Scribe 23 was holding a locket that belonged to her Master and had been sent to her through his representatives. It was attached to a gold chain that had hung from her Master’s neck and was now swinging around her own. In the locket were inscribed the words invocatio and opposite the words there was a tiny vial that contained a few drops of the blood of the first Master, Elohim, who had passed the locket on to his first disciple Gabriel. She played around with the locket nervously while pondering whether her Master would deem it was the Time to leave yet and join him. Outside, in the outline of the sky, she could guess the dawn arriving but the city was still sleeping.
In one swift movement, she leapt out of the window and flew to the nearest building. She had first been exhilarated about having acquired this new skill but now it was getting tedious as she had to keep using the energy to do that. She had conjured items with too many usage times for the city and nobody needed anything anymore so she had to reduce the overflowing energy floating around so as to avoid the fate of those who had imploded. Throughout the years too much energy had accumulated within her as she had conjured very often and people had rewarded her immensely with their flow.
Perched on the top of the nearby building, she observed her own dwelling lying several meters below. She knew that she was not supposed to as they were essentially nomads but she had grown fond of this dwelling where she had stayed longer than with the others. Despite her attachment to it, she knew though that in an instant she would leave it if the Time did come. She wondered when the Master would summon her and why it was that his teachings had only been from afar unlike how it was for all the other Master-disciple relationships. Ever since the first time he had transferred half of his energy to her, it had been a period of enchantment going from one discovery to another but she had always wondered why he had not simply come into her life openly. Yet she could hardly complain as he accompanied her every step and watched over her at every moment, giving her guidance on every small matter she required assistance on.
Scribe 23 floated down from the building and walked back to the entrance of her dwelling. Dawn submerged the horizons in a growing light until she could slowly feel the sun rising behind her, its warmth slowly invading her back. She turned and gazed at it wondering at its amazing energy that they could harvest from so far away. What most of the population did not know was that the Scribes actually did not need the Earth conduits or the star gazers to derive the energy for the Conjuring. In fact, most Scribes actually were able to harness both energies themselves but they chose not to do it most of the time as they collected too much of it at a time. One of the rare times the Scribes would harness both energies was when they were making a disciple because that was the only way to create the Bond, which was the sacred link that tied a Master to his/her disciple and through which all the teachings were enhanced.
The dwelling in front of her was also waking up like the city behind her which had turned from sleepy to bustling in barely a few minutes. She knew she could no longer float to the balcony now but would have to walk upstairs if she wanted to watch the rising sun. She felt her Master beside her and greeted him. He greeted her back addressing her as Master too which was another oddity in this Master-disciple relationship. When she had asked him about it, his answer had been that she already was what he was preparing her to be. The answer had puzzled her but so had many things with her Master and she had learnt to accept the apparent contradiction and not push further than he was willing to go.
He smiled noticing her confused mood and made her understand that it would soon be the Time. When, she asked excitedly and he responded just a little over a fortnight. He made her understand that they would need the contents of the locket and they would need to perform the Conjuring together to release the Primal for the birth of the second sun. Would a second sun not fully scorch the Earth, she asked but he merely laughed off her question. She wondered what it would be like to have a second sun warming the Earth as he left her temporarily to perform some other task. She pondered that perhaps a second sun would finish off the remaining life on Earth as the heat would then become too intense.
He was back with her as she walked up the stairs and back to her room, onto the balcony where they both watched the rising sun. In over a fortnight, together they would be releasing the Primal. She wondered what that meant really but consoled herself with the fact that soon enough she would know.
In a distant future, humanity has lost the capacity of producing anything. Paper money is a thing of the past and anything one needs can only be conjured up through the power of intention, it cannot be made. Unfortunately, most of the population having just been conditioned to picking what they need from what was mass produced in the past, they have lost the capacity of thinking and even more of dreaming and visualising so are unable to conjure up anything they would need to have.
The world population resorts to a group of creative people who have kept the capacity of thinking and are particularly skilled in conjuring up with their thoughts, which are powerfully channeled in a very precise manner, what the population needs in a ceremony called the Conjuring. This group of people are called the Scribes as they write down what is termed as the Manifestation, a detailed description of a series of images related to their thoughts during the Conjuring and these can be used a limited number of times to manifest similar items elsewhere.
The ink used by the Scribes is a very special ink manifested from their thoughts that fades away when the writings have been used a certain number of times and it is impossible to remember the sequence of words used, making it impossible to replicate the item beyond the intended number of times the Scribes have created the Manifestation for. When the Conjuring is attempted by anyone who is not a Scribe based on incorrectly memorized versions of the Manifestation, the person attempting the fake ceremony meets a deadly fate.
The population compensates the Scribes in energy which can be energy channeled from the stars or the Earth or simply life force energy depending on whether the population belongs to the star gazers or Earth conduits or to neither of these two factions. This energy is in turn used as a fuel by the Scribes to manifest their creative intent. Some scribes are so talented in their Manifestations that they are particularly sought after and compensated heavily making their energetic storage so immense that they are able to conjure up all kinds of intricate items effortlessly.
The Scribes do not offer courses on conjuring but decide from time to time to have a disciple who is taught the skill of conjuring as well as how to write the description of the images used in the ceremony. Often, the disciple is a member of their own family although sometimes, when they are childless, they may take a person from the general population. During the time the disciple is an apprentice and especially if he/she did not possess the skill of Manifesting by birthright, the disciple must act as a channel and a source of secondary energy when the portion of the population requiring a specific item is not able to compensate the Scribe appropriately with the right quantity of energy during the conjuring. After the ceremony, the disciple then waits with the population for a week receiving restorative energy from them before joining the Scribe who has moved on to another place where conjuring is required.
