, and she had come to the city thinking that people would hear her and love her. Things were different now... colder. Everything seemed lifeless now, as if this was just a dream. Her apartment seemed surreal, the old mismatched furniture, the flickering florescent light, the stained carpet. A drop of water falling from the shower briefly snaps her back to reality. Her fingers find the razorblade, and she picks it up. She stares at it for a moment longer before she begins to drag it down her wrist. Amazingly painless process. Blood falls into the water and forms patterns like smoke from a cigarette. She watches, oddly fascinated, she thinks to herself that she should care about this. That she should care about her death. But she could not, she cares about nothing now, and that thought comforts her as the world begins to grow dark.
Light beyond fluttering eyelids, Wyn opens her eyes in an unfamiliar room. Dingy white walls with peeling paint. There is a window spilling sunlight onto her bed. She shivers under her blankets, her body aching distantly. Cold winter sunlight gleams on the plastic tube of the I.V. in her hand. Dizzily she closes her eyes once more and drifts away.
She snaps into wakefullness again with a nightmarish feeling of disorientation. Her limbs feel heavy and useless. It is dark, the only light is coming from under the door, casting strange shadows around the unfamiliar room. Where am I? She wonders, heart pounding. What is this place?
"Hello?" She calls out, shocked at how weak her voice has become. After a few seconds the door opens, making her squint in the sudden brightness. A tall woman is silouhetted in the door frame.
"Shh. Don't worry child," A musical voice instructs in soothing tones. "Everything will be all right." She crosses the room briskly and does something to the I.V. "Sleep now."
Wyn can't even summon the energy to protest as deep and dreamless sleep overcomes her.
When she opens her eyes again, it's light. She moves her limbs experimentally, and is relieved to find them responsive once more, if a little shaky. Her head is clear as she sits up slowly, noticing as she does that the I.V. is gone, although her wrists are still tightly bandaged. Sunlight pours in through the narrow window, as she begins to take stock in her surroundings. There is a small padded chair near the window, and a desk in the corner. A half open closet reveals that her clothes have been moved here... wherever 'here' is. She slips cautiously out of bed, grabbing a pair of ripped jeans to go with the plain white tee-shirt she woke up in.
Just as she is about to further explore this place she hears an enraged howl from the next room, followed by a crash. Something is thrown against the adjacent wall hard enough to rattle the tiny mirror above the nightstand. She stands there a moment, uncertain, but curiosity soon overrules her apprehension. Cautiously, Wyn tries the door. **updated**
It's unlocked, and swings open soundlessly, revealing a dim hallway. The noises from the next room become amplified as she creeps past the other doors. Dancing light and television noise catch her attention, emitting from the end of the corridor.
She walks toward it, pausing in the doorway. The room is fairly large, a small but functional kitchen along the far wall, separated by a low counter from the rest. Tall windows covered by thick curtains admit little light, and bookshelves line every concievable space, laden with thick, old looking volumes. There are two chairs nestled among the shelves, overseen by lamps, apparently for comfortable reading. An overstuffed couch occupies one corner, with a television opposite, casting it's ghostly flickering light over the lone figure slumped in front of it. A dark haired boy about her age gazes at the screen raptly, giving no attention either to Wyn or the noises coming from the room next to her.
"Um... hello?" She asks hesitantly.
He watches the screen for a moment before looking up. Something about the light gives him an otherworldly look for a moment that sends a shiver down her spine, and his outline seems to waver for just a moment. By the time he looks up, the feeling is gone. His eyes are a light blue-violet, strange and entrancing at the same time.
"Hello. Looks like you're feeling better." He observes, putting the television on mute and standing, his eyes moving critically over you. "I'm Dex." He offers after a moment, running a hand through his tousled hair, his eyes darting from you to the silent screen.
"Um... I'm Wyn." She says uneasily.
He nods. "I'm not sure where this is, so don't ask. Doesn't seem too bad, though. Free place to crash, TV, food..." He trails off with a shrug. "We've only been here a day or two." There is another outraged howl from the other room, followed by a resounding crash.
"What the hell is that?" She asks, looking skittishly at the door.
"Shade." The boy answers unconcernedly, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "He hates being locked up." He lights one, offering the pack in her direction. "Can't say that I blame him... Smoke?"
She takes one. "Why are we here?"
