IX. …Now You Don't
How much damage can a small, yellow note do? An empty room? A departure?
Angel thought silently, gravely to herself as she replaced the cap on the pen that she held so loosely in her hand. A stamp on her letter of registration of her short stay at Kong that what her note was. She felt ungrateful for leaving so suddenly, but at the same time the relief of being released from the bizarre studio sunk in. The lights flickered in the kitchen, as if hurrying her along. Obliging, she counted out the money she'd withdrawn for their generosity and placed it on top of the refrigerator. But when she reached down to gather up her two bags, the evening caught her attention from behind the screen of the window. The coal sky burned with a sinister orange light from the next town over, and the open window drew in hot, humid air from the urban forge. She felt as if she was floating in warm water, hesitating between leaving immediately and hanging about. But she grew closer to the window, prepared to shut it with final determination to close her life at Kong.
The minute her hands reached the swelled wood, the sky lit with radiant fire, an enormous boom echoing through the skeleton of the studio, rattling its bones until the glittering explosion subsided. Angel leaned out the window, crouching down on the counter to get a better view.
Fireworks!
So close that she could feel the explosion deep in her heart.
So close that it shook her violently from the idea of leaving so quickly.
Before she breeched the surface of her senses, Angel had left her suitcase on the deck and made her way down the rusted stairs, down into the landfill that surrounded the south end of the Kong property. Muggy air clung to her skin, heating her from the outside in, forcing up sleeves and pants legs as she clamored desperately to the source of the fireworks. She was in an amazed trance; why on Earth did this day call for such outlandish celebration? Her mind instinctively traveled to red, white, blue and late night with fire crackers and watermelon. But this wasn't July and this wasn't the States. Stray embers sprayed up as she drew close and peered cautiously from behind what appeared to be the wing off of an old plane.
There, in a relatively stable part of the landfill, was the source of the blazing sky nestled in a circle of sheet metal. Another rocket whistled into the indigo night and exploded in a rose-colored glory, and all it left behind was a launching stand and a hunched figure that moved about excitedly. Angel watched the show in amazement, forgetting to conceal herself, longing to join the bizarre celebration and the man who lit the explosives with sure pleasure and ferverence. She knew exactly who it was, and that he probably let her in on the fun. But the same realization that this was Murdoc kept her from stepping into the orange glow. No, the thought of him was making her heart palpitate as it only did when she laid her eyes on someone dear to her. The wash of sudden, unfounded adoration forced her instead to watch from afar and so she sat on the wing of the rusted fighter plane and watched a secret show that only two people shared.
It was a moment that Angel felt at ease and complacent, and the thought that Murdoc had created that feeling remained with her long after the fireworks died down.