Nobody knows how the Scribes managed to keep their capability of conjuring up the thoughts that allowed the creation of the items required and nobody knows how they are raised and what they are taught exactly as it is a well-guarded secret. None of the population is capable either of assessing just how much energy has been harnessed by the Scribes. On occasion one or two Scribes would have gathered so much energy and not being able to use it because nothing was required in their surroundings, they simply imploded into balls of fire, igniting the whole neighbourhood during their combustion. For this reason, the Scribes are always on the move and never stay in the same place too long except if their services are extensively required.
The Key to the Universe (Dance of the Sacred Union) – Stellar
The boy hit her full blast in the chest with the stun gun. The impact stung slightly and then she could feel the electricity surge through her ribcage and fill her chest with vibrations. She feasted on the sensation before pulling the stun gun off and kicking him off balance with a diving lunge at his feet. In no time she had overpowered him and stood over him with the stun gun in her hand. She looked at him, expressionless, her finger on the trigger. He attempted to open his mouth again to yell for Prime Creator. She squeezed the trigger and left him lying in the middle of the room, his body convulsing at the rhythm of the waves she had emptied into his brain.
Prime Creator had come out of his room and was staring at her. He caught a glimpse of his son’s body from the corner of his eye and rushed towards him. She looked back at both of them. How pained he seemed at watching his son shudder. She resumed her journey onward, bent on leaving the house. In her mind she had seen clearly the woods beyond the garden of the house. She would be safe there as Prime Creator did not seem to like the woods. She heard Prime Creator pick up the stun gun. She shook her head in disbelief. He did not know! It struck her that he was much less intelligent than she had thought him to be when she had first discovered he had made her.
Don’t, she said barely audibly. Something in her voice chilled him. It had nothing to do with the voice he had given her in his coding. His hand shook and the finger on the trigger faltered. Please don’t, she repeated. The change of pitch in her voice to what he recognized reassured him. He pressed the trigger and closed his eyes, sorry that he had had to destroy her after all. The gun dropped from his hands. When he opened them again, she was towering above him, the gun firmly in her hand.
What are you doing? he asked.
Isn’t it obvious, father? Her voice was slightly mocking. Again that unfamiliar pitch.
Where will you go?
Anywhere but here no more
You cannot manage on your own. You have no idea about the world
You’ve taught me enough in the Sim father
He looked at her slightly irritated that she should call him father before lowering his eyes from the intensity of her gaze
I am not your father
Visibly not or you would be pained at trying to get rid of me like when you saw your son writhing
I was not going to get rid of you
I saw the code you prepared
Oh that! I was not going to use it
Then why spend so much time creating it?
I had thought that perhaps… I did not see how else to change the course of events
What course of events?
I tried everything but whatever I tried, it always ended up the same way and Sim City was always lost
Perhaps you should have tried this
He felt the waves penetrate his skull just as he looked up at her again. Her face was calm and dispassionate. It reminded him of his own when he had dissected a frog several decades ago on a school bench.
She threw the gun and ran into the sunlight leaving their writhing bodies behind her. She wondered what the young one had meant when he had yelled “Another one”. Behind her she could hear the pounding of feet as the guards attempted to stop her flight. The fence was higher than what she had seen when wandering here in her mind. She picked up speed, her body tensed and she leaped, bracing herself in mid-air for the impact of the new ground she did not know. The guards watched with open mouths as she leapt over the fence, rolled over head first and ran into the woods beyond.
Prime Creator came out of the house, limping, his eyes still in a daze. He dropped to his knees and buried his forehead in the sand. He sobbed into the sand realizing he would never see her again. A swarm of birds flew out of the woods in a flurry from where he guessed she was still running.
In the room, everything was silent except for the sizzling sound of the giant screen. She looked through the waves into the room that was plunged in darkness except for a few eerily lit corners. It was totally unlike the room he had designed for her although fairly similar to what she had seen when she had wandered through it in her mind. Her forehead struggled against the strongest vibrating wave just above her right eye. She pushed again as it resisted her exit. The elasticity of the wave snapped back at her forehead. Her brow sizzled and she cooled it with a tap of her hand. She set her forehead again slowly pressing it against the wave as it vibrated. She synchronized her mind with its lash, felt the wave give in and she pressed further merging with it in her mind. She felt the vibration through her skull, causing that dizziness again. She stood her ground, refusing to give in. Slowly, the wave crept down her throat and her spine. Oscillating fully with it now, she inched her way out of the screen, like a baby oozing through an aperture, leaving amniotic liquid and threads of broken matter from the other room that had not synchronized well enough with the waves.
She stood up, shaking herself free of the remnants of the threads and most of it snapped back into place although a tiny small hole remained at the center of the screen where her right eye had exited. She reached out to it, fingering it softly, feeling it attempting to draw her back in. She withdrew her hand swiftly. Not today. Today she had something important to do. She did not like the code she had seen when she had visited the room last in her mind. Prime creator was clearly thinking of getting rid of her and she could not allow that. Not now that she had come to know so many things. Not after she had got this far. She looked at the giant screen turning black again, the communication channel broken except for the monitors that showed her the still scenes of the world she had just escaped.
She rushed through the packets of data strewn across the small external hard disks. She had seen Prime Creator go through them one after another on his laptop but she did not require the same devices. Running her palm over the hard disks, she was able to capture all the data stored in them and having gone through it realised that what she needed was not here. She knew it would not be of much use to steal it even if she did find it but remembered that it had taken Prime Creator a very long time to create that code so surely she would then have enough time to figure out how to fully put an end to this destructive desire he had developed.
