HEADLIGHTS
By Hallospacegirl
Chapter Five
The small glass bottle rests upon the bookshelf, catching the cold orange afternoon sun from the window and dispersing it gently along the worn leather spines of the antique books. I put down the brush and ashtray I have been using to dust the furniture, but stop myself from picking up the bottle to examine it as I remember the Irene Adler fiasco of last night.
It was my mistake. I'm still wondering why I deliberately pressed Holmes about the photograph when I knew that he was not a man who could easily toss aside his old heartaches with a laugh and a snide joke. But whatever the reason, the outcome of my actions is undeniable.
He's human, I think to myself. The detective that Watson calls a logical machine is in fact human.
My focus drifts back to the bottle sitting on the shelf, and I notice that is halfway filled with a clear fluid. A tiny reflection of me, distorted by the glass and water like an image from a funhouse mirror, stares back with misshapen, ghostly blue eyes, and my long wavy hair limply frames my face like shredded black curtains. The image in the bottle is almost smirking as a corner of my lips is turned upward by an uneven ridge on the glass surface.
Ironic to think of it now, but when Tony first met me at Joe's Club so many years ago he called me beautiful. He slid into the chair beside me at the bar and said that I was angelic and pure and beautiful, like an angel. Then, when I didn't speak, he added that there seemed to be mask over my features as if I was hiding something from the world. After all, why would an innocent girl like me be doing at the club? What was wrong? Did I want to talk about it?
I brushed him off with a few choice words because then I was brave.
"Damn, I'm sorry, lady. Me and my big mouth. Let's start this over, okay? My name's Tony. What's yours?"
"Look, just leave me alone. I'm serious."
"I can help you stop the pain," he said.
And it began from there. Three years later he no longer called me beautiful as I lay stretched out on the floor of his apartment, disinterestedly watching my own blood trickle from a newly slit wrist and down my arms.
Sometimes he would drunkenly lie next to me and lick up the crimson trail with a rough, clammy tongue. "I'm your vampire, my poet. Together we'll live in the darkness while everyone else dies. Forget about fucking college, your fucking parents who disowned you, your fucking friends who can't understand you. Screw them. Hell, kill them. None of that matters anymore because while we're together for all eternity, sooner or later they're going to die and rot in the ground. You're going to sing forever, Ada. You'll sing without pain because I'm going to take away your pain."
And he would fall into a mumbling sleep, or climb on top of me and make his use of my alcohol numbed body. And when it is all over, for a moment I would actually believe him.
..........
Teardrops are tumbling down my cheeks like pearls when the front door swings open and jolts me out of my memory. Holmes has returned from another one of his missions, but I imagine wildly that it's Tony anyway, and huddle against the bookcase with a sob.
"Miss Cooper, you are distressed!" the detective exclaims when he notices me, quickly closing the door and rushing to me. Through my tears I can see the shock in his clear gray eyes, but it's buried as his practical businesslike facade falls instinctively into place.
"Come, you must sit and relieve yourself of the dilemma that is troubling you," he says, taking my arm to lead me to the armchairs.
I shrink back brusquely. I have rolled up both of my sleeves to avoid dirtying them while dusting, and the crisscrossing map of scars on my forearm are blatantly visible in the vivid afternoon light. "Holmes, I'm okay. I'm fine," I choke out. "Just leave me alone for a minute."
"I dare not abandon you while you are faced with such an ordeal, Miss Cooper," he says.
"My weak, feminine, inferior body is not going to break down, Holmes, so you can just leave me alone," I snap through my crying, surprised by my own sudden vehemence. "I don't need your help. I've gotten enough help from guys in the past."
I barrel past him, pushing his unsuspecting frame against the bookshelf with a muffled thud as I run to the bedroom on shaky legs and dive into the neatly smoothed blankets of the bed. I find the feather pillow with my hands and burrow my head under it so that all I can hear is my strangled breaths mixed with the rhythmic pulse of blood pounding into my ears.
My mind is reeling in turmoil when I feel the gentle tap on my shoulder blade.
"Miss Cooper?"
"Leave me alone, Holmes."
