The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Caustic on 12-08-2007, 07:15:47</h2>
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				Title: <strong>The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>12-08-2007, 07:15:47</strong>
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				She wakes up to the sound of rain on a metal roof.&nbsp; For a moment, she is certain that she's in her Grandmother's house in the hills where she spent her summers as a child, far from the noise of the city, the heat of summer asphalt and the fury of summer tempers and desires in the streets, where a girl could disappear or dessicate in the heatwaves rolling from the top of a black sedan in the white-hot glaze of a summer afteroon.&nbsp; <br><br>Those summers were a beautiful, tedious time for a teenager.&nbsp; In her dream, she hears crickets and watches the shivering lights of fireflies-- more fireflies in one tree than a city child would see in a lifetime-- through the mended wire-mesh screen of a window as she lay atop the knotted bone-white sheets, listening and watching with wonder, comfort, as she lazily drifted towards sleep in a slowly cooling night. <br><br>There is rain, constant and persistent, on the roof as she opens her eyes.&nbsp; But it is not the metal roof of her Grandmothers that resonates so persistently, and when she opens her eyes she sees nothing, but against her arm she feels the metal seams of the an auto's interior.&nbsp; The cab is small, cramped, and her calves ache as she twists her hips and wrestles herself to a sitting position; she can see light outside, but not much... the storm's swallowing the moonlight, but rain that cascades down in torrents along the glass catches a glint of light from some long-abandoned billboard nearby.<br><br>Only one of the footlights on it still functions, the meager illumination wavering as it it flickers from moment to moment-- then, as she watches, goes black, only to flicker to life a few seconds later.&nbsp; It barely sheds enough light to make out the peeling, mildewed layers bearing the remnnants of a white primer, a Chrysler ad from the early 80's, an advertisement for some hotel with 'sand' in its name, and, beneath it all, the most clear image... a massive, spraypainted pictograph depicting an eye.&nbsp; <br><br>She watches the eye for a moment, then fumbles for the seat adjustment lever, which she finds alongside a shoe-- one of her leather-thonged sandals, the cushioned sole sculpted by use to the shape of her foot-- and an empty paper cup from the coffee she'd had... sometime.&nbsp; The hand-hold allows her enough leverage to heave herself to a sitting position, the movement stirring a hiss of pain between her teeth as her back, uncomfortably settled from hours wrenched sideways, straightens with a few soft pops.<br><br>She wonders why she's stopped here... she's next to the crumbling remnants of a wood-framed home that, like the billboard, has been long abandoned to the elements.&nbsp; Two walls stand, the third leans, and the fourth has given up the ghost and the roof all at once.&nbsp; A midsized elm stretches from within, its broad leaves shuddering under the weight of the raindrops as they land in a dance of animate random generation.&nbsp; While she stares, the glass begins to fog with her breath, and she must wipe it away with one sleeve-- something about this action is familiar, and-- without thinking about it-- she turns, fumbling blindly into the back seat-- for something, something crucial, something not to be left behind--<br><br>It's not there.&nbsp; She has a knapsack, half-stuffed with clothes, she has a parka, still soaked with rain-- but where is <em>it</em>?&nbsp; Without thinking, she opens the door, and immediately the cold summer rain pelts one side of her body.&nbsp; The dome light is blindingly bright to her night-sensitive eyes, but after a few blinks she finds sees it-- a black leather case with a worn red strap, wedged into the far corner of the rear floorboardsand when her one wet, one dry hand close around it, she is sitting in the small compartment behind the seat, the one-passenger rear compartment, fumbling at the snaps and opening it-- <br><br>Her camera.<br><br>The weight of the macro lens in her hand, the cold metal and kidskin-smooth plastic contours of the body, elicit a sigh of relief.&nbsp; She doesn't remove the lenscap, she she simply re-snaps the case, nestling it back into its protective corner among the pale and mottled-brown vinyl seat.&nbsp; Beside its place is a cooler, small and compact, and without opening it she knows its contents; she opens it anyway, just to be sure, and through a waft of fog she sees two plastic snap-top boxes, one labeled "SPENT" and one labeled "FRESH".&nbsp; Her film, kept cold by dry ice, roll after roll just waiting for the darkroom.<br><br>She closes the cooler and tries, her efforts futile, to remember where that darkroom is.&nbsp; She was a photographer, wanted to be a journalist, and she was working on her portfolio... nothing, no names, no details.&nbsp; Not even her own.<br><br>Pivoting back to face front, she swivels the rearview to her face, and for a moment does not recognize herself.&nbsp; She studies the face in the dim cabin light, then forgets all else but the cold rain on her arm and thigh.&nbsp; She closes the door, and is wrapped again in darkness.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>14-08-2007, 20:40:33</strong>
