(no subject)

Clothing should make you feel free

Shades of Black

Continued from The Darkest Light

Los Angeles, California
mid-2011

This evening

Watch. Wait. Listen, he taught me once. He said, à l’œuvre on reconnaît l’artisan. You can tell an artist by his work. All you had to do was wait. Each brush strokes reveals a master’s hand, so unique that it would point to the creator, himself. But how terrible would that be if they could tell his brushstrokes on the blank canvas of my body? What good could possibly come of it? Sydney was fuming and cussing angrily as he paced in front of me, gesturing wildly with his hands and making empty---or perhaps just foolish—promises.

“It was that bloody cur, wasn’t it?” He paused to look at me. I had no words to give him as I sat propped up against the chair like some unhung painting. “Aidan.” He finished pointing an accusing finger in my direction. My eyes narrowed as I sat straighter in my chair.
“I ought to-“
“And what exactly do you think you know about Aidan?” I hissed lowly, my voice groggy with the exhaustion settling into my body. “Careful where you point fingers, you might find that you will have misplaced them one day.” Quiet in the room. Sydney straightened up adjusting his stance, like a solider that realizes that he is not a general but a private. “Yes, Meh-dem.”
I gingerly picked myself up and shifted to a more comfortable position, grimacing slightly, still half the 'woman' I used to be and almost quite literally at that. “The others have not called yet?”
Sydney shook his head somewhat with reservation. Why the guilt perched on his face like some somber gargoyle? Whatever did you do?
“You have not been called to the Chantry yet, if that’s wot yor askin’.” He held out a hand as if to try to steady me. "Aidan?" I questioned breezily. He shook his head to say that he's heard nothing but lent me his body to steady myself. Ever so loyal, even when the world was coming down. He looked at me strangely, however. His thoughts reeled to the night he found me. Poor Sydney. If I could I would have laughed. That would be hard to forget by oneself but I am not feeling generous tonight. No, I am not feeling much at all. He will have to make due with his Whiskey while I make due with the rust of my soul.

It was then he whispered, “Marc…” My eyes flew to Sydney’s face. “ He…requests your presence in Paris as soon as you as you are well. Sooner, if possible.” My errant Ghoul finished tightly. No. Not if possible. Not sooner. Now. Indeed, it was already too late.

What did you do? I seethed.

I am not certain if I killed him in my rage.


( Painted with cruelty )