"My intuition tells me that you would rather prefer company."
"Your 'intuition'?" Struggling with the blankets and the overwhelming skirt of my dress, I roll over to stare at him incredulously. He is standing by the bed, dressed in a brown suit and long black overcoat. His forehead is marred with a puzzled frown. "Have you ever thought that your intuition could be wrong?" I demand.
"It is plausible at times, Miss Cooper, though it has rarely failed me in my cases," he replies.
"So you think of me as simply another case? Am I just a textbook of the twenty first century for you?"
"I beg pardon?"
"Oh, forget it." I turn my back to him and bury my wet face in the pillow. "Please, go away. I don't want to talk."
After a short silence he murmurs, "Very well," and I hear his footsteps growing fainter as he leaves the room.
"Holmes?" I whisper to no answer. He's gone.
The pillow beneath my face grows hot as fresh tears soak into the cloth. Sighing raggedly, I furiously lace my fingers into my mess of tangled hair.
And it's then that I hear the thin, vibrating note sifting into the air. It seems to echo forever, swelling from a soft trembling breath into a desperate cry, and then suddenly changes, dips, and soars. It is violin music, I realize.
I clamber to a sitting position. The music is slow and sweeping and seeped in sadness as it hangs plaintively onto the high notes and tumbles into turbulent, jumbled rolls and rumbles. Then a violent chord ascends into a vicious octave scale, and just as I can no longer stand the earsplitting wail, the initial soft melody takes over once more.
I ease myself to my feet and tiptoe to the slightly ajar bedroom door. Sherlock Holmes is standing in the study, drawing a bow across a violin that is tucked under his chin. His eyes are tightly closed and his fingers are almost a blur as he plunges into a succession of rapid notes.
Gently, I pull the door open wider, but the rusty, unoiled hinges give a loud dissonant squeal, and Holmes's melody tapers off as he stops playing. He blinks two or three times and stares at me as though he has just woken up from a dream.
"That was... incredible," I say when I find my voice. "I didn't know you could play violin."
"Ada... Miss Cooper, surely you exaggerate." He hastily removes the violin from his neck and rests it under an arm. There is a flush of redness on his usually colorless, pale cheeks. "You must know that the violin is but a small hobby of mine," he explains as if it's an excuse. "Since you said earlier that you would rather not talk, I supposed that music would perhaps... never mind. My apologies, Miss Cooper."
"Why? I liked it. What's the name of the song you were playing?"
"It is the second violin concerto by the Polish composer Henryk Wieniawski. It is a relatively recent piece and technically quite difficult, but I prefer much lighter fare, such as Mozart's concertinas or Bach's violin solos, over this type of melodramatic drivel."
"Holmes, it's not drivel. Drivel's what you call the songs I had to sing for my band. Pain is pleasure, death is life, all that kind of stuff," I say with a shaky smile, wiping the residue of tears from my face. "This isn't drivel. It's romantic music."
Holmes looks taken aback. "I see, Miss Cooper." He gazes into my eyes with an unreadable, solemn expression that seems to deepen and expand, and I'm aware of my heartbeat drumming in double time against my ribcage.
Then abruptly, he shakes his head. "You must excuse me," he says quietly, placing the violin and bow upon the coffee table. He strides to his room and silently closes the door behind him.
I follow him with my eyes, and as I pass over the dusty collection of books on the bookshelf, I realize that the tiny glass bottle in the corner is gone.
..........
The suffocating tobacco smoke swirls inside the endless pulsating black dance floor like living fog. I'm dreaming again, of the woman with the red lips and of the man in spotless white and of the decaying body of Mary Kelly.
But this time it is different, because out of the misty darkness steps Sherlock Holmes. He's dressed in a shining black evening suit, and his dark hair is immaculately slicked and parted. He is handsome in a way I never could have imagined. "Let us dance, my dear," he says when he reaches me, holding out a beautifully shaped hand.
I place my hand in his, and he sweeps me into a slow waltz. I don't know the steps but somehow we're dancing as a familiar haunting violin melody floats in from the distance.
"Why are we doing this?" I ask him.
