Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring.
The shrill ringing cut through Blaze's deep slumber with the tenderness of a serrated knife; she mumbled incoherently and rolled over. The moonlight seeping through the thin white curtains of the hotel room told her she had no reason to rise, though the caller was clearly unconvinced. She buried her head under a pillow to drown out the noise.
Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring.
The trills persisted for far longer than they should have, slowly rousing her from quasi-consciousness. Finally, she groaned and sat up.
"Father," she slurred, inebriated with drowsiness, "would you please get the phone?"
Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring.
The phone continued to mock her, but the dark room stayed otherwise silent. It was then the last of the drowsy haze lifted from her mind and she realized the bed on the far side of the suite was completely untouched, sterile white pillows still stacked on neatly tucked sheets. Father had left for the store at nine. ("Don't wait up for me, sweetie.") He wasn't back yet. What time was it?
As expected, the provided digital clock was unlit and unplugged (the red glow kept Father awake). Blaze rolled towards the end table and blindly searched for his analog clock until her outstretched hand connected with something other than the nightstand's lacquered surface, knocking it over with a heavy thud. She picked it up and angled the timepiece back and forth, trying to read its white unadorned face. The dim celestial light from the window reflected off the clock's silver hands.
It was three in the morning.
Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring. Brrrrrrring.
Blaze shivered violently. When had the room become so cold? She wrapped herself in a thick floral coverlet and cautiously approached the desk. She lifted the receiver from its cradle, cutting off its summons mid-ring – yet the resulting silence was even more menacing. Although now quite awake, she was surprised when the phone was suddenly on the floor, the old-fashioned cord twisting and curling itself into grotesque knots. She knelt down and tried to pick it up again, but she fumbled the receiver, as if it were coated in oil. After many failed attempts, she precariously steadied it with both trembling hands and raised it to her ear.
"Hello?" The word was barely distinguishable through thick static.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
At least, that was her intended response. What actually came out was silence. Her mouth opened, and her lips moved - yet there was no sound.
"Hello?... Hello?... Hello?..."
She kept trying, becoming ever more frantic as the aphasia persisted. She finally shook the phone in frustration, which slipped from her grasp yet again. It landed heavily on the carpet, the same two syllables echoing and repeating endlessly.
"Hello?... Hello?... Hello?..."
The sound assaulted her from every direction, until the echoes began to converge behind her, the voice suddenly recognized. She turned, and he was there. Flooded with fearful hope yet not relief, she ran forward to embrace him, praying he wouldn't disappear. He smiled and spread his arms to welcome her; but right as she reached him, he vanished. She fell to the ground, hard.
"Hello?... Hello?... Hello?..."
Blaze snapped upright with a sharp gasp, panting. Her breaths slowed as she took in the familiar sight of her own bedroom illuminated by morning's warm sunlight. She flopped back onto the flattened pillow and tried to rearrange skewed sheets. What was it going to take for her to sleep peacefully again? The nightmares might vanish for a time, but the memories lurked, always threatening another night of exhaustion where there should be rest.
" 'ello?"
Blaze started, not recognizing the Aussie drawl in her stressed state.
"C'mon, Blaze, up 'n at 'em! Rouge's gettin' antsy!"
Without a groan or similar sound of complaint, she pushed the night's events to the back of her mind, just as she always did. Darkness and its morbid reflections had no place in her waking hours.
"I'm coming, Marine."
"An' so oi told 'im, y' moight be a drongo sometoimes, but yer not jelly kneed. Shelias loike a bloke tha'll own up when 'e's made a blue. Course, y'don't want th' cobber t' yabber 'is noggin off, either. Oi once 'ad a mate who ne'erstopped earbashin', not even when 'e wuz tuckered…"
Marine hadn't shut up since they left Blaze's apartment. Although Blaze sometimes appreciated the conversation her "friend" provided, it was more often maddening than entertaining. Blaze resorted to listening to her heels click just to distract herself from whatever mundane chatter Marine just had to get off her chest.
"Marine!" Blaze sighed in relief as the director strode towards them authoritatively, her disapproving scowl marked by pointed teeth. "For the twentieth time, keep it down! Rehearsal's started. Now hurry up, you're due on stage in ten minutes."
"Oops, hehe. No worries, ma'am, Oi'm off loike a broide's nightie!"
Blaze approached after Marine's voice had faded into the distance. "Thanks."
"She's as much a nuisance to me as she is to you," Rouge muttered, more to herself than her student. Then, "You need to head down to make-up, too. Opening night's next week, after all."
A sudden occurrence made Blaze freeze in mid-step. "…What's today?"
"April 17th."
Oh. That would explain it, why last night's dream was more painful than usual. Seven years since the accident. Seven years since the endless bouncing between neighbors and relatives, all complete strangers. Seven years since she'd had a confidant she could truly call friend. Silver hadn't been at the funeral, and any attempt to find him afterward came up empty.