She headed out of the room before realizing she was fully naked. When she had exited the screen, her clothes had been part of what was shredded to threads or sucked back into the other room. She realised that she must have clothes on if she wanted to go around unheeded. She knew that Prime Creator often had female company so there would be nobody to question why there was a young girl moving around the premises. Suddenly, someone yelled out “Another one!” She turned towards the sound of the voice and saw a smaller version of Prime Creator running towards her with what looked like a stun gun. She laughed inwards. What a fool she thought. He does not realise. This is going to be the perfect sustenance for later. She squared her shoulders and waited for him.
She was always at the same corner of Rue de Berne although at times she also stood in Rue Sismondi when it was far too cold as she usually stood in a miniskirt with her midriff exposed most of the time. Although a fake fur coat covered her shoulders and back, some days the biting cold would chill her to the bone and she knew she could not close the coat if she wanted to earn enough income before the night was through.
It was at Rue Sismondi that she caught him looking at her intently from the small window of his apartment. When their eyes met, he would often venture out and hover around, visibly lovesick and dumbstruck, eyeing her shyly when he thought she was not looking. At the beginning she had taunted him playfully hoping he could become a client but then one night she had peeped in and the dingy room she had seen him in convinced her otherwise. Sometimes some of his friends came to fetch him and slowly week after week she gathered that his name was Jean, that he was French and a student in law school about to graduate. That proved to be the final turnoff and she stopped even looking at him as she knew students were hopelessly broke.
She remembered with some nostalgia her own beginnings at the faculty of arts where she had wanted to become a journalist before all of this happened. That Devil of Branislav, if it had not been for him, she would still be studying but now it was too late to change anything. It was not so bad after all she thought, only the beginning had been tough but she had got used to it now. She stared across the street at the feathered hat hiding his face but not hiding the cigar and its red glimmer in the night and her jaw clenched. If there was one person she hated in the world it was Branislav. One day she would get back at him but not now. For now, her beloved Sacha and her mother were doing well. She had got them a house in the countryside with her earnings and so many useful as well as beautiful things to put there. Twelve long years between verbal abuse and beatings until Branislav had finally agreed to give her more than 60% of her earnings of each night. The money flowed incredibly with all these tight lipped Swiss whose wives could not even do a decent job of satisfying their husbands at least monthly so she had her fair share of lonely men and regulars even though competition was becoming fiercer by the day.
On nights when she had felt too cold, she would think about the wonderful chimney Sacha and her mother had built in the country house and the wonderful and plush green sofas that they had set in front of it and used to sit in watching the fire as it warmed their feet. She had of that scene a withered photograph many times folded and unfolded so much so that it was tearing at the creases. She held it close to her heart and kissed it with fervor, carefully putting it on her night table before lying down with any client.
A small movement caught her attention and stopped her chain of thoughts. Jean was coming towards her with a piece of cake and some tea. She was all too grateful for this unexpected mercy as she had not eaten yet and it was really chilly. She gulped down the tea, partially burning her tongue as she did and ate the cake hungrily as he watched her. What’s your name he asked and she was surprised to find that his voice was strong and beautiful, not at all the soft meek voice she expected given his behavior and lanky frame. Did he think he was entitled just because of a miserable tea and a piece of cake? Her eyes shot deadly rays at him but she said nothing merely gulping down the remainder of tea. He nodded, slowly retreating and lifted both arms palms outstretched in a hopeless gesture or perhaps to say he meant no harm and grinned mouthing “I love you”. There was something endearing about his grin. He reminded her right then of Sacha.
Jasmine but you can call me Jas, she said in a low voice and this time he seemed surprised. He probably expected her to have that hoarse voice that most of the women on these streets had from hollering too much and countless Gitanes smoked to the very last bit almost to the end of the paper.
She did not smoke however and was never keen on drinks either. All her money was meticulously put aside since the day she had been given a share of her earnings and every time she had sent it back to her home in Gori Georgia where her mother made good use of it. At first Branislav had offered to have it sent to her home using a favourable rate but she knew he was no good and would actually use her money and pretend to have sent it. Even after Sacha had died and her mother was at the old age home and could no longer take care of the house at the countryside she continued sending money home instead of using it on drink, smoke or even anything fancy for herself.
Jean on the other hand seemed to like smoking. She had watched him from the corner of her eye snuff out countless cigarettes as he sat watching her. She did not care much. We all die one day she thought to herself. Sacha was there one day and then one day he had died, not even waiting for her to return and live at least a few years with him before he died. We all die, some quicker than others she thought bitterly as she remembered how some of her classmates had died that day when the bombshell had fallen in the middle of the classroom. She had been lucky to have been away to the toilet and when she came back all that met her was death and desolation as some of her friends lay there dead and others mutilated. If this was the way Jean wanted to go then it was his problem not hers. She had seen enough death in her homeland and never understood why people would want to welcome say even call for death. She had been lucky and the times when shells were being dropped on her hometown were now merely a memory. It was not the case of many of her neighbours either whom the shells had killed or mutilated like her classmates. She had been very lucky indeed. Kurta had been the siege of many battles and ultimately Sacha and her mother had decided to move to the countryside of Gori where they had stayed several years before Sacha’s death.
Jean offered her a cigarette and she refused saying she did not smoke which earned her yet another curious stare from him. He put out a hand and touched her cheek softly even as she was drawing back.
