Elizabeth spitefully rolled her eyes when Dr. Powell plucked another card from the pile on the table.
"Same as before, tell me what you see" he said curtly.
Dr. Powell held up a white card with black ink splattered across the center of it. Elizabeth released an exhausted sigh. Even though she had no way of telling, it felt like they had been at this for what seemed an eternity. The voxophone recorder made a soft scratching noise in the silence of the room. For a moment Elizabeth fixed her eyes on the bright green leaves of a potted plant that rested on the corner of the desk that the doctor sat behind.
Her arms were stubbornly crossed against her chest, but Elizabeth did eventually look at the card Dr. Powell was practically shoving in front of her face. She stared at the ink pattern that bled black against a crisp white surface.
"They haven't changed you, Booker. Not…one…bit." Slate whispered as he brought the muzzle of the gun to his sweating forehead. The old man was breathing heavily, and his voice was rough like sandpaper. Elizabeth could still almost hear the gun shot that ended the captain's life as Booker executed him. At the time the warm splatter of blood had made Elizabeth jump clear out of her own skin….
"A fountain" Elizabeth finally replied.
Dr. Powell raised an eyebrow at her answer, but retrieved another card anyway.
Elizabeth stared at the new ink plot with tired eyes.
"Clouds" she responded slowly, hoping her voice still sounded as bland as the beige wallpaper that decorated the spartan office.
"Cotton candy here! Get your cotton candy!" A jolly looking fellow wearing a red stripped coat, and top hat yelled. He had a white sign with red lettering hanging around his neck, Enjoy Delicious Cotton Candy! Free Today! She remembered smiling when the man took down a bundle of the pink fluff and gave it to her.
"Cotton candy for the pretty little lady!" The man with the mustache exclaimed when he passed the sweet into her waiting hands.
She had immediately torn off a piece of the stuff and placed it eagerly in her mouth. The pink fluff was syrupy sweet and it melted on her tongue. Oh, wow. So, this is what it must be like to swallow a cloud, Elizabeth had thought before filling her mouth with another piece.
Fireflies and the whimsical laughter of children floated through the night air as Elizabeth ate her cotton candy underneath the festive lights of a carousel. The breeze stirred her hair, when she turned her head to watch Booker DeWitt saunter across the white washed driftwood boardwalk of Soldier's Field. Mouth full of cotton candy, she tilted her head to the side. She decided that she liked the way he walked. It was only when he turned to look back at her, did Elizabeth realize that she was openly staring at him.
"What?" Booker had asked.
A flush of heat rose to her cheeks, and Elizabeth quickly gulped down the remaining fluff that was partially hanging out of her mouth. Instinctively, she hid most of her face behind the pink mound of cotton candy, so Booker wouldn't see her blushing.
The reply she gave him was both humorous and filled with girlish shyness. "I was just imagining you on a carousel…."
A new card was put in front of her. In this one she heard the bone-chilling shriek of crows, smell burning flesh, and see bits of bloody intestines from disemboweled corpses….
"String," Elizabeth said nonchalantly.
It seemed to Elizabeth that the more ink Dr. Powell put in front of her, the more blood she saw.
Her right hand clutched a pair of scissors in the dark as a desperate madness had overtaken all rational thought; riding her like a demon slipping inside the skin of one possessed.
She had lunged forward and buried the blades past the dirty cotton work shirt and into vulnerable flesh.
Elizabeth saw Daisy Fitzroy crawling towards her, with wet horrible sounds spilling out of her mouth as the pools of blood around her feet oozed larger. The sticky, crimson liquid coated her hands, and splattered across her face like tepid rain.
The Vox Populi leader feebly tugged at her skirt, gazing up at her with dark glassy eyes. Seeing nothing and seeing everything…..
"Weeds," Elizabeth muttered.
"Hmmm? What was that?" Dr. Powell asked.
"I said weeds" she repeated back at him irritated.
The scientist scribbled something inside a black notebook, and for a moment Elizabeth wondered what it was. "Moving right along then" he said with a yawn, exchanging the card for a new one.
