Author's Notes: Things start to go downhill from here, and the plot'll thicken after this bit. Excuse the angst, somehow I find it necessary, and if Kat's starting to go out - of - character in any way ( or already has ), please don't hesitate to send the sentinels after me.
Feedback: I don't write for reviews but I love reading them. Drop me one, won't you? I'm asking nicely, aren't I? ^_^
Disclaimer: I refuse to give Julian up. If I owned the Matrix, I'd refuse to give that up too.
Fade To Black
Chapter Two
* ~ *
I got nobody on my side
And surely that ain't right
And surely that ain't right
~ by Portishead
* ~ *
There was a window above the kitchen sink. Thin cracks sketched webs of silver across the pane and an evening breeze blew through its open shutters. Were it not for the lace curtains that hung from a rust-covered rod, it couldn't have been more than just a hole in the wall.
Kat looked past the window to the street that lay just beyond their house's driveway. Dull pavement upon dull pavement was all she could see in the predawn glow, a barren road lined with equally empty houses. Early morning hours were always so quiet; there were never any cars with screeching tires and nobody in the neighbourhood owned a cat or a dog.
She had woken up to the sight of a clock pasted on powder blue wallpaper and it read one thirty in blurred digits. Beads of sweat were on her forehead and she'd wiped them away with the sleeve of her night shirt. A blanket held her legs captive in chains of tangled sheets while one of her pillows lay on the floor. Had she kicked it off, in her sleep?
She couldn't remember.
She'd sat up then, leaning her back against the bed's headboard. Its smooth, varnished wood cooled her down as she waited for her head to stop spinning. Nightmares that sent her reeling in the aftermath had been plaguing her sleep for nights now, and they just kept coming. Frightening images of unidentifiable horror haunted her dreams and each time, without fail, she'd awoken with temporary bouts of amnesia.
Who am I?
Bring your knees up to your chin, wrap your arms around your shoulders and will the dizzy spell away. Battles like these are only half won when you don't know what you're up against, but you won't have to fight alone forever.
Where am I?
Indigo shadows are as dark as darkness can get without fading entirely to black. It's a messy blend of walls, corners, ceilings and the faint shimmer of Julian's lava lamp splashing color on grids. You'd rather he picked the red one but he chose green and you didn't say anything.
What am I?
Your chest rises and falls under the thin fabric of your clothes. Listen to yourself breathe and realize there's something off in doing so. It feels as if the sound a human heart makes is meant for someone else's ears. Your pulse, mechanical in rhythm, beats to fill the silence and you know that isn't right.
Confusion had driven her out of bed. She had freed herself from the restraints of the blanket and by the time she was on her feet, she'd remembered the dishes needed to be washed before her mother got back from the late shift. Frustrated that her mind would mercilessly throw reminders of unaccomplished chores at her right after waking up in a cold sweat, she'd walked out of her bedroom, raging silently at her person.
Where was the comfort? The reassurance? The hand to lay her head back down on a pillow and the whisper of it was just a dream, you're okay now ? Not where she was, that's for sure, because Life hated people who were far too rational for their own good.
You had a nightmare. Congratulations. Now go scrub forks and make something out of yourself.
In the corridor, Kat had paused for a second to try and prove to the hallway that she wasn't as insufferably reasonable as her mind made her out to be. The best she could come up with was blaming her insomnia on the Sandman.
Some people should learn to do their jobs, regardless of whether or not they exist.
Shit.
*
Couldn't sleep...?
Kat compared the auditory difference between footfall on linoleum and the gush of tap water flowing steadily from a faucet. It was hard to believe the latter was loud enough to swallow up the sound made by Julian's approach; she didn't hear him arrive.
I was just finishing up here. Each word was carefully considered because Julian, sharp as anything, had the uncanny ability to pick up on the slightest of hints, whether or not they were dropped intentionally. Unwilling to let him in on her little secret, Kat had to maintain casualty to ward off suspicion. That meant adopting a deadpan tone.
I can dry, Julian offered tentatively but it was turned down.
This is the last one. She passed a rag over the plate's gleaming surface. When it was dry to her satisfaction, she stacked it away with all the others before turning to face her brother.
You're not supposed to be awake at this hour, Kat said, trying not to wince at how inappropriate that sounded, coming from her. They both pulled up chairs and took seats across from one another at the dining table.
Neither are you, but we're both here. Call it fate, Julian replied good-naturedly and when he didn't get a response from Kat, he added, this is when you participate half-heartedly in the conversation.