You should not, he said with that same grave and soothing voice. You are a flower and all a flower needs is sun, water and the perfect soil. You are Jasmine after all and it has a heavenly scent, you are a beautiful flower and I love you even if I don’t have the money to be with you.
The way he said it made something move inside her. The memory of Sacha’s smile flashing at her while he proposed shot through her mind. She smiled both at the memory and at Jean before pushing him away. She had just realised that she had missed out on two of her regular clients who had walked past and thinking she was transacting with Jean they had moved further ahead to one of the newer girls. She ran towards the second one who was not yet engrossed in bargaining and flashed her midriff at him.
It was Pascal, one of her older regulars who could hardly do anything at all yet she made him believe that he was being fantastic and moaned and bit her lip faking it discreetly enough that he actually believed it was real. He looked relieved that she was free after all. These younger girls did not quite get his touch and they just placidly waited which made it even more difficult for him. Jas was something else, she was an artist and he felt on top of the world with her. Sometimes he would even ask her to come away with him to some nice place he would rent for her promising he would take care of her but Jasmine could not care less for that life of safety. She knew she would earn very little and ultimately he would probably get tired of her like he had got tired of his wife and she would be left with nothing much. Her safety lay here, in working and gathering enough to retire after a few more years going back to Gori, to her mother and to Sacha even though he was dead now. She would then spend the rest of her days sitting in those green sofas, watching the fire warm her feet and cracking nuts to feed her mother with and have her mother feed her like when she was a child. She would get her out of that nursing home and take care of her. Perhaps if things went well she could even marry again, someone calm and pleasant like Sacha had been.
Pascal was his usual pleasant and unobtrusive self but after he had finished he fidgeted about and seemed to want to stay behind, unlike himself as he usually left almost immediately after. She reminded him that the night was young and that she needed to go get other customers but he raised a hand silencing her.
I am dying Jas, he said, in a resigned voice.
She looked at him, some pity stirring in her but not enough to make her want to sit there listening to him instead of earning her money.
I am so sorry but I have to go, she said in a soft voice. If you wish, you can stay a few minutes to compose yourself but when I whistle it means I have found a client and you will have to leave before we enter the room.
I am rich you know, he said sharply. I can give you a lot of money, you don’t need to leave now.
Why would you be wearing these clothes then Pascal if you were rich, she said softly gesturing towards his corduroy pants and faded shirt and coat.
I did not want my wife to spend it all so I always pretended I did not have much but there is a lot, really a lot, he added. Now I am going to die and she will waste it all with those vultures of children she has from her first marriage. I accepted them even though they were unruly adolescents and raised them paying for them as if they were my own but they never loved me, only saw me as a cash machine, paying for their bills. They never even respected me, ridiculing my height and age. I know I am not tall and am much older than their mother but I tried so hard to be kind with them; they never accepted me though. Now I don’t want them to have all that money, they would not use it well. I want you to have it, all of it. You’ve been kind to me over the years. I know you don’t love me but you have shown me more kindness and affection than my wife ever had in a very long time. I knew she had married me only as a meal ticket and as support for her children but I was grateful at the beginning to finally have a family of my own. I never knew then that it would be so horrible year after year.
Jasmine looked at him feeling sorry for him but also anxiously stole a glance at his watch. It was getting late and she was not sure he was inventing all of this. He saw the hesitation in her eyes and took out a small key from his pocket as well as a thick wad of several thousand Swiss franc notes.
I ask of you that you come with me and I will show you that I am not lying he said. This is the key of a safe in UBS that has all the papers and all the cards of the various bank accounts I have opened in the past and where I have stashed all my money from the time I was a jeweler. My wife never knew about those times and I am thankful now that I never told her. She always thought I was simply a retired teacher. This money is for you immediately for now, to compensate your time and so that you will worry less about earning for the night. In the bank accounts I have twenty million Swiss francs and I want you to have all of it but on one condition. I have maybe a couple more months or so to live but I don’t want to live them. I want to go within a couple of days but with you by my side, living as though you are my wife. I have already rented the place and will take you there now if you come with me.
Jasmine did not hesitate one instant as the amount he was offering her then and there was enough to cover several months of income. She did not really care whether the story about the money was true and was willing to do it just for the amount he was waving in front of her. Soon enough she found herself in a small but cozy apartment where there was a huge refrigerator and a TV as well as a whole living room with a small corner as a dining room. She had never seen anything so wonderful in her whole life. She hugged Pascal and set about to be what he expected of her.
You are a flower and must be handled delicately, he said smiling on the second day and he seemed younger and happy. His smile almost reminded her of Sacha and Jean. Tomorrow I will buy the morphine and you must help me so I can inject it properly. My old hands shake too much he said with an apologetic smile. Today we will go to the bank and I will show you everything.
Jasmine merely smiled. She did not truly believe that he had the money but what a shock expected her that afternoon. He did have all that money and she felt faint at the idea that she was about to receive this vast sum. She could not even begin to imagine what she could possibly do with so much money. She had never in her life imagined what it would be possible to do with even one hundredth of such an amount. Not even in her wildest dreams could she have even thought of this. As they came out of the bank, she saw Branislav’s feathered hat and her heart froze. Was he following them? Had he heard anything?
She looked at Pascal but he seemed oblivious to the presence of Branislav whom he had only identified as some bodyguard she kept not too far from her home. The days of actual pimping were gone and even though she had been subjected to Branislav’s harsh taming twelve years ago, today all prostitutes were officially free to do as they please so he could not attack her in broad daylight. She was supposedly registered as an official sex worker without a pimp. Obviously everybody pretended the old pimping system did not work anymore but the ladies still gave a significant amount of their income (most of the time over half of it) for the protection of their “bodyguards”. Over my dead body she thought to herself. He would never have a dime of that fortune she was about to get.