"We have signed our souls away," he whispers against my ear, his breath warm. "It is only a matter of time."
"For what?"
"Madame Sosostris tells me to fear death by water."
The violin music increases tempo and I think I am flying with him in the black expanse of thick smoke and colored lights.
"Madame Sosostris?"
"The famous clairvoyante, my dear. She is the wisest woman in Europe, with a wicked pack of cards."
"Will you die by water?"
"Yes. The water is poisoned and it flows within me like a waterfall."
"And will I die?"
"Only Madame Sosostris can tell."
We have stopped in silence and we are holding hands before the blinding white headlights, as the woman with the red lips condenses into view amidst a golden glow. She walks towards us, her black high heels hollowly clicking against the invisible ground.
"Hello Ada. Hello Sherlock." Her smile is that of a hungry wolf.
"Are you Madame Sosostris?" I ask.
She haughtily tilts her beautiful, daintily pointed chin at my companion. "What does Sherlock say?"
"I do not remember you," Holmes replies raspily. "I do not want to remember you."
And suddenly, I recognize her.
"You're Irene Adler."
She responds by laughing cruelly with those red lips. "I told you, Jack, that three milligrams were not enough. Jack is such a saucy boy. Look what he did to poor Mary Kelly."
The naked bloody corpse with the hacked off face materializes before me, holding her hands to her open torso. "Do you want to be like me, Adeleine Cooper?"
I don't know how she can speak with no mouth, but her voice is loud and clear in my ears. "No, Mary Kelly, please."
"Tony sold you to the devil, but then again, all men have a tendency to do that."
"Not Sherlock Holmes."
"Falling in love with him won't lead you out of hell. It will only lead you to Saucy Jack. Jack is watching, so be careful, Ada. You're only safe when you have no eyes."
I see the man in the white doctor's robe, and then there is a glint of metal, and finally, darkness.
..........
To be continued...
Ooh, the oddity and the mystery.
Anyway, the violin concerto that I had Holmes play is Concerto Number 2 in D (Opus 22) by Wieniawski. It's very good! Give it a listen!
By Hallospacegirl
Chapter Five
The small glass bottle rests upon the bookshelf, catching the cold orange afternoon sun from the window and dispersing it gently along the worn leather spines of the antique books. I put down the brush and ashtray I have been using to dust the furniture, but stop myself from picking up the bottle to examine it as I remember the Irene Adler fiasco of last night.
It was my mistake. I'm still wondering why I deliberately pressed Holmes about the photograph when I knew that he was not a man who could easily toss aside his old heartaches with a laugh and a snide joke. But whatever the reason, the outcome of my actions is undeniable.
He's human, I think to myself. The detective that Watson calls a logical machine is in fact human.
My focus drifts back to the bottle sitting on the shelf, and I notice that is halfway filled with a clear fluid. A tiny reflection of me, distorted by the glass and water like an image from a funhouse mirror, stares back with misshapen, ghostly blue eyes, and my long wavy hair limply frames my face like shredded black curtains. The image in the bottle is almost smirking as a corner of my lips is turned upward by an uneven ridge on the glass surface.
Ironic to think of it now, but when Tony first met me at Joe's Club so many years ago he called me beautiful. He slid into the chair beside me at the bar and said that I was angelic and pure and beautiful, like an angel. Then, when I didn't speak, he added that there seemed to be mask over my features as if I was hiding something from the world. After all, why would an innocent girl like me be doing at the club? What was wrong? Did I want to talk about it?
I brushed him off with a few choice words because then I was brave.
"Damn, I'm sorry, lady. Me and my big mouth. Let's start this over, okay? My name's Tony. What's yours?"
"Look, just leave me alone. I'm serious."
"I can help you stop the pain," he said.
And it began from there. Three years later he no longer called me beautiful as I lay stretched out on the floor of his apartment, disinterestedly watching my own blood trickle from a newly slit wrist and down my arms.