"I have absolutely no idea." He answers, lighting her cigarette with a practiced air. "But I guess there are worse places to be, you know?" There is a cry of pure frustration from the other side of the door, and something hits the small window slit hard enough to crack it. "Although I do not believe that my compatriot shares my opinions." He continues without missing a beat. "They locked him in good, not that I blame them. Likely if he was out, he'd smash this place up too, and then how would we watch TV?" He takes a drag off his cigarette, shaking his head.
Wyn stares at him for a moment in frank disbelief. Is this guy for real? Another crash and a curse draw her attention back to the door for a moment. "Why is he so unhappy here, then?" She asks softly.
"No drugs." Dex answers, his eyes back on the screen. "And no way to get out and get them."
She nods. "Drugs, eh? I was never able to afford them." She sighs. Too bad. Maybe I would have had better luck O.D.ing.
"Neither was he, not that it stopped him." Dex says in a bored tone.
Suddenly the cracked window erupts in a shower of glass as what appears to be a table leg is thrown through it. Slowly, Dex looks away from the screen, following Wyn's gaze to the mess in the hall. A thin hand and arm reaches out through the broken glass, groping around the door handle.
"It's still locked," Dex calls, putting out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray. "Not a deadbolt, either."
The hand withdraws, followed by an amazing stream of curses and another crash. Slowly, Wyn approaches the door, bare feet inching gingerly over the worn carpet, wary of bits of broken glass. She stops well out of arms reach and peeks inside the jagged hole.
Staring back at her are a pair of cold yellow eyes. "Who the fuck are you?" Growls a deep voice.
"I'm Wyn... Who the fuck are you?" She answers in a neutral tone, eyes avidly absorbing the stranger's countenance.
"Shade. Let me out of here." He replies, standing back and crossing his arms. He's immensely tall, over six feet by her guess, and rail thin. Needle marks on his arms. His eyes seem too bright for his colorless face. His hair is black and strait and unruly, hanging down in his eyes. His hands are shaking as he scratches first one arm, then the other. He looks ill.
She pauses, seeming to consider for a moment. "No. I have no clue why I'm here, or even where 'here' is... But I'd like to find out before I let you trash the place."
He gives her a murderous look, yellow eyes blazing like cold stars. "Let me out and I won't trash a motherfucking thing. Scout's honor. I just want out of this shithole." He kicks the splintered remains of a dresser drawer for emphasis. It shatters against the wall, scattering splinters of wood and plaster in a small cloud.
"Why? So you can dope yourself up? No." She says matter-of-factly. "That isn't your real eye color, is it?" She asks, tilting her head slightly as she studies him. "I've never heard of anyone being born with yellow eyes."
"Fuck you." He replies with a growl. A small shudder wracks him, and he hugs his arms to his chest for a minute. Whatever it is he takes, it's got him bad. "You don't understand, I need to get out of here. I have to." Some of the anger in his voice gives way to desperation.
Wyn blinks, startled by this change of approach. "You won't die." She murmurs, slightly flustered.
"No? How fuckin' reassuring." He tells her dryly, glancing at her cigarette. "Can I get a hit of your cancer stick?"
She hands it to him wordlessly, slightly nervous as his fingers brush hers. Too close for comfort. He takes a deep drag before handing it back. "Thanks." He says on the exhale as Wyn inches back out of reach. He studies her for a moment, his face an unreadable mask. "They're real. My eyes, I mean."
"I've never seen anyone with eyes like that. I hadn't seen too many people with violet eyes, either; but then I'd guess that's nothing new to you, since your buddy over there has them." She says nervously, waving her hand in the direction of the other room.
"What color are yours, then?" he asks after a long look.
"Deep violet." She looks at him curiously for a long moment.
"Colorblind." He says in reply to her unspoken question. "So what the hell happened with you?" He gestures vaguely at your bandaged wrists before scratching his own arms again.
"Tried to kill myself." She answers shortly, with a touch of defiance. "All I know is that I passed out at my place, and woke up here."
"Didn't do a very good job, then, did you?" He observes in a dry tone.
"Near as I can tell, that chick caught me and brought me here, and wouldn't let me die." She looks slightly annoyed.
"Redheaded bitch?" He asks with a knowing look. "Fucked up vampire." He mutters with a shudder she suspects is from withdrawl, not the prospect of being held captive by a vampire.
Vampires? When did I take that left turn out of reality again? This has got to be some sort of home for the mentally unstable, or something. "Um, what exactly are you on?" She asks as politely as she is able.
"You think I'm too fucked up to tell a lick when I see one? Well fuck you too!" He growls, hurling the remains of what may have once been his nightstand into the grate-covered window. He turns on his heel and storms off into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
"Charming fellow, isn't he?" Dex asks from the couch.