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				The sound of rain, her only companion, accompanies her thoughts as she stares out into the darkness, her gaze focusing on the billboard, the single light the only sign of life in an otherwise gray and dreary world.&nbsp; She wonders how she came to be here and where ‘here’ is.&nbsp; For that matter, she wonders who she is?&nbsp; She searches her dreams, already fading quickly from her memory, for something she can grasp hold of, some clue as to who she is and how she came to be sitting in the back seat of a car she’s not even sure belongs to her, but there is nothing.&nbsp; The image of fireflies and a window screen mean nothing to here, lost in a fog.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>A shivering sigh slips between clenched teeth, chattering slightly in the chilled air that has settled over her within her metal coffin.&nbsp; She pushes that thought away, wondering where it came from.&nbsp; Surely this is not the first night she’s sat, safe and sound, in her vehicle, the rain falling harmlessly upon the it’s shell.&nbsp; A simple turn of the keys in the ignition and she can be on her way to…<br><br>Where?&nbsp; She thinks, pressing her hands to her temples as if somehow she can force the memories of who she is and what she is doing here.&nbsp; Where would she go?&nbsp; Is she close to home?&nbsp; Perhaps she is on a trip, stranded here with a flat tire or an empty tank?&nbsp; Nothing comes to her.&nbsp; The only thing she is sure of is that the camera is hers, as are the rolls of negatives, safe inside the cooler.&nbsp; Perhaps they will provide some sort of clue, some jolt that will return her memory to her.&nbsp; She stares at them, frustration seeping in, knowing that they are useless to her as they are now.&nbsp; Without the facilities and the chemicals to bring the images to life, they might as well not exist.<br><br>Tentatively she probes her head, remembering the glimpse of her face in the mirror, of the stranger staring back at her, a shadowed face framed by dark hair.&nbsp; Nothing.&nbsp; No evidence of injury or bump, no tender bruise, nothing.&nbsp; If she’s had an accident, there’s no physical sign on it.&nbsp; What other explanation could there be?&nbsp; Her eyes drift over the other contents of the car, mere black shapes, now that her eyes have adjusted to the darkness somewhat.&nbsp; A back pack.&nbsp; Shouldn’t she have a purse as well?&nbsp; She tried to recall.&nbsp; Was it something that she would carry?&nbsp; Maybe she carried her things in her pack.&nbsp; A wallet was what she needed, something with her name on it to spark her memory.&nbsp; A way to put a name upon the stranger in the rear view mirrors face. <br><br>She cracks the door open once more, wincing as the storm outside assaults her once again, violating her sanctuary within the metal beast, the light of the dome illuminating her meager possessions once more.&nbsp; She searches about, wondering if she might have missed something earlier, reaching under the seats, probing the small space without benefit of sight, her search in vain.&nbsp; Perhaps the glove box might provide her with something but it is, for the moment, out of reach.&nbsp; Her only options are to climb awkwardly between the seats or to venture back out into the wet night.&nbsp; <br><br>She decides to save that for her last resort and begins pulling the contents of her pack out one by one, searching for some hint of indentity.&nbsp; A change of clothes as if she’d planned an overnight trip, a toothbrush, tooth paste, some toiletries, but other then that…<br><br>She sat back, trying hard to fight the creeping frustration, mixed with fear, that threatened to bring tears to her eyes.&nbsp; She&nbsp; wanted to be home, where ever that might be, warm and safe in bed where she could drift off to sleep and, in the morning, awake, her memories restored.&nbsp; With a sudden burst of anger, she threw open the car door, slipping quickly out into the rain drenched night, her goal the glove box that offered to her a last hope.&nbsp; <br><br>The rain pelted her, gentle yet insistant, silvering her hair and running down her cheeks tear like.&nbsp; Her hand found the handle of the drivers side door and she began to lift it, fingers curled beneath even as her head lifted, her eyes settling upon the strange eye that adorned the billboard.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>14-08-2007, 22:13:52</strong>
