Raven-haired Dream
story
It was one of those places that hid behind tall buildings in their shadows, but was loved and always found by friends who had been through everything together and strangers who ran from their past while still living in it.
He had developed the talent to find these places, to instinctively know where they were hidden. He was a wanderer, running from his past. He knew that if he let himself think he would be stuck living his past. The wanderer closed his eyes and cleared his head. He hated his past.
The Singer. Its wooden sign hung on a rod stretched out from the building. The only light provided for the front of it was a streetlight. The door opened and a man older than the one hidden in the shadows but too young to be old stepped out. He paused at the threshold of the door and looked back as if he wanted to stay. Smoky gray light fell across the sidewalk. Soft music and a low, sultry voice floated from the interior. The woman's voice called him, called his past. The woman's words summoned him, summoned his soul. The wanderer stepped from the shadows. The man in the doorway started. His eyes searched the newcomer.
"I love her, but her songs...." His voice faded as if with those words he had aged. Then he moved and became a shadow within a shadow. The wanderer caught the door before it could close and entered.
The stage was little more than plywood resting on concrete bricks. It bore only the weight of the singer, a stool, and her microphone. She was beautiful. Her dyed golden-brown hair hung to her jaw line, the ends curving to caress her jawbone. Her face was slim and fine boned, covered with fair skin, the only imperfection the discoloration below her closed eyes. Her body was slim and well formed. She wore clothes that one would only wear at home, a soft blue sweater and black jeans. Her feet were bare. Her voice was sweet and sultry, her words haunting and dark.
The wanderer sat in the back, his almost empty pack on the floor between his feet. He had only one change of clothes and a small amount of food. He carried him money on himself and had no need for a weapon.
A waitress came, young and childish in her looks. She stood so she appeared to stand beside the singer, forming an odd juxtaposition of the innocent and the wounded.
"I've fed this pain
"For far too long.
"Fled are you still
"From me."
The waitress watched him with his once light eyes that watched the singer. He was handsome, his face thin with not enough food, his hair dark and pulled back into a loose ponytail. His clothes were worn and a solid black. He was still, his eyes still watching the singer. She could see the way her voice called to him. She wondered if he knew her.
"Do you know her?" His eyes slid reluctantly to her, leaving the singer reluctantly.
"No."
"Every one loves her."
"My hope has thinned
"And I've lost my dreams.
"Too tightly I clung
"To my raven-haired dream."
"She sounds so sad." His voice was soft, almost sympathetic.
"She is." That was all she would say. He ordered his drink and some food. His eyes studied the singer, memorizing how she sat on the edge of the stool. Her head tilted back, her eyes closed, her legs stretched out before her, crossed at the ankle, her left foot baring her weight. Her right hand held the microphone to catch her words, her left hand braced her against the stool. He memorized how her chest rose and fell with each breath, how her lips moved, how her eyelashes fluttered.
"Lost this hope
"Around which you were bound.
"I'm left alone,
"Trapped while you are free."
He studied her and for the first time since he had fled, he wanted someone. He wanted to pin her to the ground and ease the frustration of his past, the anger. For the first time since he had run, he wanted to touch someone and feel them quiver beneath his fingers. He growled and slammed his fist into the table. The singer did not flinch, so wrapped in her song, her misery.
"Loss bleeds my dry.
"Wound healer were you once,
"And again shall be.
"My wild, raven-haired dream."
Her words brought memories and with the memories, pain. Another growl rose in his throat. He had vowed never to live there again, to live it again. She would not stop though. Her words and their meanings taunted him. And he tormented himself. The one he had left behind tormented him. Her face in the window, his name screamed, the blackness after. She had healed his wounds, made him no longer fear what he had once feared, eased what he had never told another with her smile.
"Fed this pain too long
"And yet feed it still.
"I love you,
"My wild, raven-haired dream."
He snarled and rose to his feet.
"Bitch," he screamed. "Have you no respect for the dead? The past is past." He could see her in his mind. How she looked at him. An ache he had thought he would never feel again rose in him. The singer brought her chin down and opened honey-colored eyes.
"This is my past. What ghost it brings are mine and mine alone."
"Do you think I wanted to leave her? I loved her."