"He's crazy." She says, wandering back over and taking a seat beside him. "Talking about vampires." She adds with a chuckle.
"You overwhelm me with your banality." He comments dryly.
"Banality?" Wyn raises an eyebrow.
"Disbelief, mundanity, dullness." He informs you. "Lack of, shall we say, creative energy."
"Because I don't believe in vampires? Are you kidding?"
He looks at you a moment as if considering something, then shakes his head slightly. Television light plays over his high cheekbones and finely drawn features. "Well if you don't believe in the gruesome undead, my I take it on assumption that you don't believe in faeries and werewolves either?"
"I think someone needs to spend a little less time in front of the TV." Wyn shakes her head in disbelief. Faeries and werewolves? What next? Gremlins and the Loch Ness Monster? Ghosts?
After an uncomfortable moment of silence Dex excuses himself and prowls over to the kitchen. Wyn stares at the screen, not really seeing it, her mind trying to sift through all this madness and find something sane to hold on to. Just my luck, I get stuck with two really wierd guys who believe in faeries and vampures. One looks just too wierd for words the other is just a few feathers short of a boa. Just great. Maybe I did die and this is some sort of purgatory...
After a few moments, the soothing fragrance of coffee begins to fill the room. As it begins to perk, you hear Shade rattling around his room again. "Hey." He calls out, his voice slightly hoarse. "Is that coffee? Make me a cup, Dex. Bring me some cigarettes too, and a lockpick."
"Anything else?" Dex calls back, clearly amused.
"Smack and money." He answers after a thoughtful pause.
Wyn rouses herself and fills a mug of her own. At least the coffee is good in the loony bin. Dex brushes past her with an extra mug and a pack of smokes, handing them carefully through the broken window.
"Get me out of here." Shade tells him, after taking the mug.
"You're fine. I could'nt get you any farther then the door here anyhow, this place is sealed tight. Metal reinforced doors, don't you think I looked?" Dex plants his hands on his hips.
"Eat shit and die, Dex." Comes the brusque response.
Dex grins at the door. "Go to sleep, you look like shit. Maybe that chick will come back tonight."
"And do you really think I want to be here when she does?" A hand darts through the opening, grabbing Dex by the front of the shrit, pulling him forward on tiptoe. "I'll kill you now and save her the trouble! Now help me get this fucking door open!"
Dex reguards him with a calm, almost regal air, completely unphazed. His violet eyes seem to burn for a moment, and Wyn feels her skin prickle. Something about him in that instant seems unbearably familiar to her, a memory lurking in the shadows of the back of her mind... something . . ..
"Release me." Dex says, and his words carry unusual weight, hanging heavy with authority. You hear Shade snarl with frustration as his fingers uncurl and he withdraws his hand. "It is not your place to threaten me, Shade, you'd do well to remember that." Dex says in an undertone, brushing off the front of his shirt with curious self-possession for one so young. In response comes only a grumbling snarl, then silence.
Dex saunters back over, looking unconcerned. "So, Wyn... as it appears we shall be spending some time together, it might do well for us to get better aquainted." He flops down on the couch, lighting a cigarette and sipping his coffee.
Wyn rubs her eyes as his outline seems to shimmer for a second, as if seen through heat. the familiar feeling increaces momentarily. Has she forgotten someone like him? So young and so strangely old at the same time... surely she would recall....? Wyn, you're being melodramatic. She admonishes herself. You're probably still sick from losing all that blood, that's all. And you can't deny that these guys are complete wierdos...
"Not really too much to tell you. I don't remember much before I moved into the city..." She trails off for a moment, searching her clouded memories for something meaningful. "I do remember that I came here to be a singer."
Dex studies her lazily, his purple eyes betraying nothing. "A singer, huh? Are you any good?"
"I used to think so." She says with a sigh. "Everyone told me my voice was magical, but then I moved to the city, and I guess the magic dissappeared."
"A common affliction in these cities, I fear." Dex murmurs thoughtfully.
She nods. "How about you? What are you doing here?"
"Drinking coffee and smoking on some weird lady's couch." He replies with a chuckle at his own wit. Wyn forces a small laugh. "My compatriot and are are on the lam, you see. Escapees of a wretched institution, looking for a better life." He glances around. "But I suppose this will have to do for now."
"A... wretched institution, you say?" Wyn says doubtfully.
Dex makes a face. "We were put, most unjustly, in an orphanage."
