A/N Hey folks! Happy Friday! (All of my exams are finished, so I'm feelin' just GREAT!) Quick news: I have changed the chapter numbering system, so it's easier to orient between parts; the first number is the part number, and the second one is the chapter from that part. We're getting closer to action (I know, I promise it every single time, but we're ACTUALLY getting close, like, the next chapter is the start of all problems), so hold on tight. Thank you to that one guest review, it really boosted up my mood during the two weeks. Okay, I'll stop now - ENJOY!
Winnifred woke up from the headache. Her head felt as if it was on some sort of anvil, and some blacksmith was constantly pounding it, trying to mold it back into place. Winnifred grimaced and turned on her back. Strange. That's not how her ceiling looks like. Hers is grayish-blue, with a lamp stuck in the center. This one was more of a beige, with no lamp at all. Winnifred rolled her eyes around. Nothing in this room looked like hers actually. She would never put that kind of closet in the corner. And what happened to her happy dresses? They were replaced by dark toned suits and ties. Winnifred frowned and slowly sat up. She was certain she saw this place before, she just didn't feel like remembering. Winnifred looked to her side. A tiny note was on the night table next to the bed. Winnifred quickly leaned over and read the familiar, horrible handwriting.
Good morning. I hope you are feeling better than most people in your situation. You fell asleep yesterday, so we took you to my residence. I'm not sure if Heath will still be here by the time you awake, he said he has to go by six. The frying pan's in the right drawer above the sink, the eggs are in the fridge. Don't forget to check the time when your works starts.
Yours truly, Crane
Winnifred smirked and placed the note down. She quickly scrambled out of bed. Winnifred wasn't hungry, but she still had an hour before she had to go. Glancing around, Winnifred took in the elegant mess that was in the apartment. She knew that Johnathan was a relatively organized person in his work whose influence did not spread to his home. Winnifred quickly discovered the mop and bucket, and within half and hour scrubbed all the floor clean. Nimbly dusting of the bookshelves, Winnifred hummed the song that was playing yesterday on the party. Her head ached like crazy, and her coordination wasn't the best, but work distracted her from the pain. Winnifred preferred not to think why she drank herself. She perfectly knew the consequences of such intoxication, so she expected the spasms for today and tomorrow to be especially violent. But they were worth it.
By the time it was nine, Winnifred finished making Johnathan's bed. She had to hurry up if she wanted to change. Quickly putting on her heels, Winnifred jolted out the door and ran down the stairs, wondering how her tights would look like by the end of the day.
The subway lights coarsely shuttered. Heath grimly breathed out the smoke. It roughly outlined in the dim atmosphere, before slowly disappearing. The sky was just as grey as back home. Large buildings painfully blinked in front of the large windows, before being replaced by the bleak tunnel walls. Heath turned his gaze away from the windows with a silent sigh and looked to his side. His cigarette absently wavered next to his mouth, thumb slightly touching his chin. The cabin was almost empty. A bum was sitting at the very back, rocking back and forth to the movement of the metro. A shaggy old hag crossly counted her cards a few seats in front of Heath. His brown eyes, curiosity slightly glimmering inside, passed them over. Heath thoughtfully sucked the smoke in, before releasing it in one large exhale. He turned back to the window. His eyes fell down at the window's edge. FUCK was written right below it it big, fat letters. Heath's lips slightly twitched in a faint smirk. A back and forth knock notified that the train has arrived. Heath stood up, dropping the cigarette down on the floor and squashing it with his boot.
The metro was empty today as well. Few people quickly passed the platform. Heath's eyes unnoticeably passed on each of their faces. So cold and blank, not caring for the surrounding world. Some of the people were actually blank. This trip of the subway was so common in their lives, that it almost became like that one constant routine that you utterly hate yet cannot avoid. Others placed on this guise to mimic those others, those experienced ones. And some were just not fully awake at six o'clock in the morning.
The air was crisp and bitter, smothered in displeasure and corruption. The cars raced across the road. Heath stopped at the edge, taking in the unstopping current for a moment. His eyebrows slowly rose up. His eyes traced the tall building right across the road. Heath sighed and scooped inside his pocket. Damn it, empty. There was a kiosk next to the metro entrance. Heath quickly walked up to the lonely kiosk.
"Excuse me..." The old man in checkered cap raised his eyes from the newspaper he was reading. Heath's corner vision quickly read the header: Young Student Rachel Dawes Becomes District Attorney.
"Camel, please." The old man indifferently slid the pack on the counter. Heath tossed a twenty down on the counter and took the pack into his hands, quickly nodding in thanks. He roughly tore off the plastic wrap off the pack and maneuvered out a cigarette. The old man idly watched how the young man lite up one and inhales in the smoke. His grey brows suddenly twitched. His thin mouth slightly opened; the young man walked up right to the edge of the racing current, quickly glanced around before walking right across. He stopped right in the middle between two lanes, calmly waiting for cars to pass as he smoked the cigarette. Catching the first possible gap between the cars, the young man quickly walked across the road. He was forced to stop on the fourth lane. The old man watched in amusement as the young man nimbly ran across the final lane, onto the safe sidewalk, up the wide steps, before flinging the glass door open and disappearing into the building across.