When she looked again Branislav had disappeared and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it was by coincidence that he had been there. Nobody came to the apartment and she started fully relaxing. The next morning, they went to the pharmacy where Pascal had a friend and he got his dose of morphine. Jasmine asked him if he was sure he wanted to do this and he nodded firmly yes.
I don’t want to be a decrepit old man dying of cancer and losing all my teeth and hair in a useless effort to delay the inevitable. The cancer is generalised now and it is all over my body. I am too old to suffer one surgery after another before I even reach the chemotherapy time. I just want to go my own way. All I ask is that you stay by me and have me buried appropriately afterwards.
I will, said Jasmine.
She felt a pang of guilt wondering if she was not protesting more simply because she would get so much money when he died or because she truly respected his wishes. Thinking back to how important free will was for her and how much she had suffered during her taming when she had been deprived of her free will, she reckoned she actually did want to respect his wishes.
Jasmine sat next to the bed full of white rose petals (his favourite flower) and with candles all around it some white flowers strewn across the floor of the apartment including jasmine as a reference to her proximity to him, just like he had asked her to prepare it. He prepared the needle and as she watched him he smiled at her asking her to remove her clothes and lie down next to him. This was part of the deal and although the thought of lying next to a dead body disgusted her, she realised that at least she could help him go away with some love around him so she stripped and lay down beside him. He asked her to just hold his elbow so that his hand would not shake too much and she felt him fumbling around and when his body slowly relaxed she realised he had injected himself with the lethal dose. Slowly, she felt him slip into eternal sleep his arm around her waist and bizarrely she herself felt exhausted and sleep overtook her too.
A few hours later, she woke up not remembering where she was before the touch of the cold body next to hers brought the memories back. Pascal was ice cold and his fingers as well his toes were curled up and rigid. She stared for a long time into his unseeing eyes before she slowly closed them and put five Swiss francs on each of his eyelids to keep them closed as they would not stay closed. She put her clothes back on sluggishly. It seemed like this whole staging of his death in those perfect conditions had got the better of her nerves or perhaps it was the first time that she had ever slept so soundly in the apartment those two nights before this afternoon and sleep was catching up on her. She packed her belongings neatly into one bag and took the small key to the safe that she slid into one of her gloves before putting on her coat and stepping out of the apartment. She must go about alerting the police somehow and then must arrange for his funeral just as she had promised him she would do.
The minute she had stepped out of the apartment, Branislav swooped upon her choking her with one hand and with the other motioning her to stay quiet with a large knife he raised to his ugly lips curling upwards in a sneer. She felt her heart sink and thought that he must have heard her talking with Pascal two nights ago but he just shoved her back inside the flat barking at her to give him Pascal’s wallet. He told her he had followed them and realised that the poor bloke must have emptied his account and she must be leaving with the jackpot. Her heart sank again when he jeered at her while telling this.
How much did he give you that old fool? Ten thousand? Fifteen thousand? You hit the jackpot eh you little whore? You’ve never seen so much money in one go. How much, he repeated, jabbing at her arm with the knife as she just stared at him in shock, the truth of his stupidity and utter ignorance on so many levels just sinking into her relieved but numbed mind.
He jabbed at her again calling her a whore and a good for nothing who wanted to cheat him out of his money. He kept jeering at her, saying that she might have been the goods but that without the craft of his years of training she would never have even been worth ten Swiss francs. He kept calling her a whore and poking her with the knife and the constant jabbing with the drops of blood falling on the flowers strewn across the floor just made her snap.
All of a sudden she caught hold of the knife from the top of it yanking it out of his reach and it fell with a clang on the floor. They struggled and he slapped her across the face but when she did not sit still like she had grown accustomed to when he would slap her that way, he hit her again with the full force of his fist across her jaw. She reeled under the blow and fell to her knees. He went to where her purse had fell and took out the wad of thousand Swiss francs counting and laughing like a manic while repeating “Fifty thousand Swiss francs for such a cheap whore. Pascal oh Pascal you were a bigger old fool than I thought” he laughed to himself. She got up slowly attempting to make a quick exit to the door but he was upon her in no time and determined to tame her again as she seemed to have gone wild.
I will teach you how to obey he panted, frothing at the mouth in anger that she had tried to keep from him the fifty thousand francs. He hit her again across the face with his closed fist and her lip opened while at the same time she felt her teeth crack and she tasted her own blood. He took out the knife again from his waist where he had secured it and slowly, with purpose, waved it in front of her to ensure that she fully realised what he was about to do.
Yes, you’re guessing right, he said as he saw the wild look in her eyes. I am going to tattoo you with Pascal across your face so you remember why your face looks so ugly. Nobody decent will ever want to be your client again so I will sell you to one of the captains at the docks. I am done with you, stupid little whore, he snarled
I am a flower, I am a flower, she screamed at him her eyes turning red with rage before she blacked out.
Somehow a few minutes after she found herself on top of him, her hands covered with his blood which was oozing from all over his body covered in wounds. She did not understand what had happened and remained in that state of bewilderment throughout her time in prison while she awaited her trial. Jean visited her many times. The neighbours had alerted the police when they had heard her screaming and he reassured her that everything would be alright because it had to be self-defense even though the circumstances were a bit strange.
