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Chapter 1, Shade |
.: Publication date 14-Mar-2002 :: Reads: 1251 :: Review ::  ::  :. |
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Yep, you heard me right. want to be in the story? OK. I don't promise any schedual of writing, i don't even promise everyone will get in, but i think I can fit everyone. I think the main aim here is the motivation to keep working on this one, I like the beginning and it always helps me write more if I have an addicted audience. I'm willing to accept suggestions of everything to characters, scenes, plot twists, sexual positions, and flavours of chocolate. Oh, yeah, and of course I'll take grammar advice (eep). Anyway, on with the story. Oh, and the first paragraph has nothing to do with the overall storyline yet, I just like it, it's what I started the flow of words with. Did I mention I intend to include sex?
An artwork in blood and giggles
Blah blah blah, blood sex death, a vermilion sky hides behind ragged clouds as they writhe past a gibbous moon...Deeper into the madness runs a frightened rabbit while on the dark side of the moon the centauri mayor tans his wife's hide. In a little known monastery, on a less known mountain in a very well known country...Life goes on.
Where to start? An age-old question, with an age-old answer: from the beginning. But where or when did it all begin? Was it that fateful night in the club, when all of us were drunk and laughing at ideas that even then seemed to far-fetched to be a reality? Or was it before then, when we each separately or in groups found ourselves drawn to the darker side of life. So many questions, but only one way to find the answers, I must answer them. For myself, for the others. For the world all dark and uncaring as it enfolds us in wings of gossamer and razor-edged lace.
In the beginning, I was a normal angst ridden teen, a little acne, but not enough to mar handsome features. My hair was a little ragged, as was all the rage back in those badass punk rock days. I had at one point owned a denim jacket, now it was a mass of studs, chains, buttons, paint, and patches. I firmly believe there were at least three threads of original denim left because I remember picking at them occasionally. I didn't fit into the mainstream, whatever that was. But I could certainly get along well enough with them. The jocks didn't hate me, or shy away in fear. The cheerleaders, while too nervous of their social standing to date me would rarely turn down a one-nighter if there was no one to see. The nerd crowd and I got along famously. I didn't beat them up and they didn't have to dumb down their vocabulary to talk to me. I knew more of the un-branded 'normies' than I can remember. We ate lunch together, dated occasionally, and even loved, briefly. But there was always something missing. Some spark that failed to ignite and start the blaze that would draw us together into that all consuming obsession we call love.
Shortly after reaching high school, I began spending my money on books of a darker nature. I had always been an avid reader, veering towards a diet of sci-fi and fantasy, but never scoffing at a good book regardless of the subject matter. Then, however; I started aiming my literary sights on novels that followed a darker path. I read the necronomicon for the story line, I found vampire novels and devoured them with a vengeance, I followed my hormonally inspired instincts and looked for novels with a less than subtle sexual theme, but even those tended towards the darker side of the old hot and sweaty. I began reading books that I didn't feel were that well written, because they still spoke to me, the Marquis DeSade was the first that spoke to me in a way that didn't just fill my pants or my head. It filled my heart. The prose were dry, the story slow moving, but the subject was both explicit and well thought out. The Marquis explained his thoughts as he debased his heroines.
In my heart, there was a spark. I fanned it to a flame with well-written erotica, and fiction that held it self up as other than erotica. Vampire novels based on the idea that the Marquis was alive, or at least undead and still swinging a whip, dark novels where-in the protagonist spent more time in the seedy underbelly of leather bars and 'alternative' clubs than they did on the back of a dragon, or chasing down the magic ring; these began to fill my library. I even supplemented these readings with a few choice items from the 'net, then a few local dial-up BBS's where someone else had donated their own fantasies, written down and stored for all the world to see.
Not only did my reading habits change, my music, before then a steaming pile of angry youth; Bad Religion, TSOL, The Vandals, these fell to the also-ran pile, to be played occasionally when the mood struck me, rather than as a matter of habit. In their place came the velvet cries of the up and coming dark-wave bands, throaty vocals slipped between the ribs of the soul to pierce a heart now warmed by visions of blood and bondage. The Cure, Souxsie Sioux, and Peter Murphy in whatever incarnation he took on that month. These were the new soundtrack for my life.
