MayadaBee: Thanks for the review and I apologise for the wait. I haven't
been well.but here it is at last and I hope you enjoy!
Redaura: Thanks, and enjoy!
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Rebecca turned onto St Phillip, not sure why she felt so compelled to go this way, only that she did. It was bad enough that she felt compelled to see an old haunt but the fact that the place she wanted to see was a bar, made her fell even more sad and pathetic. She squared her shoulders though. Funnily enough it was a bar that had meant something to her. She'd made friends there, spent a lot of time with them there and though it was true that it was too early for anyone she knew to be there, not the tour guides, or the regulars or even the bar staff, she still wanted to go to The Morgue.
You're stalling, said a voice in her head.
She had reached the steps now and she pushed the thought impatiently aside, as she shoved aside the plastic flaps. The Morgue never closed; it had no need of a door. She walked in and surveyed the dimly lit bar.
The barman approached her and she asked the barman for a drink even though she didn't have the slightest inclination to actually have one. She wondered if it was a side effect of being dead and her lips twisted into a bitter smile. The Morgue slogan was 'Dead drunk at the Morgue' and here she was, actually dead in the Morgue. It all seemed appropriate in a black twisted sort of way and she wondered if it was just her or if it was the crow that had such an obvious kink in its sense of humour.
She pressed her hand over her eyes, tossing money on the bar for the barman when he approached and set her drink down in front of her.
"Keep the change," she told him and slipped off the bar stool.
"But this is a ten dollar note," he said to her back, sounding incredulous, as if waiting for her to realise the mistake, or admit it was a joke and snatch the money back. Obviously new. An older hand would have said nothing.
"I said keep it," she tossed back over her shoulder as she retreated into the corner near the ladies restroom, perching on one of the stools that stood next to a high table, where she could be half hidden by the fake funeral wreath.
Perched on a balcony outside, she knew the crow was waiting for her to finish. She also knew that it was impatient with her. That it didn't see the point of her desire to see these places again. She touched the drink to her lips but didn't take any into her mouth as she silently asked the bird what was to be done.
Then she knew in a flash that she would start with a lackey. She saw his face, remembered it and smiled a grim little smile to herself. Privately she was relieved that she would start small instead of going straight for the big kill. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to handle that yet. Yes she wanted revenge. It burned and twisted inside of her and she knew it was half the reason she was alive now, if you could call what she was now alive, but perversely the bullet that had stopped her heart apparently hadn't stopped her feelings for Nick. Something in her still jumped when she thought about him.
And something new was wrenched.
The bar was quiet now. It was too early for the tour groups to have arrived for the ghost walk which was when business started to pick up and it was hard to move in the bar without jostling another body for position. No-one was here but her, the barman, and a man at the bar slumped morosely over his drink.
She faked taking another sip and she waited. The crow knew where she was to go and it also knew that it was too soon. She mentally shrugged. The crow was her guide and she trusted it to do just that, even if she didn't fully understand the motivation. What did she know of the crow as a bird? That it was a scavenger. That was about it, so that really didn't explain why a crow was her spirit guide. Why it had brung her back?
She was unintentionally staring at the man hunched over his drink not really registering that he was there, but someone else entered and approached him and that got her attention, though she wasn't sure why. It could have been the way the newcomer carried himself or the way the man stiffened at his approach, but whatever it was she was suddenly interested in them, she suddenly acknowledged them. The newcomer leaned over the other, saying something that Rebecca couldn't hear. Whatever it was enough to upset the other man. His hand struck out and caught the other man on the side of the face. From there it erupted suddenly into a full on fight and Rebecca was sliding off her perch before she was really aware of it, crossing the distance to the fighting men.
"He owns this town," the newcomer spat. "Do you really think you can go on this way?"
"Fuck you," was all the response he got. That and a fist to the side of the jaw.
The newcomer was about to move in for another swipe when Rebecca stepped in, grabbing the newcomer's smallest finger, she twisted viciously. It was enough to bring him to his knees with a grunt.
"Is that anyway to behave?" she asked calmly.
The barman was scurrying out from behind the bar.
Now he interferes, Rebecca thought with disgust.
"Just what is going on here?" the barman demanded, the tremor in his voice belying the macho act he was trying to pull. Definitely new, and unused to breaking up bar fights. This was probably his first.
My first too, she thought. Usually her procedure for coping was to duck her head and hope to go unnoticed. She didn't even know where the finger trick had come from, but she was thankful for it. So far it was keeping the guy in place.
"Nothing," the guy on the floor said, glaring up at Rebecca and the other man. "I was just leaving."
Rebecca released his finger and let him get up, watching him intently the whole time.
True to his word though, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and with a final look at the man behind her he walked away, pushing through the flaps and out into the warm night.
"Are you ok?" she asked turning to the other man.
"Fine," he muttered, rubbing a spot on his wrist.
Impulsively she reached out to him, touching his wrist, telling herself she wanted to check for injury.
The images came in a rush, each one slamming home like a physical blow. This man, and another, and Nick. Oh god, Nick. Standing there with a humourless smile twisting his lips as the other man fell, in agony, blood on the ground. The man she had just saved was screaming, impotent rage and grief and it cut through her skull.
She fell to the floor and the man reached out to help her.
"Don't touch me," she whispered brokenly. "Oh god, don't touch me." She curled up, rocking herself.
"Are you alright?" the barman asked.
Her face was wet with tears but she was already dragging herself together. The surge of emotion leaving as quickly as it had come.
"I'm fine."
Both men exchanged looks as she got off the floor, each clearly showing that they thought differently.
