Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All original characters and situations belong to me. The song lyrics used throughout 'Black Letter Days' are from You can still be Free by Savage Garden from their CD Affirmation.
Act Two: Sometimes pictures play in my head, not real, not true. But still they play, a vicious taunt that plagues me.
Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone for who reviewed Act One. All the reviews were lovely. Rosie Sinistra: Yes, there will be some connection to the wizarding world. *laughs* This story is really more of a vignette, self-contained, however some elements of her past, why she's like this will be brought into play. Shadow: *tips hat* ^_- I had great fun experimenting with the style of this piece. I'm glad you liked it. Valkyrie: Blaise really just bloomed in my head and I had to write this. As above, I'm really glad you liked the style. obsidian butterfly: You're my Blaise inspiration. And yes, I do know that I rock. *muah*
Once again, all reviews will keep this author feeling much loved whenever she's blue (and that happens quite a bit, these days. *.~ ) All the Acts are actually written, and no, I'm not holding out on you for reviews. They're coming as fast as I can get them beta-read, edited and coded. (Not to be snarky, but they shalt cometh faster if I feel loved.) *muah*
Warning: They will be swearing in this. Do not read further if four letter words get you down. You have been warned. ^_-
ACT TWO - CAFE du RAGE
cool breeze and autumn leaves
slow motion daylight
a lone pair of watchful eyes
oversee the living
The haze cleared around noon, when she was sitting in Starbucks, sipping her short black, wishing the world would go away. Or at least, stop staring at her.
Because that's what it was doing. Every man and his dog, and his children, wife, cat, goldfish, hamster, was staring at her (gorgeous, isn't she?). Could they tell she was different? But she wasn't. Just another loner, trying to blend in, live her life, wake up with a hangover. Wasn't L.A flooded with these types every year, more varieties of losers and musos, poverty struck artists and runaways than you could care to count?
Then she realised it was because she'd forgotten to wear long sleeves in her daze. She didn't have to look down to know it was there. She was branded, like the cattle at those farmyard auctions, stamp of ownership and all that shit. A skull devouring a snake, symbol of her past sins, the Dark Mark.
Well, fuck that. Hadn't anyone seen a pretty tattoo before?
It didn't mean anything anymore. The reign of terror and all those horror stories were over. Their precious Dark Lord had fallen. Her fling as a Death Eater intern (oh, she had been a good one. Seducer, liar, torturer, apprenticed in all the arts) was over. She had come to L.A to forget it. Not to wallow in those bloody memories. Hand her a S&W .38 and she'd blast a couple of holes into those lingering recollections, let them leak and bleed and die.
If only.
She could pick herself up from this green-cloth covered sofa, saunter over to the door and pour herself out onto the streets. Walk in the L.A sunshine (promised to be different from other sunshine because, hey, it's L.A) and browse past the shops where those posh ladies, with their fake nails and fake lips and fake breasts simpered and preened themselves in the mirror, believing that maybe enough collagen could restore their youth. It couldn't. That's why Blaise wasn't going to let old age get to her. After all, she had plans.
But she didn't get up. Couldn't. Legs and feet weren't quite in the co-operating mood. Sit there, keep sipping, and let the dark thoughts simmer. Let the anger boil and then bathe in the residual waters. Don't let the memories get you down. You're on a roller coaster ride, baby, and it ain't stopping till it gets to the end. No one's going to slow it down, or else you're gonna free fall through six thousand feet and land on your face on the fried concrete. That ain't gonna be pretty, babe. So she sat there and listened to the voice in her head, because it was the only thing that knew where she was going.
Why did they think she had come here, anyway? She was here to loose herself in the booze and the drugs, not to tell her life story. But their eyes were begging her, prodding her, commanding her to think back. Make them cry with her tales, wring them empty of tears for sympathy.
