"The Compassion I Swallowed"

Reference: Elektra 15.


There were icicles in her dream. Sharp, shimmering columns of glass. She was in a cave. Her hands were empty. The light behind her was cool blue. She strolled further into the labyrinth until the light disappeared. She found deeper darkness. She felt her way around. She shivered and grew cold. She couldn't speak. The words were caught in her throat. It was silent, like a cathedral... No, a tomb... A black and endless tomb... She was nervous. She choked on the sharp cold and the darkness. Her feet were numb. The space grew small. She ran, and ran, and ran some more - away from her own footsteps. There was a slow, burning sensation on her back. The ice was melting down her bare spine. She felt confused, and small. The absence of light shamed her. Her skin was burning from the meltdown. She wanted to see. She wanted to see… She wanted to......

Elektra felt something sharp on her back and woke with a start. The clock on her table read 3:23 AM. The moon was out. The light hurt her eyes and she closed them against it, forcing herself to breathe. Beneath the thin sheet, she was bare. She realized her pulse was thundering inside her chest. Her fingertips quivered. They felt the comforting leather handle of her sai. It lay close to her face, half hidden beneath her pillow, just within reach. She felt safe with them near. Alone with her thoughts, Elektra willed herself relive her dream. She couldn't. Someone was breathing behind her. Someone was playing with her hair. Someone was running the unmistakable tip of a katana along the length of her exposed spine... Elektra's lungs stopped working, her breathing forgotten for the moment. She moved, slowly. Her nails dug beneath the sai and gripped its trident handle tightly. One... Two... She violently turned herself over at three. There was no one there. Just her pillows and an empty bed.

Elektra's breath expounded in a surprised shudder. She looked down at herself, then at her weapon. She wished, just for tonight, that she could use it to make her heart stop beating. It felt so cold in here. She was beginning to miss the desert. There was moment when she lay against that hot sand that Elektra was sure she wouldn't make it out of there alive. In the Mojave, she had accepted death. The Coalition wanted to see her dead. She -wanted- to die. Why was she now back inside a metropolitan bedroom?

The sullen woman slid down over the edge of the mattress and kneeled on the carpet, her stomach on the bed. She laid her arms out, then rested her head against the comforting cotton sheets. Her throat felt dry. She reached for the glass of water. It was empty. Disappointing. Elektra ran a hand over her eyes and through her matted hair. She willed herself up, wrapping the blanket around her frame and trudged for the bathroom.

In the bathroom, it grew even more chilly. The air was stale. Masculine. Unfamiliar. It was then that she realized she wasn't in her own space at all. She was here as a guest, in Locke's seaside home. His guest room. Elektra grew uncomfortable in her own skin and looked around, remaining in the darkness. With the moon's help, she could see plenty of the sink. The mirror was old-fashioned. The knobs on the faucet, too. Her reflection stared back at her, unrecognizable. There were a dozen scrapes and cuts on her neck and chest from her episode with the retrieval unit in the desert. She could barely make out her face beneath the mess of raven locks that fell across her eyes. She had tried crying earlier - her eyes were too dry. She bent forward and let the sheet waver from her body. It fell on its own volition onto the linoleum.

Hot tap water felt rejuvenating against her face. She hung her head for a few, letting the droplets trickle down the drain. When she raised her eyes, a stark white skull greeted her, wearing her red bandanna. Elektra flung herself away from the sink and would have stumbled back into the tub if she hadn't instinctively reached for the wall. Her skeleton was gone. It was just her face again - ghastly frightened and incredulous. Her conscience yelled at her mercilessly - that was just an effect of the dopamine. The scopolamine. The morphine. She couldn't even remember what Jeremy's lapdog, Carson, had given her. The rationality behind her thinking brought color to Elektra's cheeks again. She angrily threw the empty glass at the mirror where it made a magnificent noise and stalked out of the room.

Beyond her prison, the rest of the household was asleep. Her sais were back in her clutches again. She had dressed herself into her spare red costume – or at least, the tattered remains of it. She was determined not to make a noise as she stalked through the empty hallways. She felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. Jeremy Locke was asleep in his bedroom, wheezing evenly because of the hole she had put through his side earlier with her weapon. She recounted killing him again to avenge herself, but he had spared her. He exposed her to her own personal demons down in that projection room and ended up opening her eyes. Yes, she was a killer. She was worse than that - a worthless monster. A predator. But she would let Jeremy Locke sleep soundly through the night.