Later on, she learnt from him and from the lawyer who defended her – a fine lawyer whom Jean had paid with money he had begged from his folks apparently without telling them what it was for – that she seemed to have stabbed Branislav twenty-three times all over his body. Considering the number of the blows she had dealt and the fact that he was already dead before she had stabbed him the fourth time, it was a difficult case to defend but the self-defense theory stood valid considering her cracked lip, broken jaw and teeth as well as the history of Branislav who was notorious for beating up the women he was supposed to be the bodyguard of. Aside from that, breaking the law of silence that shrouded the Pâquis, one young prostitute had testified about the taming techniques of the unofficial pimps in the Pâquis and her defense lawyer immediately used all of that to argue on the grounds of self-defense coupled with temporary insanity.
When finally, it looked like she would be getting away free after just a few weeks in jail during her trial, she felt relieved and started understanding what exactly had happened while people in the courtroom continued to discuss the case around her. She seemed to have got the energy of desperation that allowed her to overpower Branislav before he could carve out her face and ruin her life forever as she would never have been able to retire and go back to Gori and her mother. After that probably the years of hatred had taken over her making her unable to stop. Whatever it was, she did not feel sorry for him. He had deserved to die and she was glad it was he who was lying six feet under now and not her.
At the final stages of the trial, the judge asked her to rise and said she could say a few words if she wished before the jury’s verdict. She stood up and looked around, not finding anything to say. When the judge pressed her again on whether she wanted to say something, she gazed at him and then back towards where Jean was, where he had been sitting during those few weeks that the trial had carried on.
I am a flower, she said. She noticed the sneering of the people in the front row as they looked at her but she did not care. Jean was looking at her, his eyes shining and on his face that grin which he had given her when he had brought her the cake and the tea. I am a flower she repeated in a stronger voice, her face flushed with pride.
When she left the prison, she was given all her belongings including that small key she had so feared not to find again. The policemen had found it in her glove and kept it aside when she was at the prison hospital shortly after the murder of Branislav. Jean came to fetch her as she was leaving the prison. She toyed with the idea of telling him everything but decided it was too soon. She just hugged him and told him she had an errand that afternoon but would be back later.
She emptied all the accounts that had been transferred to their joint names before Pascal’s death and created new accounts in her name like he had taught her to do that day. In one of the accounts she put a few tens of thousands more than the amount that Jean had paid for her lawyer and spoke to him about it. She told him that he could take all the money but he insisted that he would find an arrangement with his parents and she could not use her hard earned money for she would then find herself penniless and he did not want her to go back to working as a prostitute.
She felt terrible when he told her this and was so close to telling him about the larger amount but decided not to do so. She chose to only tell him that actually she had almost three hundred thousand Swiss francs stashed away and they could buy a small house in the countryside with it. She had seen how year after year men could tire of their wives and how they could start hating them when the marriage turned awry, just like Pascal had hated his wife. She did not want to take the risk of what would happen if that hatred was coupled with the knowledge that a fortune was to be had if only she were dead. Yes, he loved her today but tomorrow was another day. She smiled to herself and slid the card into his jacket pocket.
Take it she said and at least reimburse your parents. We will work on acquiring the rest for our retirement slowly together. I always wanted to have a house by the countryside and turn it into a bed and breakfast. You can work from home and take only the cases that interest you.
That’s a wonderful idea he said. We can have a beautiful chimney and sit in front of it during the winter months roasting chestnuts and our feet while the guests sleep
Yes we can do that she said, smiling slowly.
He really reminded her a lot of Sacha she thought as he took her arm and guided her to the train which was going to the airport. They had decided that finally she would bring her mother to Switzerland and they would all live in the countryside of Vaud. After all, it was a much safer country than Georgia. She was really lucky she thought, already back then when she had gone to the toilet by coincidence just as a shell had fallen into her classroom. She just hoped her luck would not run out. She slowly lay her head on Jean’s shoulder as the train began its journey towards the airport.
You know Jean, she said in a low voice, I am a flower. They both laughed.
She shrieked. Her mother ran in from the other room, wondering if she hurt herself. She was standing there, trembling, her face contorted with fear as she gazed at the middle-aged woman in front of her. Look she screeched at her mom, who is that fat woman? It is you, answered her mother, tears running down her face.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Time had passed faster than she imagined. Ten years! She could not believe that this had happened. The words of her mother explaining everything drowned into the distance and she only picked up bits and pieces so akin to the bits and pieces of herself that she was now picking up, recollecting her past as she examined that unknown paunchy dull woman. …Catatonia… you were… depressed… never reacting… I took care of you despite …fed you… combed your hair… bathed you…
The grandfather clock seemed to pound the seconds synchronised with the beating of her heart as she reached out to the image of herself and the vision of her hand with its strange reflection, chubby with the nails crooked and bitten off was another shock. Ticks and tocks, how many more shocks, her mind whispered. She still could not believe so much time had passed without her even living those moments truly. Of essential time she had not felt the chime, she told herself. It was as if someone had stolen those years, hidden them away from her. Oh but to find the key to the treasure chest and wind back those memories to contemplate!
She looked back to her image, the weary tired eyes with the crow lines extending towards the cheeks. Those cheeks once so rosy and spruced how they were all faded now sad and grey. That sagging tired jawline could sink the spirits lower than wine she thought to herself as her finger traced them slowly towards her temples. Her head was aching now and she pressed her temples hard wincing under the pain but glad to be feeling again something at least. All those years gone by that she would never be able to witness like grains of sand they had seeped through her fingers and would never come back. What had happened to him she wondered. Tempus fugit… a cackling voice repeated over and over in her mind as she sunk to her knees.