Sometimes he would drunkenly lie next to me and lick up the crimson trail with a rough, clammy tongue. "I'm your vampire, my poet. Together we'll live in the darkness while everyone else dies. Forget about fucking college, your fucking parents who disowned you, your fucking friends who can't understand you. Screw them. Hell, kill them. None of that matters anymore because while we're together for all eternity, sooner or later they're going to die and rot in the ground. You're going to sing forever, Ada. You'll sing without pain because I'm going to take away your pain."
And he would fall into a mumbling sleep, or climb on top of me and make his use of my alcohol numbed body. And when it is all over, for a moment I would actually believe him.
..........
Teardrops are tumbling down my cheeks like pearls when the front door swings open and jolts me out of my memory. Holmes has returned from another one of his missions, but I imagine wildly that it's Tony anyway, and huddle against the bookcase with a sob.
"Miss Cooper, you are distressed!" the detective exclaims when he notices me, quickly closing the door and rushing to me. Through my tears I can see the shock in his clear gray eyes, but it's buried as his practical businesslike facade falls instinctively into place.
"Come, you must sit and relieve yourself of the dilemma that is troubling you," he says, taking my arm to lead me to the armchairs.
I shrink back brusquely. I have rolled up both of my sleeves to avoid dirtying them while dusting, and the crisscrossing map of scars on my forearm are blatantly visible in the vivid afternoon light. "Holmes, I'm okay. I'm fine," I choke out. "Just leave me alone for a minute."
"I dare not abandon you while you are faced with such an ordeal, Miss Cooper," he says.
"My weak, feminine, inferior body is not going to break down, Holmes, so you can just leave me alone," I snap through my crying, surprised by my own sudden vehemence. "I don't need your help. I've gotten enough help from guys in the past."
I barrel past him, pushing his unsuspecting frame against the bookshelf with a muffled thud as I run to the bedroom on shaky legs and dive into the neatly smoothed blankets of the bed. I find the feather pillow with my hands and burrow my head under it so that all I can hear is my strangled breaths mixed with the rhythmic pulse of blood pounding into my ears.
My mind is reeling in turmoil when I feel the gentle tap on my shoulder blade.
"Miss Cooper?"
"Leave me alone, Holmes."
"My intuition tells me that you would rather prefer company."
"Your 'intuition'?" Struggling with the blankets and the overwhelming skirt of my dress, I roll over to stare at him incredulously. He is standing by the bed, dressed in a brown suit and long black overcoat. His forehead is marred with a puzzled frown. "Have you ever thought that your intuition could be wrong?" I demand.
"It is plausible at times, Miss Cooper, though it has rarely failed me in my cases," he replies.
"So you think of me as simply another case? Am I just a textbook of the twenty first century for you?"
"I beg pardon?"
"Oh, forget it." I turn my back to him and bury my wet face in the pillow. "Please, go away. I don't want to talk."
After a short silence he murmurs, "Very well," and I hear his footsteps growing fainter as he leaves the room.
"Holmes?" I whisper to no answer. He's gone.
The pillow beneath my face grows hot as fresh tears soak into the cloth. Sighing raggedly, I furiously lace my fingers into my mess of tangled hair.
And it's then that I hear the thin, vibrating note sifting into the air. It seems to echo forever, swelling from a soft trembling breath into a desperate cry, and then suddenly changes, dips, and soars. It is violin music, I realize.
I clamber to a sitting position. The music is slow and sweeping and seeped in sadness as it hangs plaintively onto the high notes and tumbles into turbulent, jumbled rolls and rumbles. Then a violent chord ascends into a vicious octave scale, and just as I can no longer stand the earsplitting wail, the initial soft melody takes over once more.
I ease myself to my feet and tiptoe to the slightly ajar bedroom door. Sherlock Holmes is standing in the study, drawing a bow across a violin that is tucked under his chin. His eyes are tightly closed and his fingers are almost a blur as he plunges into a succession of rapid notes.
Gently, I pull the door open wider, but the rusty, unoiled hinges give a loud dissonant squeal, and Holmes's melody tapers off as he stops playing. He blinks two or three times and stares at me as though he has just woken up from a dream.
"That was... incredible," I say when I find my voice. "I didn't know you could play violin."
