CSI: New York

Phantasmagoria

Phantasmagoria by definition is a scene that is something like you see in a dream.

Four

"No," she mumbled as a reply before looking up at her and grinning. "Deal with it, Aiden." Aiden rolled her eyes before plopping herself down on the bed. Isabelle resumed on slotting the pictures in, which after every each slot, she wrote a little note to remember by. "So, what is it that you want me to help with?"

Aiden rolled her eyes. "Obviously you know I want you to help me return the things that I borrowed."

"I got that, Aiden. Tell me something I don't know."

Aiden appeared thoughtful for a moment, her index finger tapping on her chin and then as if a bulb had lightened up in her head after what seemed like an eternity trying to come up with a bright suggestion, she said, in all seriousness, "you could try being nice to Don."

Isabelle glared at her. "I am nice to him."

"Try harder then."

"Why do I always have to be the one surrendering just so I can make things better?"

"Fine," Aiden huffed in defeat. "Then try not to kill him with your heels."

X

"Heels, how many pairs of high heels you own, Isabelle? This is outrageous! And do something about this mess. What are these photographs doing on the floor? What nonsense is this? Oh dear God!"

I'm dreaming.

Isabelle heard her curtains being drawn back, that annoying sound she hated, letting that annoying glare of the sun rays filtering through her bedroom window, and beaming on her face. She turned over, her eyes still closed, already cursing in her head and buried her face deep into her pillow.

"Isn't this Don? Oh, and this Danny. Oh this was the gorgeous Aiden."

No, I'm not dreaming.

She cracked an eye open. Of course when she opened her eyes, all she could see was the color lilac – her pillowcase. So she turned over, once again, and stared in disbelief at the woman who had seated herself on the other side of the bed. "Oh good, you're up. I made you breakfast."

"Ma," she groaned forcing herself up on the bed. "What are you doing in New York?"

Her mother looked back at her, feigning a hurt expression. "Why of course, I want to see my beautiful daughter. Do I need a legit reason to come to New York? You don't return my calls, you don't write to me – nothing. Are you trying to avoid me?"

"When did you arrive?" she asked, covering a yawn. "You could have called. Or at least inform me you're coming." For some reason, she was upset that her mother, who was supposedly to be in Miami, was on her bed, in her bedroom, in New York.

"And what, give you the chance to make up excuses to prevent me from coming? I don't think so, Isabelle."

Isabelle, who thought it was too early in the morning for her to start an unnecessary bickering-slash-argument with her mother, decided that it would be best if she got out of bed. With her mother already chirping like a bird, there was no use of trying to get back to sleep. And someone insisted I go for a vacation.

"And why aren't you hurrying up? You're going to be late for work. What are all those boxes doing in your living room, anyway?" Isabelle suddenly remembered that her mother was yet to know she was…well, excused from work. But that has to wait.

"Ma," she groaned again. "Please, throw me one question at a time. You're confusing me." Seriously, who asks someone three, four questions in one breath?

"There was a box," her mother started again, slowly this time as she made her bed. "Outside your apartment door when I arrived." That got Isabelle's attention. She turned around and waited for her mother to go on. "Who is Hawkes?"

X

Don was no longer limping like he had yesterday, though there were bruises to remind him that he had been stomped by a woman who had suddenly gone violent on him. He adjusted his tie while he listened to Danny talked—more like complaining—on the other line. He was not listening, really; he could not be bothered, especially at an early hour in the morning.

"Yeah, I'm still here," he reassured him as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Just one sip, he spat it out into his sink, grimacing. He had forgotten that it was yesterday's coffee and he was yet to make a fresh one. He glanced down at his wristwatch. He should have been out of his apartment five minutes ago. No time for coffee.

"Hey, Danny," he intervened, grabbing his set of keys and twirling it around his fingers, jingling. "We'll continue this later." Without giving his friend any chance to say anything, he hung up and swung the door open and stepped out. At least, that was what he thought until he tripped over something, failed to hold himself up and fell to the ground with a thump.

Whoa. He blinked. What just happened? It took him a few seconds for reality to set in before his hand shot to the back of his head, muttering obscenities under his breath. That hurts!

He slowly sat up and discovered what had caused him to fall – a box. He stared at it in disbelief. He somehow could not believe that there was a box sitting right in front of his apartment door and yet he failed to notice it the first time. It was even more disbelieving that someone had inconsiderately placed it there. What was even more disbelieving was the fact that the box bore a name.

Suddenly, he felt annoyed—or maybe, just maybe—enraged.

Getting to his feet, he dusted himself clean and dialed a number on his cell phone.

X

"What do you want, Don?" Isabelle answered the call. She heard him breathing and waited rather impatiently. Her mother, who was standing next to her fussing over choosing the 'fresh' red and green apples to buy, stopped immediately and smiled at her daughter.

"Oh, how is he?" she asked, still smiling. Isabelle felt like hanging up. "I have an idea. Why don't you invi—"

Isabelle pulled the phone away and whispered angrily at her, knowing what her mother was suggesting. "No, no way. The answer is no." Standing a few feet away from her mother now, she pressed the phone to her ear again. "Are you going to start talking? Do you even have anything to say to me? Because I'm hanging up on—"

"Very cute, Belle, that was very cute," he finally said. "That. Was. Very. Cute." He repeated slowly, word per word, barely controlling his anger.

What was cute? She thought.

"You want to play? Fine, I'll play with you but in the end—no matter how long it's going to take us—I'm going to make sure you lose and then I'm going to make you apologize to me. You got that – loud and clear? Now I'm hanging up on you."

He hung up on me! She was gaping right about now, phone still pressed to her ear, listening to the line gone dead. That jerk hung up on me! She had no slightest idea what he was talking about. He talked way too fast for her to comprehend what he was saying and the next minute she knew…he hung up on me!

Did that mean war?

To Don, it was.

X

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