"How many more of those do you have?" Elizabeth inquired with impatience. She anxiously twisted the thimble on her pinky finger. Fatigue was her constant companion, and the day's "treatments" had been exceptionally grueling. She had wanted nothing more than to collapse into a ball and gratefully lose consciousness...
"Child, would you like to pray with me?"
The red leather chair was slippery with her sweat, even though she had stopped struggling a long time ago. Her eyes were heavy lidded, and Elizabeth weakly turned her head to gaze up at the Prophet.
"They're hurting me. Please, just let me go!" she rasped.
"We're going to cure you." Comstock scolded her gently.
"I'm not sick!" Elizabeth exclaimed defiantly, ignoring the rawness in her throat.
He had looked at her then with such pity in his judgmental blue eyes. It enraged her as sure as a slap across the face. "Your spirit is…" the Prophet whispered, releasing an exasperated sigh.
"All I ever wanted was to see you live up to your potential."
It made her immensely uncomfortable whenever Comstock talked like that. She wanted no part of his ambitions. So, she swiftly changed the subject before the Prophet could go on one of his self-righteous rants.
"Well, I'm surprised the Vox Populi hasn't killed you yet" Elizabeth had told him earnestly.
"They'd have to catch my airship first in order to do that," he replied, crossing his arms. It was a hauntingly familiar gesture, one that to her shame, reminded Elizabeth so much of herself.
"If they did, it wouldn't matter. The Hand of the Prophet is loaded for bear with Motorized Patriots, as well as soldiers. So, if they dare show their faces to me…well, I will rain down God's judgment upon them…."
"We have at least forty-five minutes until your next treatment" came Dr. Powell's answer; his reply briefly interrupting Elizabeth's memory.
Elizabeth didn't have a reply for Comstock then. So, she just rolled her head back and closed her eyes. She thought that the most disturbing element about the whole conversation was how casual he seemed about the death of others.
She stared at the ink, fighting against the constant eye strain. If you eliminated the words, and just listened to the tone of his voice, the Prophet could have been talking about how he prefers his coffee, for God's sakes. Booker may have been brutal in killing people, but at least he was hot-blooded, Elizabeth brooded.
There was the continuous purr of electricity coming from the contraption in the Luctece Labs. Elizabeth had barely noticed it, for the nerves in her body were alive and singing a louder song. Her spine pressed against an unyielding wall. The boning in her corset dug into her flesh like cruel fingers, but they were not nearly as merciless as Booker's mouth pressed hard against her own. The kiss had started off demanding and half angry, but she surrendered to it. Elizabeth's heart fluttered like a wild bird trapped inside her ribcage. She instinctively opened her mouth; and shuddered when she felt the wetness of Booker's tongue slide past her lips. Elizabeth could faintly taste the bite of tobacco and whiskey.
His large hands had a bruising hold on both of her wrists, as Booker pinned her against a wall. Their bodies were a hair's breath away from touching each other. The rough movement of his lips felt like silk against her mouth and ignited her desire. Elizabeth was dry kindling in Booker's arms, and she drank down the breath of his hunger. She uttered a soft sigh, tilting her head back to answer him with a kiss of her own. Elizabeth glided her own tongue over Booker's, mimicking the wet caress of his mouth. Elizabeth whimpered when he tried to break away from her. Her teeth playfully nipped at Booker's lower lip.
He had managed to say, "Dammit" or something like that before she brought their mouths together once again. She remembered his voice being a low stubborn growl, but this time all the bristly defensiveness had drained out of him. Their tongues twisted together in the manner of writhing snakes and negotiating lawyers. Elizabeth slowly assumed control of the kiss, her smooth lips entreating his lust. She could feel the tension in Booker's body radiating down his arms as he gripped her slender wrists. The sweet, ardent supplications she made with her tongue inside of his mouth were ripping apart Booker's self-control. Woman's intuition whispered to Elizabeth that she was playing a dangerous game. When he finally let go of her wrists, fear spiked through her desire.
