06-28-2014, 06:16 PM
2042
Most of the time she could feel it there, hovering like a sun pressing up against the horizon, but she couldn't touch it.
She'd always envisioned her father's aid; had convinced herself that he had been responsible for the papers the art dealer had pressed into her hands. Answers waited behind that pale gaze, a trail she had believed he intended to lead her to him. But in the brittle dust of rejection the scenario frayed at the edges, burned as quickly and violently as his office had, robbing her of comfort. Natalie felt adrift. Her mother welcomed her back into the fold - demanded it of her, an obligation of her blood - but home felt a distant concept. Needing something to fight, something to blame, she pushed away.
She'd been escaping into the city at night unescorted for years, and either her parents had been unaware of it or were content to turn a blind and indulgent eye. Natalie never really got in trouble, never brought a media spotlight on her own head, and it seemed the only required prerequisite to her freedom, left unspoken. Her mother spent so much time focused outward, nursing the woes of a cruel world, that she probably never noticed the activities of her children unless she heard of them through the newsfeeds. And her father. She was beginning to suspect he simply didn't care. Perhaps he never had.
Natalie had always enjoyed the anonymity of city, the discovery of friends who did not know where she rested her head or the revered (and rich) legacy of her name. As much as she loved her family, she valued disassociation from them too; the chains of expectation shook free, the weight of constant scrutiny lifted. It was usually enough to root herself. Tonight, though, it offered little solace. Tonight, recklessness hummed in her blood instead, casting shadows over the forced path of her golden future, hooking the need to run under her skin. Run before it was too late.
She was too proud to cry. Alcohol soothed her entrance to oblivion, a self-aware stupidity; at least until common sense eroded to numbness, and then she felt very little of anything. She didn't usually drink this quantity, at least not on her own, but she chased the senselessness with blind determination now. And. Fuck. It. All.
Eventually someone joined her at the bar, a midscale place awash with florescent lighting and brightly coloured patrons. She didn't know it - was not seeking the comfort of familiarity, and in fact was not entirely sure of where in the city she had wandered. Natalie blinked at the face of her new company, then turned away. Her jaw clenched, the fingers nursing her drink tightening.
Anger clouded her stoic boundaries, filled her control with frustration. She teetered on the edge of a reaction, considered sliding from the stool and walking out, except that she wasn't so sure her limbs would comply given the way her head swam. She wanted a little peace and emptiness, not to wander London's cold dark streets at this hour. And she was here first. Inconsiderate bastard.
He leaned forward, lacing his hands across the bar, his skin tinged blue by the under-lighting. A tattoo inked his forearm, his shirt rolled to the elbow, but the detail blurred when she looked at it, and then she was distracted by the foreign cadence of his voice calling for drinks, its lilt tickling her ears. The music here had a thumping bass she did not like, repetitive, like caged walls. She was angry about her father. Injured by his dismissal. But it ran deeper than that. The disillusionment. Too many cracks had distorted her perceptions, and now her life was like that drumming bass-line. Repetitive. Confining. Intolerable.
Her soul was restless.
And she was really drunk.
"I don't want your pity,"
she told him, but she took his drink when it slid across the bar, and swallowed it unidentified, burning all the way to the pit of her stomach.
He had the gall to laugh. "I'm not selling pity."
Usually her wit would have sparked a defiant retort; she could spin words with best of them, her sense of humour razor-edged despite her angelic colouring. But right now there was nothing. Hollowness greeted his joke, her silence heavy enough to be something tangible. Her foggy thoughts leaned back into memory, scrutinising that day in the new house all those months ago, when he had slipped her the dossier of folded papers. "He sent you, right? I'm not wrong about that."
Natalie didn't look at him when she spoke, concerned the vulnerabilities would show through her ice-clear gaze. She almost cursed the words as they fell off her tongue to hang in the air like proof of weakness. But she wanted him to answer all the same.
"Last time. Not this time. It doesn't work like that."
What doesn't work like that? Memories dulled like heavy smoke, and she felt sluggish and confused, and most of all suddenly sad. Unsure if she'd drunk too much or not enough, she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I don't even know what your name is."
"You can call me Alvis,"
he said, after a beat. He remained leaning on the bar, not sitting, hands still clasped patiently. He was tall - broad in a lean way, she remembered. Though she hadn't looked up at him, she could feel him leaned in, the shadow of him close, staring down at her, unpicking the sparse emotions to cross her face. So if her father hadn't sent him why was he here? The mystery of their association dropped a discordant depression in her chest, and as desperate as she was for answers, she just didn't want them from a stranger. She downed the rest of her own glass, flicked the emptiness away with her hand.
"You know what? I don't want to talk about it, Alvis. So what do you want?"
She looked at him properly then, owning the irritation of his company with the fierceness of her own scrutiny. Inoffensive brown eyes stared back in a face cut sharp, the angles of his cheek bones diamond hard, like his whole self was slightly too thin for the tallness of his frame. Nothing menacing emanated from him, though nothing particularly sensitive either.
"Just curious, Miss Grey."
Her expression folded in. For some reason the pain reared sharp, reasserting the loss, running remembrance through all the hair-line fractures in her perfect Northbrook family. The frustration, the uncertainty, the way fear inched its way in when she really allowed herself to think about it. She was different. Different in a way that pushed her out of the circle of ordinary life, shuddering her world in a way she was unwilling for now to face. And maybe that was what was really bothering her.
Her head swirled. She slipped down from the stool, expression flat, and left the bar. Alvis didn't stop her.
