date: december 29, 8:30 p.m.
location: twelfth night
closed: @minhecate
Neutrality was a word she’d never understood — it was impossible, thinking about exhaustive middle grounds and compromises. Under the careful guidance of her father, she attempted to cross the tightrope and refuse to tip to a side. Be the mouse, he’d instruct, not a trace of irony in his words. Funny, it was the revolutionary who spoke to her of peace, begging her that it was better to bite her tongue until it bled than allow twisted words to pass her lips. Ramona tried. Honestly, she had. But choosing neutrality would be like turning belly-up to pillow the tip of a knife, and Ramona would rather feel a blade in her back than be offed like a stuffed pig.
It was because of this that she was leery towards the three witches, strange as they were to begin with. She didn’t care much for the glamour, the self-righteousness, the way they promised solitude while Montagues were shot in the palm of their protective hands. The events of three nights ago, however, proved to her the one thing she’d always believed: in a world of wars, there was no middle, no compromise. Only suffering, and only victors. Whether the three played a hand or not was lost to her — and to be frank, Ramona didn’t want to think on their intentions for more than a few minutes at a time. It was hardly her wish to play the intellect when her knuckles ached to bruise.
Ramona hesitated outside the massive doors that led into the very heart of their power, their prestige, her intentions wavering as her cigarette crumbled to a pitiful end. She tossed it aside and snuffed it with the heel of her boot, hands shoving into the pockets of her beaten, warm jacket. The three siblings were hardly her favorite, but she wasn’t blind or stupid. If recent nights proved anything, it was that everyone was dangerous, and more importantly, everyone was in danger no matter where they stepped. She’d be THRILLED, if only the Montagues held the upper hand.
Refusing to cloud her head any more, Ramona started for the door and stepped inside. The lounge would be closed, quiet, silence all the more eerie as she slowed inside to glance over her shoulder as if expecting to see one of the triumvirate appearing from the shadows like wraiths. They otherworldly enough. Ramona wouldn’t be surprised if she found they were made of more than blood and bones. Still, she refused to second-guess her decision to confront them — or at least one of them, all three at once would have her mind spinning — hedging deeper into the open room until something in her gut twisted. She wasn’t alone after all.
Ramona whipped towards a sound, cocking a brow. “Well?” Ramona called out, voice breaking through the quiet as sure and steady as she could manage. When there didn’t seem to be an answer, annoyance undermined any hesitation left. She despised being a joke, and surely one of them knew she was here now. Were they watching? Laughing in those damned shadows? Her lips pulled into a frown, peeved. “Hope you’re at least enjoying the show.” She took another step towards the sound, drawing near. “No weapons,” Ramona announced, honest even though her arms stretched out, an offering for them to call a bluff. “Just questions. We should be able to handle that, don’t you think?”
Everyone’s sentences seemed to warp together, but they were sure they had heard, somewhere, a voice telling them to rest. No, they had replied to the monster inside their own kempt head, precautions must be taken. Since that night, though their wrath may have been apparent, it wasn’t for naught. Hea could smile and portray a scripted role akin to the most grossing Broadway star, to learn what they needed to. Perhaps they were taking it too far, bordering the line of obsessive, but every critic had been for, and meant, nothing. They were resolute in their search for answers, and soon enough, they’d find them. Hea would settle for nothing less.
They weren’t exactly certain how long it had been; though no more than several moons, they had been spending their nights ( for sleeping would be the inappropriate term ) at the louche museum, a place they weren’t contrite with admitting still felt like home. Whether it be the art adorning the walls on the bottom floor, or the comfort of the silence once the closing hours had passed. Apparently, very few shared their sentiment. Business had plummeted, and all because something as meager as a stabbing had occurred. The second Pandora rushed into the main room, Hea had clenched their fist, an unnoticed gesture bred of pique. Yes, they had played the part of concerned host, but they couldn’t help the almost savage way they had thrust Pandora into the paramedic’s arms. They didn’t apologize, either.
It was no secret Hea favored the museum. There was something fascinating about art; the same could not be said about alcohol or the people who consumed it. However, they had to admit their lounge had a cultured aura to it. Aside from that, the second floor caused them feelings of security, hence why Hea’s office was in a corner room on said floor. It was ample in space, fitting everything from their desk to an imported Rembrandt piece they had found too enchanting to not keep for their own. It was where they were, and had remained for quite a duration. Though they were sleep deprived, they sat with perfect posture, almost resembling a statue. Their fingers incessantly clicked on the mouse of their laptop, another unnecessary purchase, as they roamed their last hope, the Internet, for anything. They wouldn’t admit they felt they were begging for rain whilst stranded in a desert, even to their siblings.
Occasionally, they could be found strolling through the museum as a way to clear their head, but seldom did they enter the lounge, though as with every room, they verified whether or not it was without trouble. On their computer, a closed circuit webcam tab was open, wirelessly connected to each camera within the building. They scrolled through each shot with the eyes of a predator, and when they noticed a finger idly walking around the lounge, they needn’t pinch themself in hopes of it being an illusion. Their haste was short lived, as they promptly noticed who the figure was. She was indistinguishable, even in just the way she roamed. Like a woman on a mission. “Oh, Ramona Aguilar.” It registered to them just how languid they sounded, and though it was an accurate representation of their current state, they vowed to alter it once they spoke to her.
Abnormally briskly, they rose from their seat. Although it regularly chagrined them to be so close to the lounge, it was now considered a blessing as they had arrived within seconds. Most lights were off, leaving the area dim. Perhaps their shoe scuffled along the floor, or their door was opened in a rough manner. No matter, they weren’t attempting to hide themself, perhaps it was all too familiar and comforting to be in the shadows. Once they saw her reaction, however, a small smile appeared on their face. It became a game, and no witch was ever too somnolent for such entertainment. The annoyance was clearly written on her face, and yet, they couldn’t find the will to care. They watched her for as long as they saw fit, which, even so, wasn’t very durable. A few seconds had passed since she had ceased her speaking, ending with what they assumed was a challenge. Finding themself intrigued, they stepped out into the shadows, that unrelenting smile engraved on their face.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Signorina Aguilar.” Even when you don’t know. “You have questions, yes? You may ask.”