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				<br>Every drop of rain feels like a drop of cold mercury, heavy and pelting in slow motion, but she's drenched like she stepped out of a submarine.&nbsp; She rounds the car, barely has time to notice the antiquity of it... it's a 70's model Roadrunner, mostly primer-colored, but with some blue and rust thrown in for the sake of variety.&nbsp; She wants to think that she'd never let a car get this out of condition, but apparently she has.&nbsp; <br><br>Rounding the long hood, she slips on wet grass and feels the tug of a creeper vine, finger-thick and tough, primal in its unchallenged domain over the crumbling structure.&nbsp; She kicks her foot free, pries the cold chrome handle, and opens the door.&nbsp; The dome light springs back to life as the passenger door groans open on its archaic hinges, and she gratefully falls in, shivering with the cold of the squall.<br><br>The windshield is fogging up more as water from her breath, her skin evaporates, meets the cold glass, and condenses in a pale haze that deepens, muffles the outside reality dream.&nbsp; The revolving lever on the glove box clicks obediently open, and it falls open, revealing a small alcove of deeper black in the console, a black rectangular chasm that, without having realized it before, she is suddenly loathe to place her hand into.<br><br>Some spider waits there, she thinks.&nbsp; Some coiled serpent or skeletal remnant, some talisman or relic of a dead saint... something waits.<br><br>Her fingers tremble as she creaches, her fingertips disappearing into the shadowy alcove, gliding down the smooth surface of the door's inside, disappearing under the dash.&nbsp; Nothing, nothing but the smooth contours of the box lid, nothing but the texture of a rivet.&nbsp; It feels huge, emptier than a glove box should be, and colder. No papers-- No, something there... her hand dances away reflexively from imagined fangs, she fights her nerves back into submission and feels again.&nbsp; It is A matchbook; she can feel the divot of a staple.&nbsp; She draws it out, feels that it is mostly full, but she can't make out the writing on the glossy cardboard surface.&nbsp; <br><br>Steeling herself up, she reaches in again.&nbsp; Something paper, thick-- the paper almost greasy to the touch-- she pulls it out hopefully-- it's money.&nbsp; A few cash bills... she will count it when she opens the door again, but now... something else.&nbsp; <br><br><em>Maybe that's what I was afraid of,</em> she thinks, as her fingers close around the scale-textured contours of a wood grip in a metal handle.&nbsp; She draws it out, sees its rutheless silhouette, clean and efficient skeleton of some ancient, extinct beast... a revolver, snub-nosed and heavy in her hand, smooth and colder than death.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>15-08-2007, 18:37:17</strong>
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				She forgets the rain, the chill of the night as a different kind of cold settles in on her skin, sinking deep within her as mere weather never could.&nbsp; Every nerve inside her screams and she has to fight to keep from dropping the gun on the floorboard, scrabbling at the door handle and bolting into the night.&nbsp; The gun feels strange in her grasp, lifeless and cold, sucking what little light and life there is within the old car, eating it like the shadows eat sunlight.&nbsp; Nothing makes sense.&nbsp; She wants so desperately to believe that this is not her gun, searching her memories fruitlessly for any hint.&nbsp; The car, the gun, none of it feel right.&nbsp; She cannot say why, but they seem... wrong.&nbsp; Like that feeling you get when you pick up someone else's keys without looking and the weight of it feels... off somehow.<br><br>She stares at the revolver's silhouette, trying to peice together a scenario where she would be carrying such a thing with her.&nbsp; It's impossible.&nbsp; She doesn't have enough pieces of the puzzle.&nbsp; In fact, she has none.&nbsp; A sudden feeling of revulsion fills her and the pistol falls from suddenly nerveless fingers, bouncing twice on the car seat beside her before settling like a dead weight.&nbsp; If she wants to solve this mystery, she needs more... her thought turn to the money and the match book...&nbsp; the cash doesn't seem as important, but maybe... the cracks the door open, just wide enough to set the car's dome light off, squinting in the dim glow, waiting until her eyes become acustomed to it before examining the small folded cardboard book, hoping for some sort of enlightenment, no matter how small it might be.<br><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>15-08-2007, 21:55:56</strong>
