Chapter 3: The Morning After
The dream always starts out the same way: he's standing on the roof,
up in the scaffolding, looking down at the one called Alex. He's
begrudgingly impressed by her speed, and remembers the last time he
faced this Angel.
As the scene unfolds on the roof, he gets restless watching Alex
slowly gain the upper hand. He wants to join the fray and is torn
between continuing his fight with the Angels and finishing off the
threat to Max.
The Angels look hopelessly outnumbered, but seem to hold their
own. He bides his time, looking over Alex, then Nat, his hand lightly
on the rapier still in its sheathe.
He cranes his neck around part of the scaffolding to gain a better
view of the fight-where is Dylan? A reddish brown lock of hair juts
from his breast pocket like a rose; he inhales deeply, the delicate
scent calming his nerves. He decides to make his move, jumping down
onto the roof and quickly dispatching a sneaky bastard behind a very
shocked Alex.
The Thin Man slowly turns over in his sleep; his mind knowing
this is familiar territory. His heart rate speeds up a bit as
he remembers the fall-how free he felt in the moments before he hit
the ground. Blackness-terrible and suffocating, not being able to
move. Every muscle in his body paralyzed. Dylan's sweet face above
his, her mouth open and contorted in pain as blood drips onto his face.
No, no. He tries to look away. His head twists into the
pillow and his eyes fly open. No! He sits up, trying to catch his breath.
No, that's not what happened! He shut his eyes and tried to erase
the dream by recalling the kiss last night.
His mind jerks away at Dylan's horrified look
as she stares at her bloodied hand. No, no.
He takes a deep breath. No. This is what happened: she had looked at
him, a small expectant smile on her face. Her smile was like Mona
Lisa's; he wondered if anyone had ever told her that. He felt himself
relax a little.
The ugly dream was fading and he let himself dwell on the real memory
of that night.
He had woken from his stupor-stunned and hurt badly, with a start.
Seamus had fallen on top of him, his body pierced by the rapier like a
club sandwich. The Thin Man couldn't move his arms or his legs or his
head. He had never felt so vulnerable in his entire life, his body
spread eagled and half submerged in quick drying concrete.
It was only a small bit of fortune, and he remembered laughing
uncontrollably at his predicament. The concrete was already starting
to set and he was stuck fast. What to do? What to do? His mind was
fading fast-
The Thin Man clenched his fist as he remembered Dylan's face just
before he had fallen-that had been his only comfort as he lay there.
That she felt enough about him to show so much pain on her face.
Seamus paid for that-he had lived like an animal and the Thin Man had
made sure that he died like one.
He smiled as he remembered Seamus in his death throes. Yes, blood had
dripped onto his face, but not from Dylan. No, not from Dylan; but
from a dying Seamus, whose body twitched and jerked as he hemorrhaged blood; eyes welling up with red.
First he had taunted the Irishman. Flooding the weak fool's brain
with images of walking away without a scratch. Deluding him into
thinking that everything was fine-that he had even succeeded in
killing the Angels and Dylan. Then, summoning all his strength, the Thin Man willed Seamus to look into his eyes-
The Thin Man shivered as he recalled pulling Seamus' life
force from his body. His bloodied, stunned face had suddenly dried
and scabbed, then crumbled into dust; swirling away in a passing
breeze.
He had lain there for quite some time before he heard sirens. The
energy from Seamus was strong and he could feel his body start to heal
quickly. He would still need time to recuperate. Watching over Max
had not left time or opportunity to keep himself as strong as he
should have-
But he had let himself be taken to St. Mary's, knowing that the nuns
would be obliged to take him in and care for him. He knew that they
in turn, would inform the mother superior at the orphanage. He almost
smiled at the memory of the nuns and their stern visages as the
Romanian interpreter had crossed herself repeatedly and called him the
devil.
He had counted on Mother Superior to take over his care-although
relations were strained at this time with her, he knew that she was a
good woman and loyal to him. And he was grateful at least for
that-for the time being they were even. The time for settling old
business would come again.
He got up from the bed and looked at his suit. He had tried to get
the blood from out of the arms-and from around the legs.
Embarrassment reddened his ears as he remembered Dylan's look, though they had both enjoyed that kiss. He sighed. It seemed like they would always be on opposite sides.
He pulled the lock of Dylan's hair from his breast pocket and inhaled
deeply. It was getting to the point though that just a breath wasn't
enough to keep him calm. It was as if she was turning into an
antidote to the growing disease in his soul.
The lock still pressed to his nose and mouth, he stopped as his mind
took hold of an idea. Perhaps she could help him further. She could
go where I can't, to help me-but would she? He had sensed her
hesitation towards him; her demeanor was tentative at first. But her
kiss-he sighed again as he remembered how she had grabbed him, her tongue like fire-
He shook his head as he walked to the sink to splash cold water onto
his face. He would have to stop thinking like this or he would never
be able to leave the place. Perhaps it was time to visit his Dylan on ground more comfortable to her.