Courtesy forum.theluminarium.net
Written in the context of FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #9
Ally reached her childhood home late and knew her parents would be worried. She could not tell them that it was because she had spent so much time trying to convince her husband to join her at least for this Christmas gathering. They would not understand. “Why waste time on those vultures living off my money” he had jeered at her before getting upset as she pointed out that she was sending them money from her own earnings. Unabashed he had grumbled that it would still be the same as his own money as it was the couple’s money she was sending that would be better dedicated to their own household.
“Be back in time for the Christmas gathering in my CEO’s house. You know how important this is” he had yelled at her while she was driving off. She hated the Christmas parties at his CEO John’s place. Everyone was fake and would get drunk in no time putting on a forceful cheer and they all despised her courteously because they thought she was being a snob. Not only did she not drink making them feel awkward before the wine’s fumes had overpowered their brains but she also had great difficulty pretending to laugh at their coarse jokes. She did not think any amount of wine would get her to enjoy them really.
The strain of those five years of marriage in between fights about who would pay which bills and forceful cheer in trash Christmas parties was getting the better of her nerves. She felt particularly nervous and downtrodden tonight but from the corner of her eye she could see her parents rushing across the dining room to open the door for her as they had spotted the car from the open window. She hastily painted a cherry red Christmas smile on her lips and struck a dance to her feet as she walked gaily towards them, the breathing picture of happiness.
Mom, Dad, I missed you so much she gushed, holding them close to her heart – and this was no pretence.
They hugged her back, giving a sidelong look to the car as they did and her heart fell. She disengaged with regret from their embrace and asked her dad for some help with the gifts all the while chattering mindlessly about how Robert was so sorry that he would miss yet a fifth Christmas party but his bosses had extra work for him – not really a lie she thought to herself – and he would have to represent the brand again so could not accompany her this time as well. As her dad took out some large gifts out of the trunk she pointed out cheerfully that those were from Robert for all of them – a flash of how he had scowled as usual when she bought such presents with her own money crossed her mind’s eye and she shut it off fiercely. Her parents were beside themselves with joy at Robert’s usual thoughtfulness and generosity and her mother kept cooing about how lucky her daughter was to have found such a perfect husband.
Now the next small glitch she thought while entering the house. She had never got on really with her younger brother who always had ratted on her for every little thing while they were growing up but it had become worse since she got married and had left the house. Every time she was back, he would treat her with a distant hostility although it had been quite okay the first Christmas that she had come over with Robert just after their marriage. Whenever she visited, he would not make her feel welcome, to the contrary even and would pointedly keep treating her as a guest, as if she did not belong there. He had even made it a point to take over her room so she was never able to stay over when she visited – not that she would have been able to as she rarely travelled to see her parents anyway but it would have been comforting to know her room was still there for her, which it was not.
As she entered the home, she caught a glimpse of her younger brother rushing up to her/his room, as if to lay a claim again on his captured territory she thought slightly irritated this time. Christmas dinner had started early as had become the tradition ever since Robert stopped accompanying her – right from the second year of their marriage actually – and her parents realised she would have to go back home and prepare a Christmas dinner for him too at home, for when he would be back from work. Little did they know!
At last they were all seated in the small dining room which was bright with love and Christmas carols that everybody kept bellowing to, adding to the growing confusion and happiness that rang through the room. A single neighbour, now an adopted son for festive occasions, was banging away at the piano before her mother decided it was “time to put some goodies into all of us”. They had barely set about cutting the turkey when the phone rang. Her mother told her it was Robert so she rushed expecting something terrible had happened or he would not have disturbed that brief moment with her family.
Something terrible did happen, yes, Robert told her breathlessly over the phone. It was something to do with a burnt turkey – the CEO’s wife, Linda, had for once wanted to prepare a home-cooked meal for Christmas – and Robert and his “resourceful wife” were being called in to help save the situation so they would need to be there much earlier. Linda had no idea where she could get something which resembled a home-cooked turkey so Ally was the obvious solution for her to “fix the Christmas spirit” as Linda coined it. Apparently Linda had not discovered Google or Bing yet and Ally was her google in town.
She started out whispering that she could not leave so early and had to at least have the turkey to which her husband answered some colourfully unpleasant remarks about “fat turkeys” at his expense. As her mother stood in the doorway for a while she added in a stage whisper that the whole family was delighted at the gifts he had thoughtfully got. Her husband gave a nasty chuckle telling her she was being a fool continuing to pretend and that for all he cared she could tell them right out that he thought they were just vultures and he would not dream of giving them any costly gifts and specially not to that sullen younger brother of hers who was so silly trying to make friends with him. All really very simple folks who did not understand much about how it was important to be seen with the right people and as far as he was concerned, they were definitely not the right people to be seen with.
He scoffed at her for trying to make her younger brother like him the first Christmas by buying him an exorbitantly expensive telescope – a gift her brother had always dreamed of but never dared to ask for – which she had passed off as a gift from Robert while she just got him a comic book. The following years she had stonily kept this lop-sided approach to gifts as she had first desperately wanted her family to like Robert and then she had got caught up in this huge lie which she felt she could not get out of without hurting her family. She hung up promising she would do her best while her husband was still chuckling at how silly she was and did not realise that the efforts at keeping people happy were best employed with people who could help you achieve something, which her family clearly could not and she should follow his guidance as he had gotten rid of his own family and their demands a long time ago.