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				<br>Wan light brings the interior back to life in its pale, stark glory.&nbsp; The black femur of a gearshift lever, held together with electrical tape, protrudes next to her thigh.&nbsp; In the driver's seat, the revolver waits... it's blue steel, and larger than her splayed hand.&nbsp; The diamond-grooved grip is walnut-colored, smoothed with time, etched with a dime-sized circle around an engraved 'R'.&nbsp; Unable to look for long, she focuses insted on the matchbook... its cover is ivory white, and the lettering is stark and elegant, like a surgeons tool's.&nbsp; It reads "MINOS" in black over an Art Deco bull's head. She opens it, and-- in true Film Noir fashion-- there's a phone number, scratched in blue.&nbsp; It says "Daisy" in quivering blue scrawl.&nbsp; The spine is lettered with an address... no city.&nbsp; "4227 JACKSON".<br><br>Stray drops continue to pelt her arm, but before closing the door she forces herself to pick up the pistol and return it to the compartment.&nbsp; Something about it is crucially important, something out of touch.&nbsp; She notes that the glove compartment has a key, and contemplates locking the glove box.&nbsp; The car's keys themselves still hang from the ignition alone, nothing marking them but a piece of braided rope... no, wait, it's not rope.&nbsp; It's hair... a few inches of fine, black hair, plaited into a neat braid.&nbsp; Some kind of keepsake, evidently, though she'd no idea of whom.&nbsp; <br><br>She lifts her gaze, sees her own reflection in the glass, and can't help but stare, re-learning every contour of her face, knowing that it is hers-- always has been-- but that it's as unfamiliar as the landscape of Neptune.&nbsp; <br><br>Although she's not certain which way she was driving originally, she has a hazy memory of spotting the turn-off on her right.&nbsp; The rain slows as she thinks, slackens to a faint drizzle, while she chases the threads of memory that slip into shadow, exerting all of her effort to grasp anything coherent from the past few days...&nbsp; but this is how it has been, isn't it?&nbsp; This is how it's been for days... weeks maybe.&nbsp; How long?&nbsp; <br><br>The face in the glass stares back, eyes imploring and lost.&nbsp; <br><br>After a moment, the image in her mind clears, and she recalls backing in, watching as the half-crumbled walls eased around her to screen the car from the road...&nbsp; re-oriented, she suddenly wants to drive, to continue the journey.&nbsp; She's no idea where... but at least the rain is relenting its pummelling of the earth.&nbsp; Without looking, she reaches for a pocket... she eralizes she's wearing very worn, fray-kneed and soft jeans.&nbsp; They're soaked, like the rest of her, and she watches a few drops of rain patter her thigh and arm, trail down the vinyl door padding in clear, slick tracts.&nbsp; With a sigh, she closes the door, and the blanket of darkness covers the cabin again.<br><br>Her reflection disappears in that darkness, and it is replaced with a man's face, long and open-mouthed, white and rigid with mortal terror... cadaverous, pressed to the glass in desperate mortal terror and the hunger of the dead.&nbsp; It is soundless, black gums straining against lips and long whips of black, soggy hair pool on the glass.<br><br>It is gone before she stops screaming.&nbsp; she sees no one run away, feels no movement on the car's suspension, hears no sound.&nbsp; It is merely gone, leaving the half-fogged, dripping window empty as a freshly dug grave.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>17-08-2007, 18:15:40</strong>
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				She sits in the darkness, staring out the windsheild, past the billboard and it's watching eye, past the ruins of the small building, past the rain clouds and the grey soaked world that surrounds her.&nbsp; Minos.&nbsp; Daisy... the words have no meaning for her.&nbsp; Was it someone she'd met in a bar?&nbsp; Or was going to met?&nbsp; A friend?&nbsp; Aqaintence?&nbsp; Lover?&nbsp; Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into soft palms, as slender arms crossed themselves across her breasts, as if suddenly noticing the cold.&nbsp; Not that it had ever left her, but this time a different sort of cold was closing in.&nbsp; A deep seated fear.&nbsp; What if she could never get her memories back?&nbsp; What if she was trapped here, in the endless grey, both without and within, forever?<br><br>The faint memory of pulling off the main road that touches her pushes away those thoughts somewhat.&nbsp; Perhaps it will all come back like that?&nbsp; Not a sudden clarity but a slow rebuilding of her past. The idea makes her hopeful, and she tries to relax, this time not willing her memories back, but letting them return at their own pace...<br><br>she was going... somewhere... somewhere important, she is sure of it.&nbsp; The addresss in the match book perhaps?&nbsp; Suddenly, she is filled with the desire to continue.