[...]
Heath smirked as he looked around the fancy corridor. Those mob dealers sure like comfort. A good reason to detest them. The more you like comfort and luxury, the less adaptable you are. Not that Heath was a nihilist or anything. He just thought it made sense.
In the end of the long, red carpet corridor was a wooden, well polished desk. A glamorous women was vigorously writing something. Heath slightly kneeled forward.
"Beg your pardon, miss, where's Mister Richie?" The woman lifted her head to pierce him with her crystal green eyes.
"I'm afraid only the important people can see him." All the time while she talked, her eyes searched Heath up and down. Heath shrugged, tucking his hands into his pocket. His fingers immediately grasped the cigarette pack.
"Well, I'm pretty important." Heath could see how the lady is holding her elegant lips from forming into a delicate frown.
"What's your name, mister?"
"Does every man who comes to Mister Richie names himself?" Heath doubted it, and seemed that to hit the vulnerable point. The lady was obviously fighting inside herself.
"Why do you need him?" She finally asked, folding her clean, manicured nails on the desk.
"Well, uh we have a tete-a-tete with him, if you know what kind of meetings are those among mob dealers."
The lady burned red. Heath knew that his bold words about her employer's real substance only played in his way.
"Fine," the woman finally gave up. "Walk down the hallway and out the back doors. He's in the first house you see."
"Thank you very much." She blushed even more from his purposefully emphasized words, but Heath was already going down the hallway. His fingers randomly played with the pack inside as he wondered what the girl meant from the "first house he sees. The eloquent doors were already in front of him as he pushed them open. They swiftly swung into a slum, backward alley. The small, hut like compartments scrunched close together, garbage and waste layering on top of the dirt coated walls, asphalt, and steps. Heath ignored the stench and the overall presentation of the place he walked out into and quickly knocked the door of a little hut right across him. It opened with a creaky swoosh. Heath slightly ducked at the low door frame. His eyes scanned the empty room. He was in a shack. A wooden, unstable table was in the center of it all, with one chair, as if for the convicted to sit upon. There was a window, but it was covered it heavy drapes, barely letting any light in. Heath sighed and dragged out the chair. Heavily falling down in it, he outstretched his legs on the table. His fingers clasped the cigarette pack, but took out the one next to it. Heath lightly tossed the emptied box on the edge of the table and began rapidly shuffling the cards. The door gently creaked behind him. Heath felt his upper back muscles slightly tense.
"Ah, Mister Heath." Richie walked around the table and placed his shaggy portfolio on it. Heath didn't raise up his eyes from the cards.
"You're punctual, as always."
"I try to, Mister Richie," Heath's eyes darted upwards, tracking Richie as he said.
"It's not in my habits to miss the party."
"I see." It was quiet for a moment. Heath quickly lit up a cigarette, shoving it through his lips with strange forcefulness.
"How can I help you, Richie?"
Richie smirked, beetle eyes obtaining a dangerous glow.
"I want to hear more about your business, young sir," he amiably offered, sitting on the edge of the desk. Heath skeptically raised his eyebrows, shuffling the heart queen behind the diamond two.
"I don't have one, Richie."
"No?" Richie slid off the table and walked behind Heath's chair. Heath raised his eyes onto the draped window. It stared at him with blank obvious.
"Then why do my people double cross me?" The mafiosi's voice sounded genuinely curious. Window as the escape route for sure.
"Ask your people, Richie, I honestly don't have anything to do with their personal desires."
Then why do you sell them your drugs?" Richie's tobacco flavored smell scalded the back of Heath's neck. An involuntary shiver sprinted across Heath's skin. He slightly pointed his toes on the table to shake off the feeling.
"I am not an idiot to cut myself off on clients."
"You are my client. I hired you." Heath chuckled and turned his neck to look at the mob dealer.
"Think again, Mister Richie." Heath grinned and turned back to his cards. "As far as I know, I'm the only drug seller with fatal substances in this entire goddamn city."
"Are you blackmailing me, Mister Heath?" Richie quietly asked behind his back. Heath's smile slowly died away. He sighed and tucked the cards in his pocket.
"Just for the guarantee of not being shot in the head when I walk out of this slum," Heath tiredly replied, taking the cigarette out with his index and middle fingers. He watched the smoke cloud in front of him and slowly disperse as it traveled up to the ceiling.
"I'm a funny man, Mister Richie -"
"I noticed."
"But there's no fun in serving the sick beast its favorite death pill."