With the change of mental stimuli, my outer self changed as well, that angry mask I had worn for the early years of my teen-age life became one of introspection. My beloved denim armour made way for a sleek black leather jacket. Torn jeans made way for the clean lines of leather pants, or clean tight black jeans. I tossed out my finally broken in and already slightly ragged pair of Converse All-stars(c) and strapped on a pair of twelve-eye Doc's. What little color remained in my clothing came in the form of crimson poet's shirts, which I wore unbuttoned down to my navel, or a blood red ribbon, which I used to tie back my hair. My hair, once ragged masses of chestnut curls that I let hang where they wished, I dyed midnight black and let grow to my shoulders. I began to brush it until it shone, or tied it back so only a single curl broke loose to hang along my cheekbone. I experimented with make-up, at first in a post adolescent urge to emulate those new musical stars of my life, and then because when I looked in the mirror I liked what I saw. I was a work of art. Where before I had been a protest against all that was beating me down, now I was an elemental. From 'fear me' to 'fey creature', I was an elemental. My body screamed sex and a devotion to sensuality that howled at the moon. Silk caressed me from chin to waist, leather or denim held me tight from there down. I was irresistible, if only to myself. I was developing an ego that was soon to be burst by an army of black clad, alabaster faced Goths who had seen it all, done it all, and were only interested if I could offer something new to their already jaded eyes.
At first I had no idea what to do with myself, the transformation had taken months to truly occur, and so caught in my own web of new horizons had I been that I hadn't noticed my acquaintances edging away from me in our old haunts, and even my friends turning down more and more opportunities to hang out together. Finally I found myself alone in a world that had begun to feel like a veil drawn tightly over secrets that hovered just out of reach behind the lies that were all I had known before now. I spent a few weeks lost in a deep depression, convinced that there was no one who would understand me, I wrote fan letters to Robert Smith and Siouxsie, I received nice form letters and machine signed pictures in response. I reasoned that these icons of all that I had become must share my feelings, their music pulled at my soul. I could not imagine a bed freshly rumpled from sex that did not have dark smears of black or deep burgundy lipstick stains on the pillowcase. I looked at the cheerleaders who had so willingly helped me forget myself the year before and felt like a pedophile for even considering them. I felt as though I had aged and the world around me had not.
I turned to suicide and toyed with the idea for months. I started cutting myself with razors just to see the blood well, but all to often the sight of the blood made me feel alive, I felt not like dying, but like running through the streets screaming with a sense of immortality. I began writing e-mails to the authors whose erotica I had so enjoyed at the beginning of my transformation. At first, I intended to ask if they had anything new; the fantasy of leather and lace was quickly becoming more erotic than the reality of cotton/nylon blends. Soon, however; I began corresponding regularly with a few of the authors, one of them, a self proclaimed 'Goth' -the term was new to me then- who called himself Savage Dream, or just Dream for short suggested I join him and a few of his friends for a late night get-together at one of the local coffee houses. My first instinct was to demur, I didn't know this person except through the monitor of my computer, he had no idea what I looked like, and I didn't want to be rejected by a near stranger, I could get that from the people I knew face to face. Before I knew what was happening, I had replied that I would see him there. I realized that I may never have met this Dream person face to face, but I had shared more of my personality with him than I had with those I knew in what I was already beginning to think of as my old life.
That night I looked myself in the mirror, saw the rice powder makeup, the heavy eyeliner, the black lipstick, and my long luxurious hair, I asked my beautiful reflection if I was ready to throw myself on the mercy of a new group of people, most of them older than myself by a few years, if not more. I asked my reflection if I wanted to introduce myself, the new me to people who had never known me in any other way. I leaned over next to the sink and threw up. It came as a surprise to me, but somehow it seemed a sign, I was purging my body of the past and preparing for a new life. Whether these people rejected me or not, I was not the pubescent teenager I had been when I picked up my first vampire novel and was shocked to find the characters gaining pleasure from biting each other. I was nearly seventeen, I was scheduled to graduate early in less than a month, and like it or not, it was time to face a world beyond the tiled hallways of school and the mall which had always seemed an extension of that fruitless institution. I steeled my nerve, fixed my makeup, rinsed my mouth with a secret bottle of red wine I kept under my bed and walked out my front door to face the future.
ONE
I locked the door behind me and lit a cigarette while I waited for the cab I had called. The last thing I wanted to do on this first meeting was show up sweaty frazzled from riding my bike the mile and a half to the café at which I was to meet Dream and his friends. The moon was nearly full when I glanced up at it and I thought about stories of werewolves and witches dancing naked under the full moon. While my hormones were no longer the only things ruling my thoughts, this had only left room in my mind for a greater refinement of the great circle of sex and death that obsessed me. I watched a few stray clouds skitter across the face of the gibbous moon and then turned my attention to the ash of my cigarette. I watched the ash explode in a galactic swirl of sparks as it hit the ground. I flicked the butt after it and ground it to dry carbon just in time as the cab pulled up.
"Where to mate?" The cabby had a deep growl that didn't match his wiry frame. I gave the name of the café, hoping he would know where it was, as I had not bothered to note the address.