Booker had been holding them to restrain her, in an effort to keep Elizabeth from touching him. Frozen, her forearms remained hovering near her chest. As their mouths reluctantly parted, Booker gazed down at her with feral green eyes. Elizabeth was acutely aware of her own ragged breaths, her soft breasts pressing against the neckline of her corset. His usual mask of indifference had melted away, and even the uninitiated could read the thoughts that burned behind Booker's eyes. His desire and breath scorched her face. Elizabeth's cheeks flushed red. She already felt naked.
It was her that had doggedly pushed the issue between them. Now that Elizabeth stood bathing in the open ferocity of Booker's heart, she found her own emotions running hot and cold. She stood at the threshold of things unknown to her. Longing and fear danced with each other. The place between her legs was aching, but reality had sent chills dancing up her spine. Did she truly want what was behind those eyes?
The only voices she heard in her head then were those of Robert and Rosalind Luctece.
"The bird or the cage?"
But, this time Booker couldn't help her. The choice was hers; and hers alone. Elizabeth had stared at her trembling hands for a long time. She could either shove him away or….
Elizabeth swallowed the lump in her throat.
Or she could pull him into an embrace; an embrace that would drown them both. Her deep blue eyes were riveted on Booker's smoldering stare. It was one way or the other; there could be no middle ground in this…
Dr. Powell roughly shook her by the shoulders, shattering Elizabeth's high-strung nostalgia.
"Hello! Anyone home?" the doctor practically yelled at her with annoyance.
She looked upon the face in front of her. Instead of seeing Booker's roguish features and wild green eyes Elizabeth's vision was filled with Dr. Powell's dull brown eyes, and prominent beaked nose. Whatever the man saw in her facial expression was enough to make him move away from her. Elizabeth could only assume what that was, because disappointment had thoroughly shredded her racing heart.
"Huh?" she mumbled, rapidly blinking her eyes.
The light from the ceiling fan shone brightly on Dr. Powell's slicked back hair, and he shook his head back and forth. "You drifted off, if you must know," he stated with obvious irritation.
Elizabeth squirmed uncomfortably in the leather chair she sat in. The supple skin of her thighs was sweaty, wet sucking sounds filled the uncomfortable silence as the material clung to her warm flesh as she shifted.
"Did I?" she said quietly, looking away from Dr. Powell's scrutinizing gaze. White-knuckled, her delicate hands clenched the arm rests.
"Play at ignorance if you like," the doctor began, returning to his seat.
"But, you stared at this one for at least ten minutes" he told her, retrieving the card and waving it in front of her face in the manner of throwing a stick to a dog.
And I would have happily continued to stare off into space with my memories if you would only let me, Elizabeth thought bitterly.
"Well?"
"Well, what?" Elizabeth snapped at him.
The scientist let the piece of paper slip from his fingers, and Elizabeth watched it float into her lap as a white ghost. The sound of squeaking leather drew her attention back to Dr. Powell. He had collapsed into his comfortable chair again with a sigh. Dr. Powell's fingers rubbed his temples in small circular motions before responding.
"What...Do...You…See?" the scientist spoke slowly, as if he were addressing a simpleton.
She looked down at the inkblot in her lap.
Her eyes could not un-see the blood and semen flowing in sanguine rivers down her pale thighs…
Elizabeth pressed the pink petals of her lips together in an angry scowl. She took the inkblot in her hands, and tore the card in half. Then she carefully put the two halves together and ripped the thick paper again. Elizabeth spitefully tossed the pieces across the table and into in Dr. Powell's face.
You're going to have to be a good deal cleverer than that if you want inside my head doctor, she privately mused.
Dr. Powell stared at the remnants of the inkblot, the side of his left cheek twitching with the nervous facial tick that had plagued him since childhood. Oh, how she vexed him right now, but he must discover something personal about the girl in order to successfully modify her behavior. He thought for a moment, before the idea came to him, brightening his expression.
"Alright, let's move on to something different shall we."
Elizabeth immediately distrusted the man's smile. Her right eyebrow hiked up incredulously, as she listened to Dr. Powell rummage through his desk with growing suspicion. For a moment Elizabeth was reminded of the time where she had watched Booker raid the contents of an entire filing cabinet back in Soldier's Field.
