@to-be-human-again cont from x.
A long moment of staring the keys, the swirling mass of dead eyes peering over her shoulders, reaching, whispering, inspecting, flashing stories and faces of people come and gone, some even in her cloud now, the history written in metal, in wood, in the oxygen in the air, making the chill in her bones even more prominent. Days like this only served to feed their energy and eat away at hers. But that was the point of curses, wasn’t it? Just because yours has a silver lining doesn’t mean this is fun and games. Bite the bullet, Bella, you’ve got an act to keep.
Grinding teeth at herself and taking the keys, she follows the gentle prods, quietly laid implications. It was his building she’d barged into, tempestuous and brooding, much like the sky outside, emotions in a sharp twisting knot, on par with the weather. It would only be polite after that to do as suggested. So she did.
Scooping up the towel and keys all at once, she swept behind the counter, placing her soaked bag down with a sigh. All her clothes would have to be dried later, but it was her own fault for caring more about her manuscript, and not her basic well-being. If Marco could see her now, what would he say?
Mud on your boots, sister? Letting your jewelry rust? Have you let go of yourself, finally, after four hundred years?
Up the stairs she goes, in utter silence, listening. Alfie, the woman’s voice said. His name? Must be.
First door on the left. She lingers outside, staring at the doorknob as she unlocks it. Short breath in, through the nose-- and as soon as she gripped it, there was history, dancing before her eyes, faces, people. Too blurred to make any sense of. This was normal though. Issah was used to it. And she pondered being used to it as she washed her hands, her face, the warm water chasing away at least the physical chill.
If only there was something to get the chill of being caught somewhere between being lifeless and alive out of her bones. God, so gloomy she was today. Any other time and she would’ve practically slapped herself to break out of the reverie, but the past was clinging to her much like her parasitic cloud. For once, perhaps, she’d let the atmosphere linger. It was good for the writing to feel an emotion or two from time to time.
Descending the stairs again, the smell of cloves-- of home-- hit her in the face, and she felt the vestiges of a smile, of memories, drifting just out of reach in tearstained pages and ink browned with age, faded and yellow, smelling of dusty and the ache in a soul for the lost splendor of fifteenth century Italy, of singing as she walked past canals, and the smell of baked bread on Venice’s streets voices clamoring, and Marco’s face, such a cheerful ray of sunshine her little brother was--
And then she was off the last stair, and it was all gone, forced to the quiet part of the back of her mind, locked away for another moment. Clove tea...? What a lucky guess. At least it would abate the painful hankering for a cigarette burning the back of her throat.
Gently chiding words-- ‘a lady shouldn’t smoke, Miss Issahbella!’, and the smile it brought to her face-- what a kind-hearted man this Jonathan was--
Again, with this? Enough. You have a reality to attend to.
Stopping near the closest seat, she wiped the excess moisture off her skirt, which luckily hadn’t taken the brunt of the water, and sat, watching the kind-faced man who ran this little cafe.
What would he ask about first? Her violet eyes? Her moon-silk hair? Her accent? The black she shrouded herself in-- was she headed to a funeral? Or perhaps how she’d gotten into this sorry state? Her name? What she was doing? Where she was going...?