"Thought you might be headed there, bats of a feather eh?" The cab jolted into motion and I settled into the back seat wondering at his words. 'Bats of a feather'? I thought. I toyed with the objection that bats didn't have feathers but decided it was juvenile. Suddenly the night seemed more promising. The cabby had recognized me as belonging to a group; I was not alone, more than that, I was going directly, with an invitation no less, to a place that was already associated with my kind! With that realization, the nervousness came crashing back and I resisted the impulse to throw up again. I was about to ask the driver if I could smoke, but at that moment, he applied the brakes and we were there. I paid him and paused to look at the building within which sat either my salvation or my damnation. It was a rather nondescript structure for all that it held such potential. The sign pasted across the front window proclaimed in gaudy yellow "Denny's". I'd seen it a million times, but dismissed it as yet another chain diner, there seemed to be more and more of them each year, all attempting to cash in on America's apparent fear of eating at home. The only other sign in front "Grand Slam Breakfast available 24 Hours" did not fill me with confidence. I lit another smoke, toyed with it nervously, crushed it only half smoked and decided it was now or never. I walked to the front door and pushed, then noting the sign, pulled it open. I walked into chaos.
There was the sound of clattering plates in the background, and a large mismatched crowd milled in front of me. Barely separated to my untrained eye, jocks, hippies, true normies, and a few, yes, even a few dresses like me were standing in the entry. They were all waiting to be seated. At that moment I was caught in rapture of sheer pleasure at not being the only one there with extreme makeup and a monochromatic outfit. My Docs, black skin tight jeans, white linen shirt and leather jacket stood out only because they were somewhat less worn than those of the other two who were similarly attired. I felt some apprehension because I had no idea how to identify Dream in this sea of people, I realized I wasn't even sure he would be one of these Goths, I tried the term in my mind, Goth, gothic, it had a pleasant sound that was easier on the lips than the terms I had been using in my own mind, although I was still loathe to exchange it for my preferred term of self definition, "hedonist" still had a nice ring to it I thought. I remembered that Dream had mentioned in his email that he would be wearing a red rose in his lapel; I had thought it was a curious statement, but here, in this tornado in four walls, it made a lot more sense. I glanced at the two Goths standing near me, neither wore a rose. Fearfully I stole glances at the jocks and those few others standing around me. Thankfully, none of them was Dream; just then, the receptionist asked how many were in my party, I froze.
"Umm, I'm not sure, I mean, I'm meeting someone here, that is..." I ended lamely.
"That's OK honey, you just head on back and see if they're here yet." She waved me through to the tables and booths and turned back to the crowd to see who was next.
I weaved my way beyond a few empty tables and stopped at the bar. I tried to look nonchalant as I leaned my back against the bar and surveyed the tables to see if I could spot Dream. There was one booth in the corner; it was overflowing with black clad figures. I saw a flash of red in the crowd and caught my breath. It was in fact a rose, caught in the lapel of a beautiful young woman. I sighed in frustration and continued my scan. My task was not made any easier by the pink carnations on each table. As I turned my head, I kept thinking I had seen a rose only to turn and see the crinkely edged pepto bismol disappointment that was this diner's version of haute couture. I decided to dare the corner booth on the off chance that Dream had given the rose to the beautiful black clad beauty. I tried to look casual while I walked up to the table. The conversation, loud at first faded to a murmur and then stopped altogether as they realized I was headed straight to them. The girl and her companions looked up at me expectantly and I struggled to speak.
"Umm, listen, I know this might be a weird question, but-" I paused when I realized I did not know Dream's real name. These people might not even know what a modem was much less someone's online handle.
"Yes?" The girl with the rose looked at me, a slight smile on her face. "Can we help you Xeno?"
I struggled to continue, caught between the motion of her lips and determination not to make a fool in front of myself in front of these people even if they didn't know dream. "Yeah, I'm looking for - um, did you just call me Xeno? How did you know?" I faltered again. Xeno was my handle back then, I had chosen it based on Xeno's paradox, I always felt like I was wading through mire when dealing with the world at large, and had been fascinated with the logic bomb Xeno had dropped on his ancient Grecian peers. At that moment thought, all I could think of was how did this perfect example of all my fantasies know my name? Moreover, how could I get her to say it again? I looked at her waiting for a response, while her lips parted I watched, aware of every detail. I memorized the texture of her deep red lipstick and my eyes followed the line of her tuxedo jacket as it dipped into her cleavage. It was at that point I realized she has spoken. I tuned back into the world around me and dragged my gaze back up her body to her eyes.
"...didn't you?" She was finishing with a laugh.
"I'm sorry, I missed all of that, and did you know you have amazing..." I caught myself, a blush creeping up my throat to strangle me. Did I just say that out loud? "...eyes?" I finished lamely.
She laughed again, it was amazing, not a hint of scorn or condescension. "Thank you, your -" Her eyes traveled my body for the briefest of moments. "-eyes are rather nice as well." She smiled invitation and friendship in her eyes. "I was saying, you must be Xeno, and by your confusion, I'm betting you thought I was a guy this whole time. I'm Savage Dreamer." |
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