Soft yellow light glowed from a ceiling lamp; its reflection slanted off a glass window, and cast shadows across Booker's lean body. Wide eyed, Elizabeth observed him pocket a hand full of silver eagles, before peeking into another drawer without a care in the world.
"What happens if someone finds us here?" she had asked him nervously.
"We'll tell them we got lost on our way to the bathroom," was his dry, nonchalant answer, so intent in his foraging he didn't even pause to turn around and look at her.
She had elegantly raised both arches of her eyebrows at the notion. "And people will believe that?"
"Not usually, no." Booker replied as he turned around; his face had been an impenetrable mask of cool detachment then...
Around a dozen voxophones clattered against Dr. Powell's desk, as they spilled out of his arms onto the polished wooden surface. Elizabeth stared at the pile as if he had placed a hornet's nest in front of her instead of harmless audio recordings.
"In this exercise I am going to play a recording; and then you are going to identify what the sound for me." Dr. Powell told her hurriedly.
Well, this was certainly new.
"Fine, go ahead," said Elizabeth dismissively, with a wave of her hand.
Every day she had to suffer his inquires; she just wanted to be done with it already. Elizabeth re-crossed her arms, and leaned back into her chair when Dr. Powell pressed the round, red button on the first recording.
"Did you know that this artificial beach was built in only six months," she told him with traces of mischief in her words. Her boots made a hollow clicking sound as she floated down the plank wood stairs and stepped into the soft golden sand of Battleship Bay.
"Oh, yeah? And how do you know that?" Booker asked, taking the bait.
She paused to scratch the back of her neck with her right hand, as she gazed up at her rescuer standing tall in the bright sunlight. "From one of the books I threw at you," she responded, smugly.
Her thumb brushed over the tips of her fingers, as she briefly paused to stare at her thimble, its metal surface was warm from the sun. "They also served passing well for reading," Elizabeth continued, mimicking Booker's dry sarcasm. See, you'll get as good as you give, Mr. DeWitt, came her unbidden thoughts, all innocence and girlish playfulness….
"The ocean," Elizabeth said. She didn't think she knew that infectiously cheerful girl anymore. The path she treaded upon had become so complicated.
Dr. Powell carried on, pressing recording after recording. Elizabeth's answers came fast, her voice sounding as flat as a beverage left out all day in the afternoon sun.
A Dog barking…A clock…A train…a Dollar Bill automan…a door closing, a horn; then Elizabeth almost laughed when the Prophet's voice floated into her ears. "Lies," she stated bluntly with a little yawn. Dr. Powell glowered at her in disapproval. Elizabeth innocently shrugged her shoulders, as if to say "you started this game, don't blame me if you don't like my answers."
When the next recording played Elizabeth heard nothing but the rapid succession of bullets being fired. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hesitating for a second before the words "gun shots," made it pass her lips. Dr. Powell made a mark in his note pad.
Then she heard the shouts of high, young voices, a child calling after a playmate, which was followed by a fit of carefree giggling. "Children…" she spoke quietly. Elizabeth saw the gaunt, filthy faces of the children in Shanty Town; children that grew up without laughter as well as food. Huge eyes had protruded from hollow bones, and stared back at her with empty expressions. She would never be able to banish those haunted faces and hushed voices from her memory, and the realization twisted her stomach into knots.
The recording that followed filled the room with the twang of a guitar. The hairs on the nape of Elizabeth's neck stood on seized her heart when she heard the melody. The notes the instrument played hit her like bullets to her breast. How could they possibly know what that song meant to her?
Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, Lord…by and by…
Elizabeth was reminded of Booker of course, but it didn't really matter what was played or put in front of her. Every damn thing she saw, heard, or smelled brought him to the center of her mind, like a parasite persistently clinging to its host.
Did she dare?
His shirt had teasingly tickled her nose, but that wasn't what made her heart race. Elizabeth felt the rough, warm muscles of his shoulder blades underneath her hands. Her finger tips cautiously traveled down the path of Booker's scars the way an archeologist would study ancient hieroglyphics. Her face hovered dangerously close to the bare skin of Booker's back.
Did she dare?