The singer stared at him.
"She was mine but I couldn't claim her. So many nights I went to her room and stood there, trembling with my desire. I wanted to claim her."
She did not move. He kept talking. What did it matter that there were others there? Now that he had begun he could not stop.
"I hated them all. So much more after...after she nearly died. I hated that fucking red-head most of all. None of them would let me claim her."
The singer did not speak. The wanderer pounded his fist on the table. It rocked beneath his fury.
"I hated them and loved her. I hated them and loved you. Don't you believe me?" The singer turned her face away.
"You left."
"I was scared."
"You left me alone."
"I was a coward."
"I needed you."
"You don't any more?"
"I learned to survive without you."
"You don't sleep," he accused.
"And you don't take care of yourself."
"I have nothing to live for."
She didn't answer, didn't look at him. A growl, a sob, fled from his throat.
"What do you want me to say?" he screamed. He needed her. She was part of him. She couldn't leave him. Like he left her.
"You could never say it."
He didn't answer.
"I've fed this pain for far too long, Ranma. I won't feed it any more."
"That's not how it goes."
"I knew you'd end up here eventually. I had hoped...." Her voiced faded.
"I don't know what you want."
"I needed you. You were the only one that knew. I died that day. You knew it. I needed you."
"You didn't die," he said stiffly.
"Yes, I did."
"No!" he screamed, putting his hands to his head, the memory of her body becoming real. "You didn't die. If you died, then I failed. If you died, then I'm unworthy."
"If I died, then I came back for you." Ranma slammed his fist into the table.
"Damn it, Akane. I'm so sorry. I wanted to protect you."
"I wanted you to love me."
"I did."
"Do you now?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"They wouldn't let me."
"How could they stop you?"
He stayed silent.
"How could they stop you?"
"They threatened you."
"When?"
"After the wedding. I wanted them to leave. I wanted you and they threatened you."
Akane was quiet. They had threatened her. And he had left to protect her.
"You left me."
"I love you."
"You could have taken me with you."
"I was a coward."
"I know. I love you."
"Will you come with me now?"
"Yes."
story
It was one of those places that hid behind tall buildings in their shadows, but was loved and always found by friends who had been through everything together and strangers who ran from their past while still living in it.
He had developed the talent to find these places, to instinctively know where they were hidden. He was a wanderer, running from his past. He knew that if he let himself think he would be stuck living his past. The wanderer closed his eyes and cleared his head. He hated his past.
The Singer. Its wooden sign hung on a rod stretched out from the building. The only light provided for the front of it was a streetlight. The door opened and a man older than the one hidden in the shadows but too young to be old stepped out. He paused at the threshold of the door and looked back as if he wanted to stay. Smoky gray light fell across the sidewalk. Soft music and a low, sultry voice floated from the interior. The woman's voice called him, called his past. The woman's words summoned him, summoned his soul. The wanderer stepped from the shadows. The man in the doorway started. His eyes searched the newcomer.
"I love her, but her songs...." His voice faded as if with those words he had aged. Then he moved and became a shadow within a shadow. The wanderer caught the door before it could close and entered.
The stage was little more than plywood resting on concrete bricks. It bore only the weight of the singer, a stool, and her microphone. She was beautiful. Her dyed golden-brown hair hung to her jaw line, the ends curving to caress her jawbone. Her face was slim and fine boned, covered with fair skin, the only imperfection the discoloration below her closed eyes. Her body was slim and well formed. She wore clothes that one would only wear at home, a soft blue sweater and black jeans. Her feet were bare. Her voice was sweet and sultry, her words haunting and dark.
The wanderer sat in the back, his almost empty pack on the floor between his feet. He had only one change of clothes and a small amount of food. He carried him money on himself and had no need for a weapon.
A waitress came, young and childish in her looks. She stood so she appeared to stand beside the singer, forming an odd juxtaposition of the innocent and the wounded.
"I've fed this pain
"For far too long.
"Fled are you still
"From me."
The waitress watched him with his once light eyes that watched the singer. He was handsome, his face thin with not enough food, his hair dark and pulled back into a loose ponytail. His clothes were worn and a solid black. He was still, his eyes still watching the singer. She could see the way her voice called to him. She wondered if he knew her.