"Do you have parents?" Wyn asks.
"No." He answers with a disparraging look.
"Then how was it unjust?" Wyn raises an eyebrow.
"We can take care of ourselves. The laws that people govern themselves with are absurd. Don't people know that age and wisdom are generally mutually exclusive things? Of course we had to escape." He shakes his head in disgust. "I think if I had to spend one more minute in that place I would have gone irreparably mad. This place, by comparison, is absolutely dandy."
"Something tells me you don't have any more choice about staying here then I do." Wyn tells him dryly.
"No." He admits. "But you have to admit, there are worse places to end up."
"A morgue, was what I think I was going for."
He gives you a pitying look. "As bad as all that, was it?"
"Sometimes, I think so." She says, taking a cigarette and lighting it, trying not to surrender to the grey cloud of depression that seems to always lurk one step behind her. Right now her curiosity about the situation was the only thing keeping her from trying again... that and the fact that they most assuredly wouldn't let her die after all this trouble. Whoever 'they' were.
"Well cheer up, you're in good company now." Dex chuckles, turning back to the television. Wyn stares at the screen, not really watching it, but letting her tired mind drift. The slits of light seeping between the heavy curtains begin to fade, night is coming. She can hear Shade moaning and cursing over the television noise. Good company indeed.
Suddenly, a lock rattles and the door by the kitchen eases open. A short, balding man enters, carrying an old fashioned black doctor's bag. He smiles warmly as he locks the door behind him, pocketing the key.
"Good evening children, how are we feeling tonight?" He asks in a pleasant tone, turning on the lights, and making Wyn's pupils contract painfully.
Dex shields his eyes for a moment, squinting balefully at the newcomer. "So who are you?"
"I'm Doctor Norston, I've been charged with keeping you kids alive and well." Answers the plump man, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "I must say it's wonderful to see you up and about, my dear." He looks Wyn over once before turning his gaze onto Dex. "How's your friend doing?"
"Go ask him whydontcha?" Dex says with an insolent grin.
Norston glances over at the door, taking in the broken glass with a dissaproving look. "Ladies first, I think. How are you feeling tonight, Gywndolyn?"
"I feel okay." Wyn says after a long moment. Who is this guy, and why does he know my name?
"Good. Follow me please." He leads her back to her room, gesturing for her to sit on the bed, setting his bag on the nightstand.
"Is this some sort of institution or something?" She asks as he begins to unwrap the bandages on her wrists, revealing an ugly red line, neatly stitched. The doctor shakes his head to her question, and begins re-wrapping them with clean gauze.
"Not in the sense you're thinking." He snips the gauze with precise, practiced movements.
"Okay... then what is it?" She asks, slightly annoyed.
"This place is privately owned by our mutual benefactor, Ms. Alexi Hunter." His answer gives her the feeling of much being left unsaid. "Have you been sleeping okay?"
"Fine. So, um... what does Ms. Hunter want with us?" Wyn says as he checks her heartbeat, and flashes a light into her eyes.
"Right now, she wants you all to be in good health. I'm certain she will reveal her motivations to you when she is ready." He says in a tone that suggests further questioning might not be the wisest course of action.
"She can't just keep us here." Wyn protests, ignoring the warning look in his eyes.
"I'm afraid I have no say in what she does. Please calm down, I am only a doctor, and I am only doing my job."
Wyn sits, seething for a few minutes as he packs up his bag. "Is there anything else you need that has not been provided for you?" He asks.
She shakes her head. Only my freedom. "What about the kid in the next room?"
The doctor sighs. "He's in for a tough time this week, I'm afraid. Heroin withdrawl. He's just beginning to feel it now, but it will be very bad." His words are punctuated by a crash from the next room. "I'm mostly worried because he is unhealthy to begin with, I should say his prognosis for living the next week are about fifty-fifty." Wyn glances pityingly in the direction of Shade's room. "Even more unfortunate," Doc continues, "is the fact that I don't dare go in there with him. Not now, at least." He looks upset.
Wyn shakes her head. "I wouldn't recommend for anyone to go in there."
He nods agreement solemnly, and begins packing things back into his bag. Moments later, he is gone.
Wyn curls up on her bed, facing the window, through which she can see a the crumbly brick of the building next door. The occasional city noise drifts up to her, shouts, sirens and the like. Her wrists burn and itch, destracting her. Her despair is nameless, hovering over her like a stormcloud, ever present, looming dark as life. Silent tears begin to slide down her cheeks as she watches a few dirty snowflakes float past her window.