Silver wasn't who she really wanted to speak to, though. For three years he had supported her as the two of them developed their emerging powers, but for nine years her father had been her rock and the best teacher she could ever hope to have, even now. As much as she rolled her eyes at theater brats who waved enthusiastically to parents in the audience, Blaze still wished that once, just once, she too could have someone out there, someone who would greet her with a hug and bouquet afterwards.
"Mobius to Blaze!"
"Hm?" Blaze slipped out of her reflections and found that even though she was trying to be understanding, sympathy was not Rouge's strong suit.
"Try to reminisce on your own time, not mine."
"Yes, ma'am."
Stifling a wistful sigh, Blaze wandered off to the dressing room, ready to bury herself in another round of grown-up make-believe.
Seven hours later, Blaze collapsed into one of the green room's plush chairs. Marine followed suit on a couch, although it was hard to tell if she hadn't just succumbed to the heels that had had her teetering dangerously all day.
"Oi've ne'er been so tuckered in moi loife," the raccoon gasped. "I thought researsal'd neva end!"
"And playing on the revolving stage during lunch had nothing to do with it," Blaze commented wryly. At least now I'll get a bit of peace and –
Without warning, the east door flew open and the entire children's chorus stampeded through, squealing and jabbering like parakeets (never mind that one was a parakeet). Tiny Cream's piercing laugh was the last Blaze heard before the west door slammed shut.
- quiet.
Marine jumped up, wobbled, and opened the door to shout after them, "Dressin' rooms are th' other way, y'know!"
Cream turned and waved as she ran. "We know, but Rouge just put up the list for West Side Story!"
Blaze ears perked up, the only outward sign of her inner excitement. West Side Story had been one of Father's favorite musicals, topped only by Fiddler on the Roof. She followed the noise to the bulletin board just down the hall from Rouge's office. Slipping in behind the children, she peered over their heads at the unassuming sheet of two columns and skimmed the names until her eyes fell on the line 'Marine – Anybodys'. She was mildly surprised; it was only a speaking role, and Marine was a pleasant mezzo-soprano. Then again, Marine was the most tomboyish of the actresses, and it was certainly a part she'd enjoy.
Blaze, on the other hand, was sorely disappointed when 'Blaze – Graziella' caught her eye a couple lines down. The character was a brainless airhead, and the role was a joke. Her frustrated growl went unheard amidst the dissonance as she turned on her heel and escaped to the nearby director's office.
Rouge was designing another publicity flyer for their current production, The Secret Garden. She barely acknowledged Blaze, focused business woman that she was. "Hey, hon. Good rehearsal today. Work on your entrance for 'Storm 1', though, you were a bit slow."
Blaze kept her voice level and her posture neutral. "Why am I Graziella?"
"I told you I'd find you a part. I didn't say it would be a lead role. I cast by talent, you know that."
"Yes, I know. So why am I Graziella?"
"Because that's the kind of audition you gave me. That's the same kind of audition you've given me since you arrived."
"…Excuse me?"
Rouge was unapologetic. "Look, I heard you perform with your father a few times before the accident; you were good - then. But since you've come here, you've been mediocre at best, and I have to cast based on that."
"And you never thought to tell me?"
"You never asked. I'm a busy woman, Blaze. You needed a place to stay, I needed an actress. The arrangement works, and until I see a reason to change it, it will stay as is. Now I have phone calls to make, if you don't mind." Rouge's strict demeanor lapsed into a cross pout that said even if Blaze didn't, she sure minded – and if that didn't get the message across, the slamming door did.
It was fortunate for Blaze that the conversation had ended early; she had begun to feel her frustration rising – physically felt it as her body grew warm with the danger of igniting. Although she'd never come dangerously close, there was always the risk of exposing her carefully protected secret. She managed to avoid Marine in the dressing room and, not wanting to press her luck by sticking around, left without removing her stage makeup.
She'd "never asked?" In seven years, it had never occurred to Rouge to say, "Hey, you might want to look into private lessons?" Really?
At the same time, Blaze had the feeling that she'd suspected it all along. Music and singing had once been a form of bonding for her and her father. After his death, she had no true motivation to perform or improve. But that still didn't take away the frustration of being told she sucked.
Back at the apartment, a cool, misty shower neutralized the pyrokinetic energy build-up in a matter of minutes. Blaze plucked a mystery novel from the bookshelf and tucked in under the bed sheets (now that she wasn't likely to set either ablaze) for a quiet distraction before retiring for the evening. She hummed quietly with the music from her iPod, a recording from one of her father's early performances. It was a common escape for her; if it was listened to unconsciously enough, she felt like a young kitten again, falling asleep to her father's practicing.
As the clock neared 11PM, she set down the book, wondering, in passing, when her playlist had shifted from the sweet and glossy cadence of the violin to a dark, velvet baritone voice. But it wasn't until she tried to switch off the player that she saw the blank screen and realized the battery was dead. So if her iPod was off, who was singing…?
"Who's there?"
I hereby do solemnly swear that if it takes me a full year to update anything ever again, I will... I dunno, do something for my brother (who has been dutifully nagging me to finish this chapter this whole time). My apologies to all necessary parties.