&nbsp; After all, there is nothing here for her.&nbsp; Perhaps if she starts the car up, puts herself in motion, it will come to her.&nbsp; <br><br>She stares out into the night, resolve setting in, about to slide over into the drivers seat, when her reflection is violently disrupted by the dead man's face.&nbsp; She screams, terror filling her, the sudden intrusion upon her solitude shocking her into action.&nbsp; There is a gun upon the floor, but her first thought if of flight rather then fight.&nbsp; <br><br>She scrambles for the keys she hopes, prays, are still in the ignition, not even thinking to lock the doors against the intruder in her panic.&nbsp; She has to get out of here, away from this place, back to the main road, somewhere safe... like an trapped animal she can only react, gripping the steering wheel with one hand, twisting the car keys with the other, fervently praying for the sound of a reviving engine, pressing on the gas pedal before it even has a chance to roar into life.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>17-08-2007, 20:35:48</strong>
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				The car jolts as she transmission catches the overrev, and the old car lurches drunkenly to one side as it meets only mud, slinging twin brown sprays in a high arcs as the tires hum and gain no footing in the thick mud.&nbsp; She can't see the face.&nbsp; The windshield is so thickly fogged that it could obscure anything-- she swipes her hand desperately across it, leaving wet, but transluscent, swipes in its wake.&nbsp; Just the blackness... not thinking, the muscles in her legs responsing out of sheer panic, she drives the pedal down once more and, miraculously, the tires chirp against a hard surface, jolting the car momentarily into reverse... the momentum is enough to put her on the blacktop-- she pulls the plunger for the headlights.&nbsp; She sees two luminous pools in the blackness, sharp lines of trees and the sagging remains of the house, exposed tracts of mud all the way down to the remant timbers and stone of the foundation, where her tires caught-- barely.<br><br>She slams the gearshift down and accellerates with the throttle wide open, causing the rear of the car to fishtail, return, and drop as she downshifts, the now-glowing tachometer dancing as the tires lose, then regain, traction.&nbsp; She's moving.&nbsp; She's moving the right way.&nbsp; She doesn't look back.<br><br>*<br><br>Time passes, the night stretches on.&nbsp; Clouds dissipate and the rain stops, and soon the road straightens.&nbsp; She emerges from a dark canopy of scrub-pines into the open road of the plains, winding past miles of barbed wire that barely passed as fence.&nbsp; She passes abandoned barns, cross-your-heart bars closed for decades, side roads of plain dirt turned to streambeds of mud.&nbsp; There's no telling how long she drives, or how far.&nbsp; The night just goes on.<br><br>The fog has cleared from the windows, and she's drying off slowly.&nbsp; She's tried the radio, but she gets static, no matter how she turns the dial.&nbsp; There's no AM/FM switch, no presets.&nbsp; Sometimes she picks up the squeal of radio waves like something from a sci-fi movie, sometimes she hears a low pulsing sound like a rabbit's heartbeat through a megaphone.&nbsp; Finally, she catches a signal... hears a few notes of something, so she homes in on it, but it's gone.&nbsp; She abandons the dial, and the music fizzles, returns, and this time stays.&nbsp; It's big-band slow-jazz, harmon-muted trumpets to a shuffling wire-brushed snare drum, with mellow saxophones backing.&nbsp; She looks at the dial, can't see an indicator needle, but the music continues.<br><br>A woman starts a new verse of a song, not featured, but simply playing another instrument in the band with her voice.&nbsp; She sounds a little like Ella Fitzgerald, but not quite.&nbsp; The girl wonders if she likes jazz, normally... she thinks she knows some of it, but doesn't listen to it all the time.&nbsp; She wonders what she does like.&nbsp; She can't remember, only knows the first lines to a half-dozen songs written before she was born.&nbsp; Weren't they...?<br><br>The needle on the gas gauge is sitting a little above E; hopefully that means a few more miles, because she has to be getting close to... soemthing.&nbsp; Perhaps it is the isolation, or the lack of known destination, but the journey seems to have stretched out indefinitely, without even so much as a passing car to indicate that anything, or anyone, is alive in this world.<br><br>And as if in divine jest, she sees light on the horizon.&nbsp; First, all blackness, then only an aural glow.&nbsp; &nbsp;Finally, the white tinge of electric lights through halogen filament, a leaning-posted streetlamp, a bar.&nbsp; She can make out the awkward postures of gas pumps, the hulk of a diner, or restaurant.&nbsp; The streetlight catches one half of the sign, "-EAK HOUSE".&nbsp; Some kind of tavern-diner, she guesses.&nbsp; The sign has a few silver-rimmed black dots... bullet holes, probably.&nbsp; There's a hotel-sign too, though it's dark, and she can make out the silhouette of 'VACANCY' although the only thing lit is a 'NO' in sickly orange neon.<br><br>There is a pickup, a Cadillac, two motorcycles... not too crowded.&nbsp; As if by rote, she eases from the highway into the parking lot, hearing the soft crunch of gravel welcome her.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>17-08-2007, 21:34:20</strong>