Outside the window there were no eyes watching her mournfully. There were cars instead, corvettes, convertibles, four-wheel-drives, taxicabs, buses, semi-trailers. Driving down the grey, deadbeat roads, adding to the pollution. Well, it didn't matter anyway. This was L.A. The city was invincible; a little smog couldn't destroy its summery charm. The city would never die, only the people in it. And there were plenty of people waiting in the wings, to come and try out their fortune in this place, this City of Angels.
The man in the corner picked up his guitar. Café music and a peaceful life, watching the world roll past on their rubber and stainless steel wheels. Her coffee was cold. His fingers struck against the strings (perfect fingernails, you could tell he did this everyday) and two chords sounded out before Blaise knew it would be a mournful dirge. Melancholy was hollow and bitter, over-romanticised by Hollywood. Did people really believe that living in watered shadows and faded memories would have a point?
Blaise didn't. It was technicolour and acid rock for her, thanks. And when she bombed out, she would do it with style, not tears on her cheeks and a life of regrets. She was going to have fun.
But that wasn't to happen now. Not while he kept playing that tune. And singing. Words segueing with the music, climbing crescendo's together. Something for everyone, and this was something for everyone who wanted to cry. Well, that meant Blaise wasn't going to be sticking around for much longer. Not if it brought back everything she'd shoved away.
She wasn't trying to run away. She stopped that a long time ago. She was trying to get over it. C'est la vie, so move on. And she might try it, if they'd stop staring at her Dark Mark, because she couldn't really hold back her thoughts now. No coffee to sip, no alcohol to get inebriated on. Just that damn music that was tearing her reality apart. (Talk about a cosmic rift.)
Yeah, seventeen when she got it done. Thought it looked fashionable at the time, morbid pictures of skulls being very hip back then. Sure she knew it was passé now, but who was going to pay her bill to get it surgically removed? What did it mean? Something you couldn't even begin to comprehend, buster. Yeah, I'm talking to you over there in the corner. A cult. Does she look like a fanatic to you? No? Well, she was. Freaking hell, she'd never believed in anything more than that cause. Why? What do you mean, why?
She could hear a conversation drumming away inside her skull. Was she saying it aloud? She reached for a cigarette. Not leaving just yet, she wasn't done with this place.
Do you want to hear a real story? About someone who gave everything to a cause and then had the freaking bigwig defeated by a pathetic teenage boy? Did I mention the freaking boy was a sissy? Never even knew the meaning of all the shit she had gone through, but that didn't stop the little prat from blowing her world apart. You're sorry? Sorry mister aint gonna be enough to mop up all the blood spilled. So, her family died, but they were evil, so maybe they deserved it, right? And her fiancée, the only bloody guy she'd ever even looked at died, but he was evil too. So here's the question, why didn't she die? Why didn't someone kill her off? She was fucking evil too! Does anyone even care about the people she killed, murdered in the night, poisoned, tortured, ripped from limb to limb?
Blaise sat back into her chair and blew out a tunnel of smoke. She was beginning to enjoy this.
Do you know what she did next? She cried. She fucking sat down, and cried. Pathetic? Yeah, she was. But then she got tough, made up her mind, figured it out, came to L.A. Why? Why would I tell you? Coz you're interested? Look, Mister, I don't know anything about you, but you're striking me as someone who chases little girls around, so excuse me saying this, but I don't freaking trust you. I'm a freak? You're starting to piss me off now. Full of stupid questions, stupid accusations. Well, I just might. Excuse me, everyone; I'm not staying in this shithole anymore. One last thing though, stop fucking staring at me!
She stood up, sending her chair crashing into the couple behind her and spat her cigarette out. (Real ladylike, that would've been.) Unsteadily, she made her way to the glass doors and then fell against them, about to tumble onto the asphalt outside. But first she stopped and flung a handful of change at the music man, because he deserved it. Then she left, a trail of open mouths and shocked stares following her willowy form, clad in red cotton and black jeans. The voice in her head kept talking though, because it knew the moment it shut up, she was going to fall apart.
It was her life, so everyone else could all bugger off and offer their opinions to someone else. She didn't need them. (Because she didn't care, never did. Fools care and fools die.)
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