DARK VEIW
Music: "Damage" by Kosheen
IDN Bleach.
Forever indebted to you
for hanging yourself
from this silver chain
she wear around her neck
unaware it's a noose.
"Hood?"
He has said that 3 times.
The girl in the gray hoodie and holey overalls has no idea what's going on.
"Holy fuck," calls a repetitious man, his voice shocked, his features indistinct, "Hood?"
She's annoyed, tired of standing on her end—the deadend—of the alley waiting for this shouting son of a bitch to move on. He is standing at the opposite end of the alleyway, cloaked in shadow like some wannabe nightmare.
So, she's not intimidated, just cautious. The city is a dangerous place. Watching where you walk is just as important as watching who walks behind you.
Or in this case, in front of you.
The man steps forward in her direction—not an encouraging sign—emerging from the ubiquitous gloom, illuminated by a flickering streetlamp. The blinking effect is vaguely nauseating.
From the spotty image, she discerns long red hair tied up with a kerchief, grimy boots laced up high over shins, leathery gloves cut off at the fingers, and a tattered gentleman's overcoat.
The guy looks normal. Everyone looks ominous in this ominous city.
Still, she knows he's up to no good. It's the sunglasses he wears that tip her off, clue her in.
Who wears sunglasses at night? In the dark?
Only crazy fuckers.
Hence, this fucker blocking her path is crazy, which in and of itself isn't all that strange. This city drives people mad—it rains all the time.
Like it rains now. Not a torrential downpour. Just a mist that turns the black and white world gray.
The crazy-sunglasses-wearer walks toward her slowly, hands up—like one might approach a wounded animal. Afraid to scare her away, afraid she might freak out. Afraid she might shoot him in the head.
Shifty, feeling trapped, her purple eyes swivel from the deadend of the alley to the street corner behind him, calculating her chances of evasion. The odds are not in her favor.
Unsure which is the best method to dissuade him from coming any closer, she hesitates, "Um... I don't have anything you would want," hoping thievery is the only crime he's considering. Rape and murder would really fuck up her night.
She backs away slowly, each step backward matching his step forward.
The unbroken lines of derelict buildings on either side feels like a blocked tunnel, a rectangular cage, the blacked out-boarded up windows gazing down on her like apathetic gods.
"Hood," he says, calling out to her like "hood" is a name rather than a piece of clothing, "Awe, little Hood, where are you going? Don't you recognize me?"
In the half-light, she cannot see his face, but she imagines his cracked-out grin. She wonders idly if he's hallucinating, seeing through her, seeing someone else. "I'm not Hood," she replies coolly, hoping her controlled calm will puncture the delusion, "You're confused."
Only a few yards away, the squelch of his boots against the dank concrete is louder than it should be, screaming a warning in her head. "Please," she murmurs, hating the desperation in her voice, disgusted by her weakness, "Leave me alone. Please just let me walk away." Her heart feeds adrenaline to her limbs, and her pupils dilate. The mist and the flickering street lamp toy with her senses.
The crazy man with red hair laughs, a full bodied sound, strangely pleasant, not manically.
His laughter is not right; it's a lie—his laughter should reveal the madness within. But it does not.
So, angry that his evil is disguised, she crosses her arms, demanding, "I said leave me alone."
Pausing, the man cocks his head to the side, his hair doing funny things from that angle, watching her squirm. "Leave you alone? All by yourself? I can't do that, Hood," he tells her in the tone of one engaged in something tedious, explaining the obvious to someone pretending ignorance, "We've been looking for you for two years. You've been a bad girl, running off without calling home."
Her eyes narrow briefly, a momentary reprieve from fear, fight or flight overrun by confusion. "Wh-what?" she stutters.
Her hands clenched to fists, preparing not for battle but for truth, she widens her stance. She has been searching for a woman—the girl who abandoned her 10 years ago. "Who have you been looking for?"
The redhead stands before her, leaning down slightly to search her face, ignoring her question and asking his own, "Did you shrink, Hood? I thought you were taller."
To this, she scowls deeply, chagrined and scared, curious and confused. Her fists begin to tremble, and she wishes—desperately wishes—the tenement buildings on either side would disappear. Then, she would not feel so insignificant. Perhaps, if she could see the sky beyond the cloying smog, she could remember how to breathe.
If only it would stop fucking raining...
Unaware of the cataclysmic mind-fuck choking her, the man continues thoughtfully, "Or, maybe, I've grown, eh, Hood? Maybe you were always a midget."
She is done.
And so, she turns, agile and quick—the natural grace of wild things—and she runs.
Tries to run.
He seizes her wrist—how he caught it before she took a single step, she will never know. His grip is tight and unsympathetic. It hurts.
"Knew you'd run," he grumbles, with an alien bitterness, "Wish you hadn't, though." He sighs, aggrieved, accusing her of someone else's habits, "You never could do anything the easy way."
Watching him pull a syringe from a loop on his belt, she decides the situation could be worse—the syringe is not so bad compared to the other weapons hanging there.
Her brain burns; time is running ahead of her thoughts. She needs to get a grip, give him a piece of her mind. But she can't find the right words; she cannot find any words.
The redheaded mother fucker smiles crookedly, explaining his choice of weapon, "Propofol. You know, I never get to use this. Never any need." Raising it for her to inspect, he adds, "Because you know what they say, Hood, 'Never leave 'em alive.'"
She winces, pulling away ineffectually, her captured hand numb by now. The harder she pulls; the more it hurts. Her skin crawls where his fingers squeeze. Dazed, she wonders if it's bruised, only just remembering that she's about to die anyway.
So, she stills, the fight draining away, sucked away like life has always sucked. So death might be better.
Waiting for the moment he pumps her full of drugs, she's already feeling high—dull and spacey, sensory overload.
"See ya soon, Hood," he says, "And don't worry. I don't think Blossom is going to kill you. The rest of them, though… Damn, girl, you sure know how to piss off the masses."
Another minute in this particular hell might unhinge her. Given the choice between dying sane and dying crazy, she'll be brave—choosing to die in her right-ish mind.
Resigned and shaky kneed, she interjects, "Shut the fuck up and do it already. If you're going to kill me, just kill me, goddamn it! You sound weak when you monologue."
"Fine, be that way, then," he mutters, turning her wrist over and injecting the sedative, "Night-night, Hood."
As her vision inverts reality, impending death suddenly funny, she courts unconsciousness, slurring and drooling, reminding the world that, "I'm no—t Hoooood. Rukia, I—mm Rukia."
Hangman swinging from her chain, she gives you all the credit.
Mare