She stopped smoking when they pushed a lit cigarette into her dry mouth and forced it closed, head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle as the ashes burned her insides. It was as if hell was miniaturized and bursts of its wrathful flames were scorching the vessel she inhabited. She remembers crying - her throat constricting as each and every involuntary jolt of her body whilst trapped within their hands only made the burning worse. They told her that her eyes were like the ocean; such a deep blue and full of limitless water - apparently it wasn't enough to put out the fire.
Not even all the blood that spilled from her slit throat could stop the burning.
People wondered why she stared at them with such a deadpan gaze when they questioned her. No, she hasn't been permanently muted (how fortunate) but it doesn't mean she took enjoyment in the discomfort of using her ruined throat. The scar that marked her neck like a collar should be evidence enough to quiet the sensitive nature of people when she did not answer. There were times she wondered if she should be flattered by people not noticing, or for not assuming she was mute; then she remembered how often it was just based on stupidity that the pieces weren't put together.
If they aren't going to use their common sense she wasn't going to wear the mark like a warning label for them. Her life was too short to worry on the fleeting people that surrounded her.
The zipper was pulled up.
The zipper was pulled down.
Occasionally heads turned to witness what was causing the sound. Tanned fingers dragged the zipper vertically on the obsidian colored vest that adorned the girl. Lips curled as she stared at the metal pinched between her fingertips; she didn't need to look up to know when someone was watching. Keep going about your day, stranger. Nothing to see here. Just a bored young woman is present and you have no business with her.
The slowed footsteps, as always, picked back up to their normal speed and she remained as just another dirty face in the crowd.
A light tap against the glass behind her immediately caught her attention; there's a shallow glance to the client's face before her gaze traveled down to the potted plant in his hand. Salome pushed off the large window, carelessly leaving a filthy shoe print in her wake, and made her way inside to the bearded fellow. He looked gentle to most, surely. All she could see were those pinprick pupils and the story they told, a story she didn't want to hear. Her brows lifted, hands extended as she stared expectantly.
He put the pot in the palm of her hand, the tag informing her plenty on where it needed to go. Another routine job. One plant shuffled off to another client and from there the chain of information would be passed along. The brunette's work was never through; as equally busy as any prostitute in the Red Light District - intel and sex were both commodities this world would not be without.
She knew.
She found out how important that was once upon a time.
"I can't imagine what it was like." Salome's shoe skidded to a halt just as it began to move; focused on him for the moment. "I've done a lot of things but I never bled anyone like cattle." The look on his face wasn't sympathetic, that's not the proper word. Disgust for the act, perhaps. Some murderers thought themselves above others due to their methods - as if they really had standards.
Funny. Her lips curled once more into a small grin that didn't quite reach her eyes - eyes that dragged away from her client as her body followed suit out the door. She hadn't noticed how lightly her hand had wrapped around her throat until she was already out the door.
The plant is delivered to a man who lives in a modest sized home with a white exterior and a whiter interior. He wore a white suit and made sure her blackened boots were left outside before she entered his sanctuary. Her fingers twitched as temptation rose to turn over the pot in her hands and spill out its contents. She could do it. Salome's grip tightened as she stepped onto the path of someone wiser than she.
Now if only that path wasn't so bright.
Her impaired vision blurred terribly; the inability to focus had the messenger on high alert which only earned her a small laugh from the footsteps she felt ahead of her. The task is simple: place the object where the receiver desires and pick up any packages (provided there are any to pass on). There were a few clients she saw on a semi-regular basis, like a growing gang or something equally shitty. The larger gigs were one offs of her going from Point A to Point B as a middleman between two information brokers, or two rival parties that were meeting on distant but fair grounds. Good to know the world is still full of trust issues.
Don't shoot the messenger.
