rubbery noir continued
I remember the last time I took a girl back to my place.
She was shocked while I was amused.
"It's beautiful," she breathed, and ran fingers over things.
All of it was art, my entire place.
By art I don't mean splashes of paint or bumps of color.
I mean the real kind that you can feel and breathe through.
Etchings in the wooden floors, carvings on the arched ceilings, a mantle that looked not so much like a place for the fire as a mouth yawning to the bowels of hell.
It was all black and crystal and the warmth of wood, completely suiting the outside of me.
I never felt at home.
We spent that day fucking with our eyes open, mine on her and hers on everything else.
I looked at the everything else reflected in her eyes from time to time and couldn't help but smile.
She spent the night stretched like a kitten, her hair falling back, head bobbing to her snores.
Ever get an urge to reach out and break something?
She wasn't a bad kid though.
I got up grabbing my flux wand and walked out to the balcony.
It was a beautiful night full of stars and somewhere, closer than you might think, my guys were raining the best kind of beauty.
I accessed my splice and felt for them, Tony, Troy, and Oliver.
They were surrounded by support people who faded to the background.
They were amid a cacophony of violence and light, but that faded too.
I focused on the heat of pain; the pain of killing superseded by the mangling abuse that hit a person more in the heart than the body. That was the kind of pain the giver would rarely forget.
I don't know how long I stood there in the sweet air, living vicariously through technology.
It seemed like minutes but probably was hours.
When Troy finally broke down and screamed, as he always did during such responsibilities, that's when I switched off.