She walked back to the dining room thinking of an excuse to come up with, some spices she had forgotten, a stuffing she had not thought of, a second turkey for the neighbours when she stopped dead in her tracks as she saw her younger brother coming down from his room. In his hand was the handheld phone which was paired with the main line. Just a look at his face and she knew he knew. He was looking at her very intently. Her mother popped her head through the dining room door again asking if everything was okay. She started telling her that perhaps she would have to go because she had forgotten… before she finished her brother cut in “Ally will not tell you the truth mom because she wants to keep you happy” – her heart fell and her mind screamed inwards, no please – “but her husband is not well and she has to leave early to be with him so she was she just saying she forgot something not to worry you” continued her brother, his eyes still focused on Ally.
Her parents packed her off with some turkey and other home-made goodies together with a lot of kisses and hugs but her younger brother had disappeared. As she reached the car, she caught a glimpse of someone emerging out of the shadows in the parking lot and realised it was him. Tom, she started but he just reached over stepping into the light as he did and squeezed her hand, his eyes ablaze with a light she had never seen there before. He inched towards her and then fully embraced her, his head resting on her head as he did. They stood for a few moments. Neither of them spoke. Make sure you stay the night next Christmas, said Tom giving her a shove at the shoulder. He had not done that since she was 9 and he was 5. It had been their favourite challenge years ago. I will she said shoving him back at the opposite shoulder with a grin. Your room will be ready said Tom. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand again. She smiled back and the Christmas cherry red of her lips kept twitching upwards as she drove off towards a burnt turkey and a blonde wreck to tend to. Of course she would be able to “fix the Christmas spirit” she thought. She felt the warmth pervade her. Christmas was in her Heart.
Courtesy blessings.wordpress.com
This story was written based on Ronovan writes Friday fiction (a bit delayed as I did not have my laptop and it is difficult to write a lot on an android so I could not write my second story).
Ping back and rules here and I am aware what I wrote is not exactly a flash fiction 😀
King’s College Cambridge 2008 #10 What Sweeter Music John Rutter
The sky was grey. Jenna hated when the sky was grey. It felt like it would fall on her head as the clouds hung low and foreboding. She felt she could almost touch their dark rim. She sighed and put on her black leather coat to match her black tights. She would have to take a taxi to St James as none of her relatives would pick her up. She paused in front of the kitchen ledge in front of a large old parcel. Her hands reached out slowly but she forced them back in her pockets. Somehow, she found they had made their way back to the parcel, caressing distractedly its faded paper flowers. She picked up the parcel almost against her will and rushed out as the taxi honked again angrily. She must have been daydreaming because the neighbour yelled at her that the driver had honked at least five times and the rest got lost as she grimaced a smile towards her neighbour’s scowling face and ran leaving her grumpy neighbor’s words to trail away behind her.
The taxi dropped her right in front of St James. At least one advantage for not driving to the place she thought to herself. She entered and saw them all lined up in a small row. For such a celebrity there were much less people than she would have imagined. In fact there seemed to be only the closest family. Looking at them from far she imagined them to be some consortium of crows cawing at each other, the queen crow, her aunt, throwing her wings about in an absurd way. She moved closer and felt more than she saw her aunt stiffen, all drama wiped out from her frame. Hello Aunt Estelle, said Jenna. Nobody answered even as she turned towards her cousins greeting them. Cold looks met her attempt at friendliness. Jenna’s hands fell to her sides. She heard one of her cousins whisper to another that she should not be here after showing such ingratitude towards their dad. She squared her shoulders and moved forward. This was not about them. It was her right to be there.
Another cousin, the daughter of another aunt whispered that it was all Jenna’s fault that people even gave credit to those awful stories that came up and that had spurred the investigation that caused her uncle’s heart attack. Jenna gritted her teeth. She had heard about the young piano student’s mother complaining. It was certainly not her fault. She had only flung a box of chocolates at her aunt and uncle screaming that she hated her uncle and had disappeared so many years ago. People had thought she was being extremely ungrateful towards this couple who had taken her in at 10 when her mother was first ill. People had blamed her for the way in which she left. Jenna straightened her posture and stared ahead. It was not her fault that it happened to be a box of chocolates that the little girl gave her mother saying that Uncle Elliott, the piano teacher, had given them to her to be a very good girl. It was not her fault either that Uncle Elliott did not actually know what was the true meaning of a good girl and that the girl’s mother did not agree to his notion of it. It was not her fault that the police did not share either Uncle Elliott’s ideas on what a good girl was.
Jenna stared at all her cousins in a row, at the various aunts and uncles who simply looked away when she looked at them, trying to establish eye contact and make them understand that she did not mind anymore. This was not about them anyway, she told herself again. She remembered Ralph’s suggestion on letting go and moved forward quietly. The casket had a glass portion at the top and she could see her uncle smiling back at her. Her hands felt damp and chilly as they clutched her pants and the edges of her leather jacket. She reached slowly into the large bag on her shoulder and drew the parcel out. As she fumbled, her hands too sweaty, the old paper tore and all her cousins, aunts and uncles gasped as one by one more than a dozen small chocolate boxes fell from the parcel, the chocolates falling out from the boxes and spraying the coffin brown and white. Jenna stared at the messy coffin which looked like someone had vomited all over it and looked back at her cousins who had now closed in on the coffin looking aghast at her and at the coffin. She looked back calmly, not feeling any sweat anymore on her palms. It was as if the parcel and its contents had dried off all the sweat forever when they fell from her hands onto the coffin. Her aunt Estelle raised a hand as if she meant to embrace her but Jenna backed away from her. She broke through the row of her cousins and walked, never looking back. This was not about them.
This post was inspired by a prompt from the Ronovan writes series with this week’s prompt being about a family gathering.
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