A quote she wished was a law in the underworld. Fortunately, upon her miraculous survival of the party that damaged her so, those that called upon her services tended to take amusement in the ghostly girl. Another commodity but it was one that allowed her to buy food and maintain the small home she was constantly struggling to keep standing. While she wasn't particularly scared of her ruined senses being messed with -considering that was a frequent thing as it was- she still didn't appreciate being dragged through an unnecessary process of being nearly blinded by the decor of this client's place. The young woman's irritation weighed heavier than her paranoia but all the while she remained deadpan to it all.
"I can never tell if it's a shame you cannot see what I see while walking through these halls or if, perhaps, you see exactly what I want for you to see." His words aren't muffled, closer; the weight of his footsteps is just ahead. Ah. He slowed his pace and she in turn does so as well to prevent any collisions. "What do you see?"
Salome's lips pursed slightly at the question as she hummed shortly to capture his attention; a small hand motioned around to the obvious white.
"When I was a child I used to think the end of everything was just... white. As you can see it impacted me quite a bit but I'm rather fond of the outcome. It's rather comforting to be surrounded by this one shade." Her client rambled and she half-hardheartedly listened with only a small grunt of acknowledgement at his pause. "What do you think the end of everything looks like? What comforts you?"
Her tongue pressed against the enamel of her teeth as she walked in his shadow. The end of everything, he asked? Is that comforting? Is it supposed to be - is it not supposed to be? The last thing she wanted to think about was some bullshit meta questions that were unrelated to the job she was on. With an exasperated sigh and slight flare of her nostrils she walked with a bit more force - bare feet audibly louder than they once were.
He didn't want her answer of malformed chaos so colorful, so loud; something that could captivate and capture her damaged senses from every form of silence they experienced. No one wanted to see what she saw between the cracks of reality.
The client's laugh nearly blocked her from hearing the creaking of a door; another bright room she guessed as she followed him until his steps fell silent signaling he had halted. A short pause only brought her further silence. With a huff Salome's foot patted around the tile flooring with some caution until she felt a sturdy table leg; his hum of approval told her enough and she placed down the plant before stepping aside for him to examine the details left in the false bottom of the pot.
"Well isn't that an interesting development."
Salome stared forward at the white as she expressed her disinterest in the information he had received. She didn't care to know. That wasn't her job; ghosts don't need to know the happenings of what's transpiring around them. One of the few reasons her gig was still going strong was the fact she took no part in the knowing. So she was rather glad he fell silent for a few minutes before shuffling once more. Dry fingers tapped against the back of her right hand and she lifted her limbs in response - hands upturned as her gaze fell into the direction of where the footsteps had ceased. Expectantly she waited as she did the last, as she always did no matter the job she took.
Light. The smell... Lady's Mantel, no doubt. He didn't need to tell her this one she'd be keeping as the last job of the week. Another to add to her cramped, wannabe greenhouse. The brunette barely heard him say how he'd show her back out - automatically her footsteps fell in line as she followed small time crime boss, attention on the plant she couldn't make out too well at the moment. It's the little things that jolted her senses back to a time where everything was once clear, that's mattered - that's what kept her alive. She didn't even hear him say goodbye nor the sound of the white door closing off the pale sanctuary from the world. All that mattered was this little pot in her hands that helped fill out her narrow, and now limited world.
Author's Shit: In no way do I believe anyone dealing with the loss of one or more of their senses is limited. It's written more in the tone in which fits Salome and how she perceives the world around her. It'll grow and develop as I update on an irregular basis. I'm not entirely sure on what will develop in this story. I had an idea and I'm rolling with it and letting it evolve from there. This story will mostly involve her dealings with a certain pale blond monstrosity. I really just find this mostly to be a run writing exercise, I guess?
This and other stuff will be worked on whenever. It's a neat stress reliever and, as you can see by my lack of updates/communication I've been very stressed. For a very long time. When it will clear up? Fuck if I know, friends. None of my stories are discontinued, things are just delayed - especially due to the fact I just lost all my drafts for the chapters and now have to start from scratch.
Anyways, enough ramblings. I exist and I'm writing a thing. Enjoy?