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				The probable lack of rooms doesn’t concern her.&nbsp; All she wants right now is companionship, a roomful of people to remind her that she is not alone, something besides a faceless voice on the radio, someone to talk to…<br><br>The long drive had been grueling, worried that at any moment the lifeless corpse might re-appear on her windscreen, this time pounding furiously, cracking the glass and pulling her out into the dark night… silly, she knew, but still, the fear had held in it’s grip until she’d grown exhausted, startling at every shadow, every shape.&nbsp; Road signs and fence posts had become things of terror, stalking her through the night, all the while praying she would find something real, somewhere… safe.&nbsp; <br><br>She had watched with growing apprehension as the fuel gauge had slowly dwindled.&nbsp; The idea of being trapped within her car, waiting all night for someone or something to come&nbsp; along and rescue her on this lonely road was enough to make her cry.&nbsp; There was little doubt that she looked a mess right now.&nbsp; Glancing into her rearview, she verified her assumptions.&nbsp; Red, swollen eyes stared back at her, tear stained cheeks, her face pinched and nervous.&nbsp; On a good day, she might have been pretty, but right now a train wreck stared back at her.&nbsp; Pulling her eyes away, she sought something else to focus on, anything…<br><br>The building looks as lost as she feels, a remnant from another time, when this highway might have bustled with travelers.&nbsp; Now, it was just a shell, a ghost really… the thought made her think of the pale face of her assailant and she shuddered, suddenly galvanized into action.&nbsp; Setting the cars parking brake and shutting off the engine, careful to slip the keys into the pocket of her jeans before she did anything else, she unlocked her door.&nbsp; <br><br>Memory struck her, although not the memories she wished for.&nbsp; The strange eye, the match box, the gun… it was still laying on the floor, untouched since she had dropped it.&nbsp; She stared at it for what seemed like hours, although in truth it was probably no more then a few minutes, before reaching down and carefully, picking it up by the handle.&nbsp; It would be foolish to leave it here in plain sight, after all.&nbsp; She meant to put it back where she’d found it, safe and sound in the glove box…<br><br>Instead, she found herself slipping it into the pocket of her parka.&nbsp; It’s foolish, she knows that.&nbsp; For all she knows it’s not even loaded, and even if it was, she has no idea if she’s ever fired a gun before in her life.&nbsp; Still… She eyes her other possessions, torn between leaving them in the relative safety of the car and bringing them with her.&nbsp; In the end, she packs up her film and camera, placing them carefully in her back pack..&nbsp; She adds the matchbook and as well.&nbsp; The money… that, she pushes into her other pocket, the empty one.&nbsp; She wonders if they serve drinks here… she could certainly use one about now.<br><br>Finally, she can’t put if off any longer.&nbsp; Armed with what little she has, her memories still lost somewhere along the dark road, she steps out of the car and hurries towards the diner, small rocks assaulting her sandaled toes as she tries to keep from running all the way to the door.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>19-08-2007, 06:26:02</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				The cold blue gravel makes going difficult in her sandals, and when she reaches the scuffed-red door, with its chicken-wired window and road-dust glaze, she wrests momentarily wit the awareness of something familiar about this place with the brutal significance that comes only from deja-vu.&nbsp; She teeters on the brink of some warning, some ill-omened events yet to transpire, but they evaporate, and attempting to recall them makes them seem imagined after all.&nbsp; Just... something about this door... she grips the handle-- a piece of galvanized pipe, from the look of it-- and gives the door a steady pull.&nbsp; <br><br>Inside is the same temperature as outside, despite the condensation-spattering AC unit that she sees first, projecting out through a wood-cased hole in the cinderblock above the bar.