The screaming begins hours later, in the dead of night, startling Wyn from an uneasy slumber. She sits up with a choked-off cry, heart pounding, fingers digging furrows in the blankets. It is a sound like nothing she's ever heard, bone-chilling and inhuman. It is a monstrous and terrifying sound, the sound of the world's anguish and pain, voiced by the dead. It is as if she has been changed into a child again, and the monster in the closet is real.
Wyn pulls the blankets to her chin, snuggling deep into the matteress, eyes wide and frightened. Nothing human could make that sound. The keening wail continues intermittantly for a few minutes before fading into merciful silence. She watches the shadows dance over the wall.
It is a long time before Wyn finds sleep again.
Despite her restless night, the next day passes uneventfully. And the next. And the next. Norston makes a habit of coming around in the evenings, and this also becomes routine. Wyn becomes increacingly restless, as does Dex, cooped up as they are in the 'asylum' as she has ironically dubbed it. Shade spends much of his waking hours in his own personal hell, unpredictable and dangerous, behind his locked door. Bored as she is, Wyn doesn't care to inturrupt his generally violent and sometimes incoherant ravings in the name of conversation. Dex proves an only marginally better companion, spending most of his hours pacing or watching the television as if it's his lifeline. Wyn finds better companions in the dusty tomes that line the walls. High fantasy mostly, and a few of the classics. She battles her despair quietly and often alone in her room.
One night two large men accompany Norston's visit. They don't say anything, but under his direction unlock Shade's door and remove all of the shattered furnature, piece by piece. Shade is by this point too weak to do more then curse viciously from the corner. When Norston leaves that evening he does not lock Shade's door.
Wyn wakes up feeling generally grumpy on the second morning after the movers came. The lack of screaming last night strangely did nothing to improve the quality of her slumber. Bad dreams, she surmised, although upon trying, she can't recall a single one. The realization leaves her with an inexplicable cold feeling. I've lost my dreams. She thinks, shuddering. She decides a hot shower might help, or at least offer comfort.
The shower makes her feel slightly better, dispelling some of the grogginess as well. Nothing a hot cup of coffee won't cure. Decided, Wyn dresses quickly, tugging on a baggy sweater and thick socks. Got to remember to ask Norston to do something about the heat here. She thinks, shuffling out to the kitchen and putting a pot on to perk. As the coffee begins to bubble out, tantalizingly hot, Wyn lets her eyes wander over the large room, and almost shrieks.
Shade is sitting on the couch, huddled in a blanket, his bloodshot yellow eyes peering balefully out at her. She never even noticed him there.
"H-hello." She manages, heart hammering. Nothing like a pure dose of adrenaline to wake you up in the morning. "I didn't see you there." She adds lamely.
His eyes glimmer with something like amusement. He nods.
"Guess they decided to let you out, huh?" Wyn asks, feeling half sorry for and half afraid of him. He does look pretty awful... she observes, I hope he's not feeling well enough to start smashing the place.
He nods again, clearing his throat rustily. "Yeah. Guess they figured I couldn't do much damage now." He says as if reading her thoughts. He lights a cigarette, his hands shaking so badly he almost doesn't manage it.
Wyn watches him, sympathy somewhat overcoming her fear. He doesn't look half so fierce all bundled in that blanket. she observes, fishing a mug out of the cabnet. "Coffee?" She offers, fingers already on a second mug.
He gives a grateful nod, his eyes never leaving her as she pours two steaming mugs. She brings them over, setting them down on the coffee table and sitting gingerly in the chair across from Shade.
"Thanks." He tells her, reaching a thin, needle-scarred arm out of the blanket. He's pitifully thin, shirtless and barefoot.
"Hopefully you'll be a little better off sometime soon." She offers, giving what she hopes is an encouraging look.
"They'll probably lock me up again when I am." He says sourly, sipping his coffee. His shaggy hair falls into his eyes, he brushes it away with a strangely childlike gesture.
Wyn smiles at him sadly. He's around my age. She realizes. Hard to believe. And I thought I'd been through a lot. This kid looks like he's come back from a war. "I wonder what the hell we're all doing here," she says, changing the subject. "What is this, like a home for misguided teenagers?" She shakes her head blowing on her coffee to cool it.
He averts his oddly intense gaze for a moment, looking at the mug held in his unsteady hands. "I doubt it."
"Then I have to wonder what it is this lady wants." She says, somewhat relieved to be out from under his scrutiny.
