It’s late, and they’re not home. The times Alex is alone in the small apartment when the sun falls behind the horizon and the moon hangs above aren’t too many, and truth be told she wasn’t too fond of these nights. Her hallucinations could be most active at night, and though she’s gotten better at being able to keep her bearings during those moments, one of the best things to help during her episodes or hallucinations was another body with her ( even as small as that of an animal could really help ).
She’s anxious, to say the least, warily pulling her legs closer to her body as she’s curled up on one side of the couch, the wavering sounds of the radio over the muddled background noises of the city. Sometimes in the hours like this, she focuses on how many voices she can hear, on the footsteps she can hear, tries to count the number of car horns she can hear, anything like that, though it’s a little harder to do that kind of thing when the radio’s loud and clear that night.
The melodies are full of soft orange tones, a swirling rhythm of bright golds that pours into the body like liquid sunshine. Her eyelids slowly close, head tilting back and hair falling back over the arm of the chair as if she were opening herself to that stream of music rolling over her like a gentle waterfall. Her fingers tap against her knee, and slowly her voice comes forth from her throat like a golden rose of myth blooming. Her voice flows over the words, and in this moment, she keeps herself grounded, her fingers rolling down her knees til the settle on the fabric of the couch.
Maybe music really does soothe the soul, or perhaps it just soothes the aches of her young soul, young but so hurt it’s a wonder the pieces are all there ( and they are! and oh what a miracle, she has held herself together, the strength in such a small action of the self so righteous ). When Alex feels grounded, is certain of the world around her, she feels infinitely more secure, enough so that her eyes open and as she continues to sing, shoulders swaying just slightly, she rises and her legs feel a weak, but it’s nothing she tells herself.
If she has to sing herself to sleep, then so be it, by God’s will she will be her own comfort for she is what is here, she is what she has. Perhaps she ought to pray for the pair of men’s safe return, it’s a thought that passes in her head-- but one that is struck silent where it stands. There’s a quiet rolling thud above her, which is strange considering no one lives above this apartment. Alex is startled enough to jump and her voice cracks into a tiny yelp of surprise, hand clutching her chest and looking up at the ceiling as if hoping it would answer her and tell her what’s wrong.
Understandably, there is nothing, but Alex can’t help but feel as if that small roll of thunder is the warning of something dawning over her, above this poor town, and almost shakily, the woman moves to the window ( and when her palms rest on the stone of the windowsill her nails continue to tap the rhythm of the music behind her, a calming motion for herself ).
She peers outwards at first, the normal dark signs of city life below, and she turns upwards to the source of the quaking noise from before, and is curiously met with the sight of a dark purple cloth billowing over the edge-- and her voice shakily calls to the roof, which in retrospect, could be a very bad idea.
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