He sat in the corner, shoulders back, slouching. This posture, though unattractive, served a similar purpose to Neitzcheans as sulking did. They were allowed to absorb their mistakes in order to engrave the alternate solutions into their minds. If reflection was one of the most difficult steps, Telemechus Rhade had been scaling mountains for months.
Here, in this tucked away corner of the bar, he twirled the amber-filled glass between his thumb and forefinger. It slid with resistance against the corroded tabletop. He watched the liquid slosh gently, reverse, and climb the opposite side of the container intently.
What am I doing here? He questioned himself. What purpose has all this served?
"Gentlemen!" The edgy voice of the club's owner caught his attention. "It's my pleasure to introduce to you Ms. Selphie Bell! Claws and paws to yourself boys!"
From behind a ragged red crushed velvet curtain that had seen to many years of service, a trim but broad-boned female snuck into the spotlight. She adorned a chain-link that was pressed against a light mesh that barely served to cover up the places that clearly marked her as female.
Her silvery-blue hair was pinned back against her head, giving it a cropped appearance. Her lips were covered with a gold sparkly sheen, her cheeks caressed with a similar make-up. A few tendrils of the oddly colored hair hand loose, bouncing as she swayed.
A sharp pain rippled through out Rhade's mind. Between flashes of searing white light, he saw a familiar face. He had seen that face so many times, but couldn't place a name. He knew that he had met her, they all had, but he just couldn't…
Unlike the singer, the vision had natural blue curls. They were deeper, purer, then the dye the stage woman adorned. The puzzle had eyes that were large and passionate. He recalled that her voice sounded like liquid gold bubbling into a mold.
A grunt of frustration escaped him. This face haunted his dreams. In them she lured him towards her, feline lilke in manner. She whispered feverishly into his ear. In his waking hours, the loss of this vision hurt him more deeply then the separation from his wife and three young children.
Their marriage had been one of convenience. While he was successful in profession, he had not taken a mate. She was the granddaughter of a proud alpha, who refused to be a third or fourth wife. It had worked out well for them, but there hadn't been the connection he felt to this dream-woman. And then there was Luisa, who had captivated him. The truth was, though, that it was her vibrancy that attracted him. It was the same ambition as his phantom had.
Every time he attempted to conjure her image, retrace his dreams, his mind throbbed. Someone, or something, had dipped his hand into his subconscious and ripped her form his memory. Who could have that kind of power? Who would wish to?
Rhade cleared his throat and gulped down his fourth shot of the evening. His new addiction disgusted him. If it wasn't the liquor, it was the slew of woman. After a few drinks, all the figures he pinned beneath him had her face, her lips, and her faint scent of linens.
He had once promised his 'friends' that he would let go of this habit. But he couldn't. He needed his vision, needed her like oxygen. He used to think romantics were ridiculous. Now, he knew it. There wasn't anything graceful about this. It was a craving, a need, a necessity, and a vital part of him.
For the first time in his life, Rhade cursed his heritage. If only Neitzcheans weren't so absorbed in life. If only they didn't cling to things with death grips. If only they weren't engineered to feel emotions so strongly, to feel love.
Prostitutes that fluttered about the room giggled as they glanced in his direction. Normally he would thrive off their flocking. But tonight was different. Tonight he came face-to-face with reality. And he hated it.
Time inevitably passed, seeing five more singers and seven more shots. The Neitzchean's eyes were beginning to swim. Even with a natural tolerance, he wasn't drinking a soft brew. And when this bar tender added an extra punch, he threw in a kick for good measure as well.
With a final sigh, he left his table and stumbled over to the lady introduced as Selphie. With a coy smile he wrapped his arm around her waist, and slipped a coin purse into her palm. Sliding his bone blades across her back, he directed her to the more luxurious back-stage suite.
Just another day in hell. He thought as he threw the doorway curtain shut with a swish. Just another hope. Just one more lie. He sighed as he faced the waiting woman.