I don't believe in fate. Too many things at stake, to leave everything up to chance.
Destiny, Katrina, not chance. They're two separate things--
--and neither are subjects I'd choose to waste time and thought on. If you're going to force a conversation on me, at least make it worth both our efforts.
After that last remark, Julian fell quiet for a second. He studied her face intently with a glint of something behind the smile he wore. His gaze drew clues from the flaws in her mask of impassivity while she read off the constant drum of his fingers on the table top.
You give a topic, then, he said finally.
We don't need to talk about anything.
We have nothing else to do so we might as well talk about something.
I don't want to.
So there is some thing, whether you want to talk about it or not.
Kat didn't dare frown.
*
Somebody's voice calling from not long ago, but not long ago is eternity if you count down the seconds in a place where time does not exist.
who are you, little girl?
Flashes, one after another after the other after some other, blinding the child who keeps her eyes shut. Perpetual fear in a dream too real to wake up from; the wind blows, the cradle rocks, the bough breaks, no one catches her and the child is falling still.
who were you, little girl?
She lies on the bed and tucks both hands under her pillow as she reclines among blankets. The boy sitting next to her has a book on his lap, open to a creased page in shades of wan yellow.
He tells of bottomless holes, playing cards and white roses painted red but the child pays no attention; she watches the boy instead. He reads words off the book but unknowingly, another tale unravels from the thread of his mere presence. His hands paint a picture for his narration with thin air as canvas and his mouth describes various characters but the child's ears remain deaf to his descriptions. She listens to a different story wherein the hero owns the boy's name and that name, the child's heart.
The boy then hums a tuneless lullaby and sings her to sleep.
who will you be, little girl?
She grows up too fast, for the sake of someone else's childhood. The child runs a race she has already lost and she isn't even headed in the direction of the finish line. She leaves a trail of dust behind for the rest of the world to choke on as her boots kick up walls of grit. She runs without thinking and doesn't think to stop and if nobody catches her, she'll keep running for the rest of eternity.
But eternity isn't so long a time if you count down the seconds in a place where time does not exist.
The child trades her ballet shoes in for a pair of skates and the boy whispers take care. She treads on thin ice and cuts cold figures on the surface of a looking glass. The blades on her feet are sharp and he watches her with more than just concern; he has reasons to worry. A mirror broken is a reflection distorted and irreplaceable pieces are memories lost.
The child might forget who she is.
The boy whispers take care but she doesn't hear it. It isn't that she doesn't want to. She just doesn't know how.
*
Julian and Kat exchanged even stares. Their wills clashed in the open space between eyes that looked as alike as their owners were different. Reaching out, holding back and the refusal to give in to the other's wishes brewed a gale that whipped at the fragile stalemate.
However, before either one could say anything, the sound of heavy rubber pressing down on gravel could be heard rolling up their driveway. Through the open window, a car's headlights poured into the kitchen, a fountain of strong, yellow beams.
Mom's here! were the two words Julian released before he was out of his chair and gone in an instant.
Kat remained seated, unmoved by the arrival that caused Julian's departure. She listened to the front door open and shut, the engine's rumbling cease, the scramble of hurried footsteps and the climatic outburst of warm welcoming. The lights died down to give way to darkness and Kat shut her eyes, wishing Julian's warm voice could be put out just as easily.
Her turn was over.
Julian had woken up at an insane hour, kept her company willingly, listened to what she'd refused to say and understood every unspoken word. He had been the brother he was supposed to be but Kat's time was up; it felt like the nursery rhyme Hickory Dickory Dock ended before the mouse could run back down the clock.
Kat could not blame the boy for being both the loving brother that sat with his sister on vigils of solitude and the dedicated son who made sure their mother had a family to return to after a long day's work. The fact that he could never be both at the same time was something she'd have to live with, and she couldn't blame him for it.
She could only blame herself for hating what was and had to be. Posession meant weakness and she did not want to be weak, but the emotion was hers, as was the fault.
They were coming up the porch now, and mother was laughing at Julian's jokes. Kat kept her eyes closed; it would not do to have both woman and boy see a rare droplet of silver mark her cheek with a wet scar. It would not do to have both woman and boy mistake anger for sadness. It would not do to worry the woman and break the boy's heart.
Kat! Kat, come look! Mother's brought a computer home!
By the time Julian reappeared, struggling with a heavy box, Kat's eyes were as dry as the plates he had offered to help her with an hour ago.
An hour doesn't exist when the child spends her time crying and the tears just won't fall.
* ~ *