Most of the time she could feel it there, hovering like a sun pressing up against the horizon, but she couldn't touch it.
She'd always envisioned her father's aid; had convinced herself that he had been responsible for the papers the art dealer had pressed into her hands. Answers waited behind that pale gaze, a trail she had believed he intended to lead her to him. But in the brittle dust of rejection the scenario frayed at the edges, burned as quickly and violently as his office had, robbing her of comfort. Natalie felt adrift. Her mother welcomed her back into the fold - demanded it of her, an obligation of her blood - but home felt a distant concept. Needing something to fight, something to blame, she pushed away.
She'd been escaping into the city at night unescorted for years, and either her parents had been unaware of it or were content to turn a blind and indulgent eye. Natalie never really got in trouble, never brought a media spotlight on her own head, and it seemed the only required prerequisite to her freedom, left unspoken. Her mother spent so much time focused outward, nursing the woes of a cruel world, that she probably never noticed the activities of her children unless she heard of them through the newsfeeds. And her father. She was beginning to suspect he simply didn't care. Perhaps he never had.
Natalie had always enjoyed the anonymity of city, the discovery of friends who did not know where she rested her head or the revered (and rich) legacy of her name. As much as she loved her family, she valued disassociation from them too; the chains of expectation shook free, the weight of constant scrutiny lifted. It was usually enough to root herself. Tonight, though, it offered little solace. Tonight, recklessness hummed in her blood instead, casting shadows over the forced path of her golden future, hooking the need to run under her skin. Run before it was too late.
She was too proud to cry. Alcohol soothed her entrance to oblivion, a self-aware stupidity; at least until common sense eroded to numbness, and then she felt very little of anything. She didn't usually drink this quantity, at least not on her own, but she chased the senselessness with blind determination now. And. Fuck. It. All.
Eventually someone joined her at the bar, a midscale place awash with florescent lighting and brightly coloured patrons. She didn't know it - was not seeking the comfort of familiarity, and in fact was not entirely sure of where in the city she had wandered. Natalie blinked at the face of her new company, then turned away. Her jaw clenched, the fingers nursing her drink tightening.
Anger clouded her stoic boundaries, filled her control with frustration. She teetered on the edge of a reaction, considered sliding from the stool and walking out, except that she wasn't so sure her limbs would comply given the way her head swam. She wanted a little peace and emptiness, not to wander London's cold dark streets at this hour. And she was here first. Inconsiderate bastard.
He leaned forward, lacing his hands across the bar, his skin tinged blue by the under-lighting. A tattoo inked his forearm, his shirt rolled to the elbow, but the detail blurred when she looked at it, and then she was distracted by the foreign cadence of his voice calling for drinks, its lilt tickling her ears. The music here had a thumping bass she did not like, repetitive, like caged walls. She was angry about her father. Injured by his dismissal. But it ran deeper than that. The disillusionment. Too many cracks had distorted her perceptions, and now her life was like that drumming bass-line. Repetitive. Confining. Intolerable.
Her soul was restless.
And she was really drunk.
"I don't want your pity,"
she told him, but she took his drink when it slid across the bar, and swallowed it unidentified, burning all the way to the pit of her stomach.
He had the gall to laugh. "I'm not selling pity."
Usually her wit would have sparked a defiant retort; she could spin words with best of them, her sense of humour razor-edged despite her angelic colouring. But right now there was nothing. Hollowness greeted his joke, her silence heavy enough to be something tangible. Her foggy thoughts leaned back into memory, scrutinising that day in the new house all those months ago, when he had slipped her the dossier of folded papers. "He sent you, right? I'm not wrong about that."
Natalie didn't look at him when she spoke, concerned the vulnerabilities would show through her ice-clear gaze. She almost cursed the words as they fell off her tongue to hang in the air like proof of weakness. But she wanted him to answer all the same.
"Last time. Not this time. It doesn't work like that."
What doesn't work like that? Memories dulled like heavy smoke, and she felt sluggish and confused, and most of all suddenly sad. Unsure if she'd drunk too much or not enough, she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I don't even know what your name is."
"You can call me Alvis,"
he said, after a beat. He remained leaning on the bar, not sitting, hands still clasped patiently. He was tall - broad in a lean way, she remembered. Though she hadn't looked up at him, she could feel him leaned in, the shadow of him close, staring down at her, unpicking the sparse emotions to cross her face. So if her father hadn't sent him why was he here? The mystery of their association dropped a discordant depression in her chest, and as desperate as she was for answers, she just didn't want them from a stranger. She downed the rest of her own glass, flicked the emptiness away with her hand.
"You know what? I don't want to talk about it, Alvis. So what do you want?"
She looked at him properly then, owning the irritation of his company with the fierceness of her own scrutiny. Inoffensive brown eyes stared back in a face cut sharp, the angles of his cheek bones diamond hard, like his whole self was slightly too thin for the tallness of his frame. Nothing menacing emanated from him, though nothing particularly sensitive either.
"Just curious, Miss Grey."
Her expression folded in. For some reason the pain reared sharp, reasserting the loss, running remembrance through all the hair-line fractures in her perfect Northbrook family. The frustration, the uncertainty, the way fear inched its way in when she really allowed herself to think about it. She was different. Different in a way that pushed her out of the circle of ordinary life, shuddering her world in a way she was unwilling for now to face. And maybe that was what was really bothering her.
Her head swirled. She slipped down from the stool, expression flat, and left the bar. Alvis didn't stop her.