"You," she said, pointing to the other man. "Come with me."
Redaura: Thanks, and enjoy!
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Rebecca turned onto St Phillip, not sure why she felt so compelled to go this way, only that she did. It was bad enough that she felt compelled to see an old haunt but the fact that the place she wanted to see was a bar, made her fell even more sad and pathetic. She squared her shoulders though. Funnily enough it was a bar that had meant something to her. She'd made friends there, spent a lot of time with them there and though it was true that it was too early for anyone she knew to be there, not the tour guides, or the regulars or even the bar staff, she still wanted to go to The Morgue.
You're stalling, said a voice in her head.
She had reached the steps now and she pushed the thought impatiently aside, as she shoved aside the plastic flaps. The Morgue never closed; it had no need of a door. She walked in and surveyed the dimly lit bar.
The barman approached her and she asked the barman for a drink even though she didn't have the slightest inclination to actually have one. She wondered if it was a side effect of being dead and her lips twisted into a bitter smile. The Morgue slogan was 'Dead drunk at the Morgue' and here she was, actually dead in the Morgue. It all seemed appropriate in a black twisted sort of way and she wondered if it was just her or if it was the crow that had such an obvious kink in its sense of humour.
She pressed her hand over her eyes, tossing money on the bar for the barman when he approached and set her drink down in front of her.
"Keep the change," she told him and slipped off the bar stool.
"But this is a ten dollar note," he said to her back, sounding incredulous, as if waiting for her to realise the mistake, or admit it was a joke and snatch the money back. Obviously new. An older hand would have said nothing.
"I said keep it," she tossed back over her shoulder as she retreated into the corner near the ladies restroom, perching on one of the stools that stood next to a high table, where she could be half hidden by the fake funeral wreath.
Perched on a balcony outside, she knew the crow was waiting for her to finish. She also knew that it was impatient with her. That it didn't see the point of her desire to see these places again. She touched the drink to her lips but didn't take any into her mouth as she silently asked the bird what was to be done.
Then she knew in a flash that she would start with a lackey. She saw his face, remembered it and smiled a grim little smile to herself. Privately she was relieved that she would start small instead of going straight for the big kill. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to handle that yet. Yes she wanted revenge. It burned and twisted inside of her and she knew it was half the reason she was alive now, if you could call what she was now alive, but perversely the bullet that had stopped her heart apparently hadn't stopped her feelings for Nick. Something in her still jumped when she thought about him.
And something new was wrenched.
The bar was quiet now. It was too early for the tour groups to have arrived for the ghost walk which was when business started to pick up and it was hard to move in the bar without jostling another body for position. No-one was here but her, the barman, and a man at the bar slumped morosely over his drink.
She faked taking another sip and she waited. The crow knew where she was to go and it also knew that it was too soon. She mentally shrugged. The crow was her guide and she trusted it to do just that, even if she didn't fully understand the motivation. What did she know of the crow as a bird? That it was a scavenger. That was about it, so that really didn't explain why a crow was her spirit guide. Why it had brung her back?
She was unintentionally staring at the man hunched over his drink not really registering that he was there, but someone else entered and approached him and that got her attention, though she wasn't sure why. It could have been the way the newcomer carried himself or the way the man stiffened at his approach, but whatever it was she was suddenly interested in them, she suddenly acknowledged them. The newcomer leaned over the other, saying something that Rebecca couldn't hear. Whatever it was enough to upset the other man. His hand struck out and caught the other man on the side of the face. From there it erupted suddenly into a full on fight and Rebecca was sliding off her perch before she was really aware of it, crossing the distance to the fighting men.
"He owns this town," the newcomer spat. "Do you really think you can go on this way?"
"Fuck you," was all the response he got. That and a fist to the side of the jaw.
The newcomer was about to move in for another swipe when Rebecca stepped in, grabbing the newcomer's smallest finger, she twisted viciously. It was enough to bring him to his knees with a grunt.
"Is that anyway to behave?" she asked calmly.
The barman was scurrying out from behind the bar.
Now he interferes, Rebecca thought with disgust.
"Just what is going on here?" the barman demanded, the tremor in his voice belying the macho act he was trying to pull. Definitely new, and unused to breaking up bar fights. This was probably his first.
My first too, she thought. Usually her procedure for coping was to duck her head and hope to go unnoticed. She didn't even know where the finger trick had come from, but she was thankful for it. So far it was keeping the guy in place.
"Nothing," the guy on the floor said, glaring up at Rebecca and the other man. "I was just leaving."
Rebecca released his finger and let him get up, watching him intently the whole time.
True to his word though, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and with a final look at the man behind her he walked away, pushing through the flaps and out into the warm night.
"Are you ok?" she asked turning to the other man.
"Fine," he muttered, rubbing a spot on his wrist.
Impulsively she reached out to him, touching his wrist, telling herself she wanted to check for injury.
The images came in a rush, each one slamming home like a physical blow. This man, and another, and Nick. Oh god, Nick. Standing there with a humourless smile twisting his lips as the other man fell, in agony, blood on the ground. The man she had just saved was screaming, impotent rage and grief and it cut through her skull.
She fell to the floor and the man reached out to help her.
"Don't touch me," she whispered brokenly. "Oh god, don't touch me." She curled up, rocking herself.
"Are you alright?" the barman asked.
Her face was wet with tears but she was already dragging herself together. The surge of emotion leaving as quickly as it had come.
"I'm fine."
Both men exchanged looks as she got off the floor, each clearly showing that they thought differently.
"You," she said, pointing to the other man. "Come with me."