Author's note: Hello community! It's been a long, long time since the last time I published anything. I guess life just happened on me and I had no courage to publish, even though I did a lot of writting. So, Lucifer's (short term I hope) cancellation got me off my chair and back here. I will be publishing this story, Eveningstar and I am upon one more, Ironman themed story, continuing my previous sotries. I own nothing of these stories except well, the plot and some OC. You can check my blog if you wish to, , and don't forget until Luci is back. #SaveLucifer
Prologue
The streets are silent, dark, and dirty. They always are in this part of the city. The rain has brought the earth to life. Dirt travels down the streets through mud filled rivers.
Ah, the stench!
What an awful mixture of water, earth, and litter!
She tried to cover her nose with her sleeve, but she thought otherwise. No, she would take it all in. The decay, the abandonment, all this city wanted to bury away.
One miscalculated step had her buried, ankle deep, into mud. She cursed under her breath and got her foot out. The black boot was covered in mud, filth was getting to her toes through miniscule holes on the sole. Well, it had been ruined anyway, no reason to hold onto to it. She removed the boot in one graceful move along with the wet sock and proceeded to do the same to the other one. She meant to throw them somewhere in the dark when she heard a whisper.
"Hey madam, you madam, don't throw them away. Give 'em to me puppet, will ya?"
She could barely see the man lying flat on his back inside the track. Suddenly a strong light blinded her. Startled, she took a step back and tried to adjust. The man was holding a huge smartphone sporting a led light, strong enough to illuminate the whole street. Bloody expensive those things were. Well, not here, not in the Sunday market. A walk down the street on a Sunday could bring you all sorts of things you never imagined you wanted for just a little money.
"Well, come on puppet, what are ya waitin' for?" the man repeated.
Getting out of her trance, she threw the damned things inside the track and kept on walking. The dirt under her feet was wet, mud crawling up her clothes like a thirsty demon. The crunch of broken glass hit her before the pain shot through leg.
Damn! Blood was coloring the dull street. Her right foot was covered in red. She took a deep breath trying to muffle the scream trying to escape her mouth. With nostrils stretched wide, a strange yet familiar aroma of flowers hit her. Looking around in the dim light of the moon she spotted the fresh washed clothes of the gypsies, laid by their tricycle. Feeling no remorse, she grabbed a garment and bandaged her foot. Limping and walking tenderly she crossed the street and headed to the old, abandoned warehouse. She unlocked the old, rusty door and cursed, louder this time, upon the sight of the stairs. Why had she chosen the damn floor as her… accommodation arrangements? Hopping on one foot, remiscent of her childhood, she headed upstairs and into the WC.
Oh, the stench could make her gauge.
She lit the small lamp next to the mirror and inspected the cut. It looked damn right awful with all the mud and staff. Balancing on one leg, she took the rag off, uncrooked a bottle of unidentified alcohol and after getting a taste she washed it. The sting blinded her, making her lose her balance and fall, unceremoniously on the floor. After a minute, she opened the cabinet finding some bandages that might have expired, or not.
All set, she limped back to the room. A cold breeze was drafting through the broken windows. It was as if the small glass squares were going for miles and miles. She stood in front of them, staring at the constellations she had drawn upon the glass. The night sky was so clear here, where darkness ruled over the city lights. She felt a strange feeling of primitive peace. She could see the sun rising behind the construction hill.
She turned around taking in the industrial warehouse in the dim, sun rising light.
A wasteland of concrete, rusty water pipes and cargo pallets. An old minifridge she had exchanged with her watch, stood by a broken pallet accommodating junk food bags and dirty, broken dishes. On the other side, a neatly made mattress with hideous sheets rested upon the floor next to a twenty-year-old backpack.
In the middle, a black, polished grand piano stood regal. It seemed so out of context and yet… it felt right. She walked toward it, caressing its top. She sat upon a broken chair, wrapped in cellophane, and rested her restless fingers upon the keys.
Frenzy piano notes awake the outcasts as the sun rose above the land. In the background, tracks kept the rhythm, priests accompanied with higher tones followed by the rising peasants.