"Then why do you do it?" Richie spat. Heath closed his eyes in irritation.
"Because without me, your hocus-pocus will collapse." Without opening his eyes, Heath took in another portion of smoke.
"And because it gives me a good advance."
"An advance for what?" Richie coldly raised his brows. "Do you seriously want to take advantage of this city?"
"This city is the most pitiful thing I've encountered in my life," Heath grimaced in disdain, harshly thrusting his legs off the table and standing up. Abruptly wheeling around to Richie, he leaned back to the table, arms crossed, bringing a cigarette up to his lips.
"Even though it has some distorted style. That, in my opinion, deserves, equal, distorted attention."
"Want to rampage this city with your drugs?" Richie crookedly grinned. Heath broke out in a laugh, shaking his head as the faint smoke curled up from his what was left of his cigarette. Why does everything revolve around drugs? Can't you use something more creative?
"I really don't think much about me," Heath lifted his head up, revealing his brightly glimmering eyes.
"Well, Mister Richie, I don't have all day. If you have nothing else to question me about, I'm going to be on my way. Yes?" Heath didn't wait for an answer, quickly passing by the mafiosi and slamming the door behind him. Richie thoughtfully followed the young man leave with his eyes, chewing his lip.
"Shit," he suddenly swore and, roughly snatching his gun out of jacket, shot right into the door. A perfectly circular hole with an ash frame winked back at him.
The glass bottles dully shimmered back at Johnathan. He sighed and closed the cupboard doors.
"No matrin, Richard. Tell Evangeline to get some." Johnathan heard the young colleague heavily sigh behind him.
"Again?" He had to complain.
"Yes, again." Johnathan grabbed the clipboard with the necessary papers on his way and quietly closed the door behind him. Mondays were hard, so most of the doctor personnel spent it at home. Johnathan quickly walked up the stairs, lightly knocking on the first door to the left.
"Margaret?"
Margaret wearily smiled with her sick eyes as the intern entered the room. It was only the second day since the temperature had stabilized, and Johnathan did not want to allow her off the medicine just yet.
"How are you feeling, miss?"
"Okay, thanks." Her cheeks were extremely pale, lips giving off a dull beige color. Johnathan frowned and touched her forehead. Margaret uncomfortably shifted.
"Well?" Johnathan smirked.
"Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news first?" Johnathan asked, faintly smiling as he looked down at her. Margaret quietly snorted.
"Bad, please."
"You're staying in this hospital for another seven days."
"Damn it," Margaret sank down into her pillow, staring into the ceiling. Johnathan couldn't agree more.
"And the good one?"
"We finally knocked off the bloody temperature." Johnathan took his hand away from her and wrote something on his papers.
"Thank god," Margaret closed her eyes in exhaustion. "Can I finally pull up the blanket? I'm freezing."
Johnathan sighed and shook his head, still knelt over his clipboard. Margaret clicked her tongue in frustration and looked away. Johnathan finished writing his report and silently walked out. Margaret listed to the clock loudly tick in the room and squeezed her eyes, trying to fall asleep.
[...]
Johnathan slowly walked down the empty hallways, dropping off the clipboard in Collins's box as he passed it. Unlocking the basement, he entered the poor lit room and shut the door. His eyes scanned the room. Everything was annoyingly calm, the table with heaps of papers and flasks in the center, a closet full of illicit substances in the corner, and a blinking light bulb. The glass tube heavily pressed down on Johnathan's chest. Slightly moving his cheeks, Johnathan stared into the wall as his fingers dug into his pocket, clasping the cold glass surface. Taking it out in one, quick motion, Johnathan roughly undid the cork, still not looking at it, and drank half of what was in it. A cawing sound erupted from the room. Johnathan shifted his eyes to the table's edge. A rustled crow clenched the table with it's crooked talons. Johnathan sighed and tucked the glass tube back into his pocket. Shoving the chair out, he sat down at the table and began writing down some formulas. Th bird did not move. After a little while, it cawed. Distracted from his work, Johnathan glanced in its direction. The crow answered him with its dark, unreal eyes. Sighing, Johnathan stroked the crow's feathers with the side of his finger. The bird didn't move, just slightly ruffled its feathers. They were soft and fragile. Johnathan slid his fingers closer to the crow's head. The bird suddenly twisted its neck and painfully bit Johnathan in the finger. The intern quietly swore, yet examined his bloody fingers in curiosity as the crow flapped its wings and flew on top of the cupboard. A crease ran through Johnathan's forehead. He glanced up at the crow, sitting at the very top. Pain throbbed in his finger, but Johnathan didn't care. Of course he didn't listen to Freddie, no matter how much he wanted to do. He couldn't. Because it was so real, you could practically go mad with it. However, if his calculations were correct, the crow, the cut, and the blood stains on the papers would all be gone by the end of the day.
A/N That's it for today! Thanks for reading!