Her gray eyes took in her host's decor. He hadn't lost his wife long. Many of her belongings still littered the bedroom, imprinting her memory everywhere. Elektra inched towards a picture frame. Did this woman really die because of her? Could she have stopped herself back then from making the same mistake, if she had known how much grief it would bring Bree Locke's beloved husband? If she had known that Locke would one day hunt her down like an animal and force her to accept what she -really- was? A woman who had been given life -twice- and killed others for sport both times? It was then that Elektra realized she couldn't stay here. In the morning, Jeremy Locke would invite her to breakfast and make her eat his food. Carson would eye her like a hawk from the side, playing with the trigger on his Colt automatic from beneath the table. They would try to be patient with her. Educate her. Domesticate her. Elektra knew she could never look either men in the eye ever again. They had seen her lose it last night - her anger, her fright, her rage, her confusion - even her uncontainable tears. No other memory had ever shamed Elektra more in her life.

The slide door to Locke's spacious closet was ajar. If he missed his wife as much as Elektra thought he did, her clothes would still be left hanging inside. She chose them darkly - Bree's black hooded knit sweater, her black jeans. Elektra found a pair of tennis shoes that were just snug enough for comfort. She wondered if they had ever thought of having kids. She wondered if they were close to having one before she took Bree's life… Shut up! her conscience shouted at her. She had planted the poisoned paper in the cell, but it was not intended for Bree Locke. It was never the woman's paper to touch. It was not her death warrant. Elektra emptied her thoughts just short after realizing that she was probably even innocent of Bree's death…

There were keys and money on the dresser table. Elektra remembered only two cars outside when she broke into the house earlier that night. Taking both possessions, she dressed as quietly as a sneaking cat and disappeared outside, a thief in the night. The sea breeze was carrying the chill of the Pacific. The water lapping past the neatly-cut grass and sorted boulders reminded Elektra that she was overdue for a long, hot shower. She noticed the same detail about the house leaving it as when she entered -- it was part of a solitary estate. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away. She was practically free. Elektra walked briskly to the yellow X-Terra suburban parked in the driveway and pulled out silently. It still smelled of anesthetics. Her senses briefly revolted and she snarled angrily at fresh memories before her reflection on the rearview made her stop. She looked so tired. Unhappy to be herself. There was water in her eyes, but she shrugged them off. She had to focus. Sort out her destination. Of the latter, she had yet to figure out, but all Elektra knew as she entered the highway, was that she had to head east...

* * *

"Down to the earth I fell with dripping wings. Heavy things won't fly and the sky might catch on fire and burn the axis of the world. That's why I prefer a sunless sky to the glittering and stinging in my eyes. Oh, I feel so light, this is all I want to feel tonight..."

Her favorite song out of college.

Having sunk into a dulling comfort thanks to the heater, Elektra snuck into Jeremy Locke's CD collection and rediscovered her penchant for Nina Gordon. She was two hours out of the city and still driving on a long stretch of highway. Still no suspicious vehicles pursuing her. Still safe. Her one hand rested on the steering wheel while the other perched on her cheek as she reclined against the window. She fought off a drowsy spell and switched to pop radio, turning the volume up on rap. The stars were out. She remembered wanting to see them out in the Mojave, but fate had not granted her that wish. Instead, she was given Life, and Life remained consistently ambiguous, holding off on telling Elektra her plans.

Why was she alive?

Elektra felt her temple pulse. Her headache was resuming its battle. There was a heavy beat over the speakers, an angry voice. Distractedly, she realized she was alone with Eminem. Faintly, she smiled. There was anger in his voice, but honesty, too. She found him funny, refreshingly defiant. Reminded her of a preacher. Reminded her of... Well, he was an artist she could grow to like.

There was a diner ahead. Rusty's Bite N' Go. She imagined what Rusty looked like, and what sort of pies he liked baking. The thought made her stomach rumble. It continued to do so, in fact, until she pulled over into the parking lot. Her hunger always was an incessant thing. So, searching the dashboard for a suitable pen, she tied her messy hair into a presentable bun and stepped out of the suburban, penniless. The closer she reached the entrance, the more immediate it became that Rusty's was actually a tavern. She headed inside anyway, despite the gawking attention of an inebriated bar patron having a smoke outside. Inside, there were many people in dirty shirts and baseball hats. They raised their heads at her as one astonished collective. Surveying their eyes, she could tell which ones were married, which were not. A few of them didn't care if she was one or the other. Mostly men. Mostly fans of the Dodgers. She hadn't expected that. She had actually expected them to be wearing Stetsons, but she forgot she wasn't that far east of the country yet. That was alright. The look on their faces made it plain for her to deduce what they were thinking. They hadn't expected her, either.

Elektra was in no mood to speak, but she considered it anyway. As she eyed the room, she considered their wallets even more. They were like abducted sheep. Entranced. So, her posture read. "Who wants to buy me a drink?"



To be continued after Elektra #16...

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"Tonight and the Rest Of My Life" lyrics by Nina Gordon.

This story for Elektra, a sexy inspiration,
and to Morg, who simply is.