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 Four: You know I'm bad, I'm cruel and that I love you. But I don't believe in love eternal, so never leave me, lest I forget you.
Author's Notes: Another round of happy thank-you's and food donations and all that smacks of goodness and yummy-ness. Once again, I did many virtual backflips over the reviews. The same four wonderful, woobie people again. I loff you guys. Lime and rosemary tarts and a cup of French Vanilla latte for everyone!
tajuki: I'm glad you think Blaise rocks! I have to agree. Sometimes (all the time) she does stupid things, but hey, she's cool. ^.~ And there's more booze and sardonic reverie, as well as crime in this chapter. Enjoy! soupofthedaysara: Blaise is a bitch, ain't she? That's half of the fun to write her. ^.~ Shadow: *schungs* YES! That's exactly what is was about. Thick imagery and fast impressions. Short, jerky sentences and lack of dialogue. She doesn't reflect, but keeps going and going...(think Energizer Bunny) I'm so estactic that you picked that up!
obsidian butterfly: Snarkie offered me the tiramisu. *grins* Adoration is always accepted, bella, you know that. ^.~
Once again, I will love you muchly if you send love my way! This time, it's virtual sticky-date cookies with butterscotch and lemon iced tea with an umbrella if you leave a review, or send an email. ^.~
ACT FOUR - MISGIVEN
sail through the crimson skies
the purest light
the light that sets you free
if time will set you free
She thought about taking him back to her lair because he was cute and sweet. A young thing, watching her dance, face stamped by uncertainty. Innocence flashed his age like an ID card across the room. He smiled at her, hesitation marking his movements. Gilded hair and apple blossom skin, pretty as Ganymede. This place would ruin him; corrupt him (save him).
Blaise melded back into the crowd. There was nothing she could do, the angel of darkness could only seduce and destroy.
Brink of dawn, sunrays held back by gravity, when she trod up the stairs, fatigue and nicotine clouds enshrouding her footsteps. Pushed open the door and threw herself down. Tonight (this morning) she wasn't going to wait for Sleep to find its way through the concrete jungle and claim her with a vampiric kiss.
Light a candle for your lost ones, so she lit thirty-eight and scattered them on the floor. Candles didn't make a church, they made a Jewish holiday. Grabbed a cigarette and relaxed, because carbon monoxide was her favourite perfume, and watched the wax swallow her carpets (home, sweet home).
From London to L.A and she hadn't bought any luggage aside from the clothes she was wearing and a wad of cash. Paper money, she could burn it, watch it fizzle, watch the bankers break down and cry. Burn it, the way London was burning, scorching in one corner, moving to the next, curling up on itself, engulfing the wretched heart. The flames would lick at it, till it browned like obedient toffee and blackened like her brother's corpse. They burnt him in his bed, because he was evil. Her lips twisted at the thought, her mattress became an ashtray.
She had left the chaos behind her though, like stiletto heel marks in the sand, sharp, painful and puncturing holes in her perfect escape. America, land of the free. They had no idea. The war hadn't come here or else it would have crumbled in on itself like England did. Like London was, ashes falling as commonly as rain, dousing the streets and watering the plants. Dead, dead, dead, it didn't matter who the corpses were. Another dead meant a victory for either side. One less person to kill, one less to protect, it was all the same.
Thirty-eight candles burning viciously. Not one lit for her. So, this was it. She had been left behind. Why? To watch on at the funeral, to bring flowers to their grave, to keep fighting for an empty cause, living her empty life. It was a story carved out by some sadist bastard posing as a novelist. Nothing left to live for but the hangovers and the highs. Look outside the window, cold cement, stoned teenagers, crude neon signs a-flashing and pliant whores, pushing for a buck, lipstick smeared, looking cheap in the cold rays of morn. Was this is what she was living for?
Hell yeah.
So she poured herself a vodka, filled the cup to the brim. When she drained it, she tossed the glass out the window and listened to it smash onto the walkway. Ah…there was music for you, the strains from heaven descending, herald angels singing. Pulled on her leather jacket and shoved her way out the door. (Let the candles burn; let them burn in London's memory.)
She strolled her way down the roads, taking the scenic route around L.A, slowly heading towards Beverly Hills (where the rich kids hang). In high heels and leather, her chin high and a pleasant smile, she twinkled against the powdered sky. She could replace the morning star, dwell among the celestial heights. But she had other plans.
Pretty day with blue eye shadow sky and yellow glitter sunshine. Lipstick red cars on grey nail-polished roads and tall palm trees, sporting the latest celebrity style haircuts, posing for the cameras. Everything buffed down, exfoliated (no scaly, peeling skin), soaked in expensive creams and then whitewashed to perfection in heavy, thick foundation. Emphasis placed on money with extra lashings of mascara, outlined in black kohl. So this was the other side of L.A, made-up and glossed to extra shine.
She felt sickened already, the cotton-candy world stealing her oxygen supply with its matte-finish colours.
She visited Rodeo Drive and left richer for the experience. Shops spilling down as far as she could see, gorged on money from fat cat purses. Clothing boutiques and jewelry shops attracting well-dressed, well-manicured women into their gaping cavern, extracting their promise to spend money and leave soothed by new purchases. Blaise examined the offerings in the windows. Overpriced, overdone and absolutely gorgeous.
In and out of Tiffany & Co. quickly, flashing pearly whites at the sales ladies, looking like an expensive, pampered, rock-chic rebel. The sales assistants simpered and implored her to examine their wares. She left with a pocketful of necklaces and bracelets and rings, left the sales people blank and panicking, memory of her presence eradicating itself. (It felt so good to be bad.) A thrill ran up her spine, one last spin on the old merry-go-round. Play with Muggle minds; mock their fruitless material pursuit. It was simple, an old friend, and an easy trick for a little laugh.
She left Rodeo Drive, waltzed out of perfect-and-gleaming-on-the-surface land and headed for the closest alleyway, hoping for a dumpster. Click-clack went her heels on the ground; jingle went the jewelry in her pocket. She whistled as she walked – stealing was like being doped up on a high, euphoria stole your mind.
The sun was setting, reversing from its parking spot in the sky, when she found the spot she was looking for. Dark, murky and repulsively cluttered with pet food cans, newspaper, torn blankets and empty packets of biscuits. A carton of double cream lay, in front of the cardboard entrance to a makeshift palace, spilling a river. It had tattered wooden boards for walls and canvas cloth for a roof, the pride for a gang of run-away country kids trying to make it in the big city.
Emptied her pockets of the diamonds and rubies, green livid emerald and secret sapphire, gold and platinum creations of awe and beauty. Let them fall into the cream puddle, metal and gem soup. Father Christmas was coming earlier this year; remember to write your thank-you notes. (Manners get you into Heaven, so start early and put your foot in the door.)
Wealth could lead to decadence and corruption. Maybe these kids would do nothing more than waste it on crack and pot, enough here for them to smoke a joint every hour for the next month. Maybe she should have set it up in a trust fund, put them through college, teach them how to live their lives properly. Become honest, respectful folk. Maybe she would have if she cared. Let them live in luxury, burn themselves into ash. It didn't matter.
She turned on her heel as a sleepy head poked itself out, leaving the alley of blue shadows and despair behind. She didn't need to be thanked. What she needed was another tequila.
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