"Ada... Miss Cooper, surely you exaggerate." He hastily removes the violin from his neck and rests it under an arm. There is a flush of redness on his usually colorless, pale cheeks. "You must know that the violin is but a small hobby of mine," he explains as if it's an excuse. "Since you said earlier that you would rather not talk, I supposed that music would perhaps... never mind. My apologies, Miss Cooper."
"Why? I liked it. What's the name of the song you were playing?"
"It is the second violin concerto by the Polish composer Henryk Wieniawski. It is a relatively recent piece and technically quite difficult, but I prefer much lighter fare, such as Mozart's concertinas or Bach's violin solos, over this type of melodramatic drivel."
"Holmes, it's not drivel. Drivel's what you call the songs I had to sing for my band. Pain is pleasure, death is life, all that kind of stuff," I say with a shaky smile, wiping the residue of tears from my face. "This isn't drivel. It's romantic music."
Holmes looks taken aback. "I see, Miss Cooper." He gazes into my eyes with an unreadable, solemn expression that seems to deepen and expand, and I'm aware of my heartbeat drumming in double time against my ribcage.
Then abruptly, he shakes his head. "You must excuse me," he says quietly, placing the violin and bow upon the coffee table. He strides to his room and silently closes the door behind him.
I follow him with my eyes, and as I pass over the dusty collection of books on the bookshelf, I realize that the tiny glass bottle in the corner is gone.
..........
The suffocating tobacco smoke swirls inside the endless pulsating black dance floor like living fog. I'm dreaming again, of the woman with the red lips and of the man in spotless white and of the decaying body of Mary Kelly.
But this time it is different, because out of the misty darkness steps Sherlock Holmes. He's dressed in a shining black evening suit, and his dark hair is immaculately slicked and parted. He is handsome in a way I never could have imagined. "Let us dance, my dear," he says when he reaches me, holding out a beautifully shaped hand.
I place my hand in his, and he sweeps me into a slow waltz. I don't know the steps but somehow we're dancing as a familiar haunting violin melody floats in from the distance.
"Why are we doing this?" I ask him.
"We have signed our souls away," he whispers against my ear, his breath warm. "It is only a matter of time."
"For what?"
"Madame Sosostris tells me to fear death by water."
The violin music increases tempo and I think I am flying with him in the black expanse of thick smoke and colored lights.
"Madame Sosostris?"
"The famous clairvoyante, my dear. She is the wisest woman in Europe, with a wicked pack of cards."
"Will you die by water?"
"Yes. The water is poisoned and it flows within me like a waterfall."
"And will I die?"
"Only Madame Sosostris can tell."
We have stopped in silence and we are holding hands before the blinding white headlights, as the woman with the red lips condenses into view amidst a golden glow. She walks towards us, her black high heels hollowly clicking against the invisible ground.
"Hello Ada. Hello Sherlock." Her smile is that of a hungry wolf.
"Are you Madame Sosostris?" I ask.
She haughtily tilts her beautiful, daintily pointed chin at my companion. "What does Sherlock say?"
"I do not remember you," Holmes replies raspily. "I do not want to remember you."
And suddenly, I recognize her.
"You're Irene Adler."
She responds by laughing cruelly with those red lips. "I told you, Jack, that three milligrams were not enough. Jack is such a saucy boy. Look what he did to poor Mary Kelly."
The naked bloody corpse with the hacked off face materializes before me, holding her hands to her open torso. "Do you want to be like me, Adeleine Cooper?"
I don't know how she can speak with no mouth, but her voice is loud and clear in my ears. "No, Mary Kelly, please."
"Tony sold you to the devil, but then again, all men have a tendency to do that."
"Not Sherlock Holmes."
"Falling in love with him won't lead you out of hell. It will only lead you to Saucy Jack. Jack is watching, so be careful, Ada. You're only safe when you have no eyes."
I see the man in the white doctor's robe, and then there is a glint of metal, and finally, darkness.
..........
To be continued...
Ooh, the oddity and the mystery.
Anyway, the violin concerto that I had Holmes play is Concerto Number 2 in D (Opus 22) by Wieniawski. It's very good! Give it a listen!