&nbsp; She lets her gaze ride down the room, and she notes that about half the people in this room are looking directly at her.&nbsp; Most return to what they were doing-- which, by the looks of it-- is drinking stale beer while they wait for a buzz that's slow in coming.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>The hotel check-in window is directly behind the bartender, an older man whose liturgy of tattoos looks more like a sleeve than a design.&nbsp; He has a black mustache and no beard, and his black t-shirt and blue jeans, he looks like he could have come in off of a bike.<br><br>Other faces return to their work... thick, tinted glasses hide the eyes of a gnome-man in one corner with his wife, and a few raucous laughs fill the corner next to a green pyramid-light fixture, where a handful of what MUST be local boys or truckers play eight-ball.&nbsp; The rest fade into peripheral as she heads for the counter-stools.&nbsp; A single table lamp stands at the counter-turned bar, and most of the tables are illuminated only by the strings of holiday lights-- old-fashioned ones, fat, thumb-sized bulbs gleaming in grisly interpretations of a festive color pallet.&nbsp; <br><br>Smoke is thick, has tinged the meager plastic-coated tabletop menus into ambrotype colors.&nbsp; When she settles onto the seat, she can feel the cold chill in her thighs from the soaked jeans, and the weight of the pistol in her parka rests hard against her thigh.&nbsp; <br><br>The bartender's fingers are splayed on the countertop, and she can make out a spider-web tattoo-- faded, ragged, and blue-- on the span of flesh behind his thumb.&nbsp; His pinkie is missing, and he wears no jewelry.&nbsp; He meets her stare with a defensive but lazy greeting.&nbsp; "You lost? ...looking for something?"&nbsp; He doesn't flinch a muscle in his leathery face, and its clear that there's nothing resembling concern in his eyes, though there's something more than idle interest... There's more than enough of that from at least tree other men in the room who wait, in their half-darkened chairs, for something to pick apart.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>19-08-2007, 19:49:11</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She takes a moment to get her bearings, leaning to her right and raising up on the stool she she rescues the still uncounted wad of bills.&nbsp; Before she does anything, she needs to know what her options are.&nbsp; Given the choice, she'd prefer staying at the hotel tonight, rather then risk another corpse dropping out of the sky and onto her soon-for-the-grave moving rust bucket.&nbsp; And she'd need gas as well and a meal or two.&nbsp; Mostly though, what she really needed was a drink and the time to sit her and nurse it while deciding what to do and where to go from here.<br><br>She caught the barkeeps eye, admiring his sheath of tattoos, trying to make sense of some of the more obscure ones, and ordered whatever was on tap, peeling off the top bill and pushing it towards across the counter, scared by many years of abuse.&nbsp; She wondered how often someone from out of town actually stopped her anymore.&nbsp; From the looks of things it was a rarity.&nbsp; She was somewhat surprised that everyone hadn't simply stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at her entrance.&nbsp; Surprised and relieved.&nbsp; She didn't need an extra layer of wierdness to add to the extreme weirdness that had already taken hold of her.&nbsp; Besides, what would she tell them if asked where she was headed or where she'd come from?&nbsp; She couldn't even recall her name.<br><br>Sleep.&nbsp; She'd have a drink or two, a good meal, and then she'd sleep.&nbsp; There was always the chance that her memories would return with the morning.&nbsp; The bartender returned, sliding a glass full of amber towards her, the rim chipped in several places.&nbsp; Had it been another time, another place, she might actually have pointed the flaws out but right now she was too greatful to care.&nbsp; Careful to find a smooth length along the edge of her mug, she drank deeply, eyes half lidded in ecstacy as the refreshing ale slid down her throat, warming her slightly.&nbsp; Whiskey, she thought, would have even been better, but right now she wanted to keep her senses sharp.&nbsp; <br><br>she put down her glass on the bar, still gripping it as if it was a life line, and surveyed the bar, looking for some hint at where she was.&nbsp; Not that a town this size would have sparked recognition, but herhaps it might jar some memory loose, especially if she'd passed through it on her way to... She took another draw from her drink, finally releasing it, freeing her hand so that she could plant her elbows on the counter and push her face into her hands, trying hard not to cry, frustration and fear both worrying at her.&nbsp; <br><br>She had no idea how long she sat like that, motionless, lost in a sea of non thoughts, simply trying to open her mind to what ever would come, but there was nothing.