Her body suddenly thrilled at feeling Booker's strength beneath her hands. His flesh was enticing Elizabeth in ways that only her instincts understood. Before she knew what she was doing her mouth had already landed on his exposed skin. Her wet, pink tongue flicked out to taste the blood and salt of him…
"Well?" Dr. Powell said impatiently. Elizabeth had that far off look in her eyes again.
As a dog would herd sheep, desire had easily driven Elizabeth to mold her body against Booker's…
"Booker! Please… please, don't stop…" she had gasped.
"You don't know what you're asking," Booker seethed between clenched teeth, as he shoved her away…
"Music," Elizabeth managed say, her voice thickening with emotion.
Against her will, a stray tear fell from the corner of her eye, mournfully running down the side of her face. She heard the sound of Dr. Powell's pen scribbling away in the notebook he always kept by his side. His hand flew across the page as he wrote. Elizabeth watched him through a veil of dark brown hair.
When he was finally done, Dr. Powell placed the pen and notebook aside.
"Ah, we've come to the last one," he stated pleasantly, moving the final voxophone to the other side of the desk where its companions waited.
Was it a trick of her imagination or did the click of the button sound louder, somehow?
"What's a voxophone?"
The turbulent tide of raw emotion that had threatened to burst out of Elizabeth's skin once she heard the song was now boiling over. The single tear that had delicately hovered in her dark eye lashes had developed into a torrid river that shook her entire body. Her petite frame trembled under the overwhelming burden of loneliness.
Elizabeth placed a hand against her mouth, hoping to stifle the cry that clawed its way out of her heart with tender hooks to be born inside her throat. Oh, God…did she miss that voice, and the man it belonged to.
Raised in solitary confinement inside her tower, she had thought she knew what it was like to be alone. Elizabeth had thought she knew what despair felt like every damn time she failed to pick the lock on the door to her cage. Elizabeth thought she knew the meaning of desire everyday she stared out of her library window at the clouds wistfully floating by, wishing she could do the same.
She had thought she knew so many things… A hysterical laugh bubbled out of Elizabeth's lips, as she brooded bitterly.
She knew how to keep man from dying; she could crack just about any code, and pick nearly every lock in Columbia. Elizabeth could talk circles around almost anybody about every single subject under the sun, and her memory was just as sharp as the blades of a Skyhook.
And yet emotionally…she really was like a lamb led to the slaughter.
Her sniffles and the static of the voxophone recorder were the only sounds to be heard in the room. When Elizabeth opened her eyes she found Dr. Powell practically leaning half his body over the desk to offer her a thin white cloth to dry her tears.
Elizabeth sucked in a ragged breath of air. Isn't that nice, she thought.
Her small hands flexed into angry fists as she stared at the handkerchief.
Elizabeth smiled for the first time in weeks when she saw the surprise in Dr. Powell's eyes when her right fist suddenly smashed into the side of his jaw.
The legs of her chair poignantly scraped against the hardwood floor as Elizabeth scooted back, and she stood up. Dr. Powell was awkwardly half sprawled across the desk, blood was running down his mouth, and the man uttered soft whimpering sounds as he cradled the side of his face. The voxophones, the recorder, papers, the yellow lamp, everything, even the little green plant that had taken up residence on corner of the doctor's desk had crashed to the floor in an unceremonious heap.
Dr. Powell looked up at the girl, reeling from both the pain and the shock of her striking him. Tears were still slowly trickling down Elizabeth's face, but her full mouth was pulled into a taunt smile, and the look in her eyes was filled with more resentment than sorrow.
Elizabeth cracked her knuckles as she stood over him, it was a gesture she saw Booker do once. She might not be over six feet tall like him, but the fear that crept across the scientist's face was rewarding enough.
"You forget yourself, 'doctor'" she spoke the word like it was a curse.
"That…thing, you put inside me, keeps me from opening tears." Elizabeth continued on in that condescending tone that Dr. Powell had used with her earlier, mocking him.
"There is nothing stopping me from hitting you."
AN: Curse those intrusive scientists! But, do not fear fellow readers Elizabeth shall remember/re-live those steamy Booker memories in full detail soon, among other things…. *wink wink* ;)