"Do you know her?" His eyes slid reluctantly to her, leaving the singer reluctantly.
"No."
"Every one loves her."
"My hope has thinned
"And I've lost my dreams.
"Too tightly I clung
"To my raven-haired dream."
"She sounds so sad." His voice was soft, almost sympathetic.
"She is." That was all she would say. He ordered his drink and some food. His eyes studied the singer, memorizing how she sat on the edge of the stool. Her head tilted back, her eyes closed, her legs stretched out before her, crossed at the ankle, her left foot baring her weight. Her right hand held the microphone to catch her words, her left hand braced her against the stool. He memorized how her chest rose and fell with each breath, how her lips moved, how her eyelashes fluttered.
"Lost this hope
"Around which you were bound.
"I'm left alone,
"Trapped while you are free."
He studied her and for the first time since he had fled, he wanted someone. He wanted to pin her to the ground and ease the frustration of his past, the anger. For the first time since he had run, he wanted to touch someone and feel them quiver beneath his fingers. He growled and slammed his fist into the table. The singer did not flinch, so wrapped in her song, her misery.
"Loss bleeds my dry.
"Wound healer were you once,
"And again shall be.
"My wild, raven-haired dream."
Her words brought memories and with the memories, pain. Another growl rose in his throat. He had vowed never to live there again, to live it again. She would not stop though. Her words and their meanings taunted him. And he tormented himself. The one he had left behind tormented him. Her face in the window, his name screamed, the blackness after. She had healed his wounds, made him no longer fear what he had once feared, eased what he had never told another with her smile.
"Fed this pain too long
"And yet feed it still.
"I love you,
"My wild, raven-haired dream."
He snarled and rose to his feet.
"Bitch," he screamed. "Have you no respect for the dead? The past is past." He could see her in his mind. How she looked at him. An ache he had thought he would never feel again rose in him. The singer brought her chin down and opened honey-colored eyes.
"This is my past. What ghost it brings are mine and mine alone."
"Do you think I wanted to leave her? I loved her."
The singer stared at him.
"She was mine but I couldn't claim her. So many nights I went to her room and stood there, trembling with my desire. I wanted to claim her."
She did not move. He kept talking. What did it matter that there were others there? Now that he had begun he could not stop.
"I hated them all. So much more after...after she nearly died. I hated that fucking red-head most of all. None of them would let me claim her."
The singer did not speak. The wanderer pounded his fist on the table. It rocked beneath his fury.
"I hated them and loved her. I hated them and loved you. Don't you believe me?" The singer turned her face away.
"You left."
"I was scared."
"You left me alone."
"I was a coward."
"I needed you."
"You don't any more?"
"I learned to survive without you."
"You don't sleep," he accused.
"And you don't take care of yourself."
"I have nothing to live for."
She didn't answer, didn't look at him. A growl, a sob, fled from his throat.
"What do you want me to say?" he screamed. He needed her. She was part of him. She couldn't leave him. Like he left her.
"You could never say it."
He didn't answer.
"I've fed this pain for far too long, Ranma. I won't feed it any more."
"That's not how it goes."
"I knew you'd end up here eventually. I had hoped...." Her voiced faded.
"I don't know what you want."
"I needed you. You were the only one that knew. I died that day. You knew it. I needed you."
"You didn't die," he said stiffly.
"Yes, I did."
"No!" he screamed, putting his hands to his head, the memory of her body becoming real. "You didn't die. If you died, then I failed. If you died, then I'm unworthy."
"If I died, then I came back for you." Ranma slammed his fist into the table.
"Damn it, Akane. I'm so sorry. I wanted to protect you."
"I wanted you to love me."
"I did."
"Do you now?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"They wouldn't let me."
"How could they stop you?"
He stayed silent.
"How could they stop you?"
"They threatened you."
"When?"
"After the wedding. I wanted them to leave. I wanted you and they threatened you."
Akane was quiet. They had threatened her. And he had left to protect her.
"You left me."
"I love you."
"You could have taken me with you."
"I was a coward."
"I know. I love you."
"Will you come with me now?"
"Yes."