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 Three: One chance to make this real, one second to make this last. A night on the town, paint it red, for lust, passion and blood.
Author's Note: Well, that took longer than I thought. The beta was busy and I don't have a slave-driver's heart, I suppose. And I've been busy too. Anyhow, the reviews were lovely. All of them made me glow with happiness.
Such praise... tajuki: I love your review. It's people like you who make writing worthwhile. *bawls* I'm rather fond of Blaise myself now. She's living in my head, taking things over and so damned obstinate! I can't make promises. She's leading me down a winding path, anything can happen. *hands over chocolate and cranberry ice-cream as a token of joy* soupofthedaysara: Thankyou! I was completely bowled over by your words. I'm really glad the style worked. For me the whole thing was a bit of an experiment at picking up the pace, cutting down on length and really focusing on the character. *also hands over chocolate and ice-cream rewards* Shadow: I'm so glad I didn't dissapoint you! I'm with you when I say I really don't like it when a fic with good potential begins well and goes down-hill. And your love was muchos helpful. ^.~ Like some chocolate too? obsidian butterfly: Isabelle is a 40-something british hat-crazy fanatic. I'm not. *pouts*
Please enjoy this Act. Feedback is appreciated, although I thought I'd make it a note: Unless you have an ff.net account and are signed in, you can't send me love. *merps* I've been rather...scarred by anonymous reviews. However, emails are always welcome, from those that can't review (if there are any). ^.~
ACT THREE - EXOTICA
time now to spread your wings
to take to flight
the life endeavour
aim for the burning sun
you're trapped inside
Another night, another chance to get completely wasted, and Blaise was making the most of it. She had chosen to go bingeing on the cocktail selections instead of sinking into a pool of straight liquor. It was all about colour, she decided, and drinking yourself into limbo. Every shot was another tick on the time clock. Acknowledgements were made to her liver, before she defiled it again with a purple drink that flamed flamboyantly.
A pretty smile and a sashay of her hips bought her cocaine in a fifty-dollar note. One hit and she was hooked. Stronger than magic (and she knew, because she had lived magic everyday of her eighteen years), it took her up to visit the stars, the closest to heaven she would ever get. Her purveyor clamped his hand on her waist, offering to take her home with him, offering her more than she could ever dream of (you're such a pretty thing…), but she knew a pervert when she saw one. Sold her soul to the devil's mother for that skill, then seduced the lot of them (ah, the good old days). So she sashayed away from him, stunning him with one quick flick of her magic stick.
She was all about savage beauty, black for death, red for passion, white for the innocence she never had. The world was fucked, but everything was all right as long as she looked beautiful. And from the lusting gazes and drowning eyes cast her way, most of the crowd agreed. So hit me again, God, strike me down with your lightning bolts and your righteous might. You can't keep me down. You can't make me regret. You can't do a freaking thing.
Youth and beauty were for the night; coffee and cigarettes for the day. Treat the sun, tip the moon and whistle at the stars as they saunter by in their constellation car made by Lexus. Nothing was real before, now she has the music knocking at her skull, looking for a trapdoor in. And that's fine by her, because she's cut herself, let all the blood escape (can you say 'red'?) and replaced it with Bacardi rum and coke.
'Kiss me, kiss me' was the song she sang for them tonight, igniting the ice with her angel's breath, her plush red lips lip-synching to the half-digested lyrics in her head. They came to her like bees to honey, flies to fresh meat, moths to a lantern so much brighter than the moon. Could her intoxicated body lift them up beyond the clouds? No penalty for trying.
And they kept coming.
Predator and prey felt each other up, trying to understand the other's motives while only thinking of one thing. (L.A, City of Sin.) Was she willing? They would have asked her, if her hypnotic movements hadn't stolen their ability to think, knotted their tongues like black boot laces. They didn't know her, so they thought that she would be easy, slick charms sliding off their sleeves onto her new dress, iron impressions made in an instant, character descriptions imprinted on their foreheads.
And she broke them all, with a smile and a laugh. Broke them before they saw it coming and sent them home to cry to their mothers.
A good time, that's what she had came here looking for. Never disappointed her yet, this town wrapped in tinsel and confetti, but she'd only been here twice. Do it all again, patch things up a bit and she'd be as good as new. But she didn't want to fix up her problems; the doll hospitable was too sterile for her liking. Too many Barbies here already, skinny girls with blonde hair and perky breasts. So she'd keep her imperfections, just wished to sleep easy at night.
Never a sorrow vodka couldn't cure.
Lights flashed in her eyes, and she sighed. Decadent paradise, Eden made from chocolate and alcohol, sweet fruity spirits and cigarette smoke. The pulsing beat pulled her back onto the dance floor. Moving, grinding, swaying to the unattainable rhythm. Tonight was hers. She stabbed the cigarette violently in the gleaming granite surface of the bar, watching embers burn themselves into ash, slithered into the mass of gyrating bodies, pursuing their own brand of religious frenzy and zeal. If she crashed, then she crashed. Heaven wasn't such a long from here, after all. If hell had air-conditioning, Sex Pistols CD's and cigarettes, than she was willing to give into its embrace.
But tonight was still hers.
but you can still be free
if time will set you free
but it's a long long way to go
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