The dream always starts out the same way: he's standing on the roof,
up in the scaffolding, looking down at the one called Alex. He's
begrudgingly impressed by her speed, and remembers the last time he
faced this Angel.
As the scene unfolds on the roof, he gets restless watching Alex
slowly gain the upper hand. He wants to join the fray and is torn
between continuing his fight with the Angels and finishing off the
threat to Max.
The Angels look hopelessly outnumbered, but seem to hold their
own. He bides his time, looking over Alex, then Nat, his hand lightly
on the rapier still in its sheathe.
He cranes his neck around part of the scaffolding to gain a better
view of the fight-where is Dylan? A reddish brown lock of hair juts
from his breast pocket like a rose; he inhales deeply, the delicate
scent calming his nerves. He decides to make his move, jumping down
onto the roof and quickly dispatching a sneaky bastard behind a very
shocked Alex.
The Thin Man slowly turns over in his sleep; his mind knowing
this is familiar territory. His heart rate speeds up a bit as
he remembers the fall-how free he felt in the moments before he hit
the ground. Blackness-terrible and suffocating, not being able to
move. Every muscle in his body paralyzed. Dylan's sweet face above
his, her mouth open and contorted in pain as blood drips onto his face.
No, no. He tries to look away. His head twists into the
pillow and his eyes fly open. No! He sits up, trying to catch his breath.
No, that's not what happened! He shut his eyes and tried to erase
the dream by recalling the kiss last night.
His mind jerks away at Dylan's horrified look
as she stares at her bloodied hand. No, no.
He takes a deep breath. No. This is what happened: she had looked at
him, a small expectant smile on her face. Her smile was like Mona
Lisa's; he wondered if anyone had ever told her that. He felt himself
relax a little.
The ugly dream was fading and he let himself dwell on the real memory
of that night.
He had woken from his stupor-stunned and hurt badly, with a start.
Seamus had fallen on top of him, his body pierced by the rapier like a
club sandwich. The Thin Man couldn't move his arms or his legs or his
head. He had never felt so vulnerable in his entire life, his body
spread eagled and half submerged in quick drying concrete.
It was only a small bit of fortune, and he remembered laughing
uncontrollably at his predicament. The concrete was already starting
to set and he was stuck fast. What to do? What to do? His mind was
fading fast-
The Thin Man clenched his fist as he remembered Dylan's face just
before he had fallen-that had been his only comfort as he lay there.
That she felt enough about him to show so much pain on her face.
Seamus paid for that-he had lived like an animal and the Thin Man had
made sure that he died like one.
He smiled as he remembered Seamus in his death throes. Yes, blood had
dripped onto his face, but not from Dylan. No, not from Dylan; but
from a dying Seamus, whose body twitched and jerked as he hemorrhaged blood; eyes welling up with red.
First he had taunted the Irishman. Flooding the weak fool's brain
with images of walking away without a scratch. Deluding him into
thinking that everything was fine-that he had even succeeded in
killing the Angels and Dylan. Then, summoning all his strength, the Thin Man willed Seamus to look into his eyes-
The Thin Man shivered as he recalled pulling Seamus' life
force from his body. His bloodied, stunned face had suddenly dried
and scabbed, then crumbled into dust; swirling away in a passing
breeze.
He had lain there for quite some time before he heard sirens. The
energy from Seamus was strong and he could feel his body start to heal
quickly. He would still need time to recuperate. Watching over Max
had not left time or opportunity to keep himself as strong as he
should have-
But he had let himself be taken to St. Mary's, knowing that the nuns
would be obliged to take him in and care for him. He knew that they
in turn, would inform the mother superior at the orphanage. He almost
smiled at the memory of the nuns and their stern visages as the
Romanian interpreter had crossed herself repeatedly and called him the
devil.
He had counted on Mother Superior to take over his care-although
relations were strained at this time with her, he knew that she was a
good woman and loyal to him. And he was grateful at least for
that-for the time being they were even. The time for settling old
business would come again.
He got up from the bed and looked at his suit. He had tried to get
the blood from out of the arms-and from around the legs.
Embarrassment reddened his ears as he remembered Dylan's look, though they had both enjoyed that kiss. He sighed. It seemed like they would always be on opposite sides.
He pulled the lock of Dylan's hair from his breast pocket and inhaled
deeply. It was getting to the point though that just a breath wasn't
enough to keep him calm. It was as if she was turning into an
antidote to the growing disease in his soul.
The lock still pressed to his nose and mouth, he stopped as his mind
took hold of an idea. Perhaps she could help him further. She could
go where I can't, to help me-but would she? He had sensed her
hesitation towards him; her demeanor was tentative at first. But her
kiss-he sighed again as he remembered how she had grabbed him, her tongue like fire-
He shook his head as he walked to the sink to splash cold water onto
his face. He would have to stop thinking like this or he would never
be able to leave the place. Perhaps it was time to visit his Dylan on ground more comfortable to her.