He merely shrugs, his expression deepening into a scowl. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" He asks suddenly, looking back up at her, golden eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Where did that come from?Wyn wonders, shifting uncomfortably. Best be diplomatic about these things . . . I really don't want to upset this guy. "I think you're going through withdrawl." She finally answers, not meeting his eyes.
He laughs shortly, a humorless sound. "Don't try to spare my feelings, you think I'm a fucking nutball, don't you?"
"I don't think you're crazy... I just think you're a little old to believe in vampires, is all." She tells him, sipping her coffee. "You have to admit it's a little... farfetched."
He looks at her for a long time, letting the smoke from his cigarette make fleeting patterns between them. "Now that's the shit that killed tinkerbell." He comments finally, laughing that harsh laugh again. He shakes his head. "Sometimes I think you may just be more messed up then I am." He adds. "Or maybe I'm just more fucked up then I thought."
That's an understatement."I'm sorry." She tells him in her most dignified manner. "I haven't believed in monsters under the bed for as long as I can remember."
"What about this?" He asks, picking a heavy volume with a scarlet dragon blazing across the cover up off the table. "I find it hard to believe that Dex is reading for pleasure."
I find it hard to believe that Dex can read at all. She thinks, surpressing a smile. "It's mine, what about it? So I like to read fantasy, it doesn't mean I believe in it. It's just stories."
Shade runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "So what do you believe in, then? Anything at all?"
"You know, you don't really strike me as the fanciful type." She replies, raising an eyebrow.
His eyes narrow coldly. "And what type am I, then?"
Wyn swallows hard, remembering his previous displays of violence. The psycho type maybe, the dangerous type? "The type that doesn't need to be arguing with me about my reading preference." She replies cooly, betraying none of her nervousness.
He considers that for a moment, and his expression softens into something a little less threatening. "You didn't answer my question." He observes, leaning back against the couch wearily.
"What?" Wyn blinks, brow furrowing.
"What do you believe in?"
Wyn hesitates. What kind of question is that? "You mean, like religious or reality or what?"
Shade shrugs, grinding out his cigarette. "Just anything."
"I . . . well, I believe in plenty of stuff." She says somewhat defensively. How did I come to be sitting on the couch with a psychopath discussing philosophy? She wonders. What do I believe in? This is like the twilight zone. I believe in stuff . . . I believe that . . . I believe in . . . Well, I used to believe I could sing, that I could make it on my own . . . Oh hell, what do I believe in? Maybe that's my problem. Not that he needs to know that. She steals a glance at Shade, who is sitting very still, waiting patiently for her response. "You don't have to stare at me, you know." She snaps.
He blinks, averting his eyes and digging another cigarette out of his battered pack. "Sorry." He mutters, his expression becoming guarded once more.
"No, I'm sorry." Wyn sighs. "It's just--"
"Forget it." He cuts her off, eyes flat and cold. "I'll leave you alone."
"Are you gonna let me finish?" She asks, peevishly. He makes a 'go ahead' gesture before lighting his cigarette. "I was going to say that maybe you're right, that I don't have anything to believe in . . . maybe that's my problem." She finishes in a subdued tone, looking at the ugly red scars on her wrists, unbandaged now. "I mean, why go on if there's nothing left for you to dream about?" Well so much for not spilling my soul. What are you doing, Wyn? Starting a support group?
Shade seems to mull that over for a moment before speaking. "Maybe things'll get better." He offers softly, his voice holding a surprising amount of compassion. "You never know."
Wyn sighs, feeling the cold weight of depression already settling in.
"Of course, what do I know?" Shade sighs out a lungful of smoke. "I'm just a fucked up junkie."
That's right. So why am I pouring out my heart to you? Wyn echoes his sigh. "I don't know why you're listening to my sob story anyhow."
"Because it's more interesting then listening to Dex whine?" He suggests dryly.
Wyn scowls, suddenly wanting nothing more to do with this conversation or the train of thought it provokes. "I'm gonna go read." She says, grabbing her book, her look daring him to comment.
Shade shrugs, betraying no reaction. "Don't let me stop you." He murmers as she stalks from the room. "Thanks again for the coffee." He adds as an afterthought as she's almost through the door.
"Don't mention it."
Wyn shuts her door firmly and falls onto the bed, wondering why it is that people lose their dreams, and if she could manage to bleed to death here before anyone noticed. Cold tears trickle down her cheeks unnoticed as she stares blindly at the celing. I've lost my dreams . . . what is there to believe in, then?