&nbsp; She had no clues except the match book...<br><br>She almost smiled at that, although it was a tired smile, on there was little joy or humor in it.&nbsp; Motioning to the barkeeper again, she waited, idly kicking her legs against the legs of her stool, patting the heavy form of the pistol in her pocket to make sure it hadn't disappeared somehow.&nbsp; She found it both reassuring and frightening that she had it in her possesion.&nbsp; <br><br>"Excuse me."&nbsp; she said, her voice taking a moment to come to life when he'd finally paused across the bar from her.&nbsp; She dug into her pocket, retrieving the match book and held it up so that he could get a good look at the cover.&nbsp; <br><br>"Do you recognize this?"&nbsp; She tried to push down the sense of hope, no matter how far fetched it might be, that warmed her thoughts as her beverage began to take effect on her empty stomach.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>20-08-2007, 22:45:50</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The bills amount to about seven hundred dollars.&nbsp; All of them are old, practically damp with the oil of casino counters' thick fingers, the blood of mortal wounds and desperate muggings, the sweat of laboring hands and dancers' bodies.&nbsp; <br><br>The barman hangs out at the opposite end of the counter for some time, thumbing through a dog-eared paperback of Nietzsche and occasionally looking up to size her up.&nbsp; She's certain that at least two of the men in the bar are staring at her, whispering to each other in not-accidentally-audible tones and occasionally hissing out a laugh around gleaming boar's teeth and smouldering cigarettes.&nbsp; She's heard worse, and can tune it out.&nbsp; She's heard worse... seen worse... seen the same...<br><br>...In that selfsame familiarity, everything is redundant; the only thing to distinguish this bar-- with its ill-lighting and blood-brown, threadbare carpet, its soft-bumpered pool table and dartless dart board--&nbsp; from any other is the sheer awkwardness of it all; it's a decoupage of dozens of bars across the midwest, devoid of soul despite the dozens it sips on nightly, but it's a lost, fragmented, piecemiel bar-- there's a fluorescent tube here, up in the rafters, illuminating nothing effectively except to emphasize the shadows of the ceiling's cross-timers... a jar of pickled eggs like sheep's eyees lingers behind the counter like a prop from a Frankenstein movie... a rate-table can be read in reverse through the light of the night-window for the hotel, a rack of keys with red and yellow plastic tags, marked with frayed, black-smudged medical tape and permanent-markered numbers.&nbsp; One pin still has 2 keys.&nbsp; It's enirely new, but entirely familiar; the nadir of the surreal.<br><br>Listening to her question with square-jawed indifference, the barman's eyes drift out of their abyssal pools of shadow to her face, the matchbook, then over her body once more before returning to meet her gaze.&nbsp; "Is this a trick question?"&nbsp; His gaze transfixes her like a cobra's as he reaches out, taking from her hovering finger the matchbook like plucking easy fruit.&nbsp; He continues to look into her eyes, drinking up what remains of her fear and disorientation so that its void can be filled with alcohol and shadow.&nbsp; The matchbook turns in his thick fingers, and he drops it on the bartop next to the wet ring from her first beer.<br><br>"Daisy, is it?"&nbsp; The crow's feet around his eyes draw their talons closer together.&nbsp; "I'm not interested in paying for it, Daisy.&nbsp; Though it wouldn't be the first time."&nbsp; He leans back, wiry and cold as iron shavings, and reaches into his rolled-up sleeve for a crumpled red pack of cigarettes.&nbsp; He turns away as he sparks up an abrasion-smoothed zippo, his face a blaze of orange for a moment.&nbsp; He leaves both the pack and the lighter on the bartop as he busies himself with flipping through papers under the bar.&nbsp; The papers sound old, crisp, like newsprint or butcher's paper.&nbsp; <br><br>Exhaling a thick column of smoke, he looks over at her, then over her shoulder, and she can feel him sizing her reverse-image up in a mirror behind her.&nbsp; Having him looking past her, yet through her, is unsettling.&nbsp; "Or is it not that?&nbsp; You don't work there, but have a friend there, might get you a job?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>21-08-2007, 19:54:31</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It takes her a while to decipher his meaning, but when she finally does, she feels her cheeks turn red, knows that a bright blush spreads quickly across her face.&nbsp; He thinks she's a hooker.&nbsp; Deep down, she knows he's wrong... the camara is her only proof, but it's overwhelming evidence as far as she's concerned.&nbsp; Not that he'd believe her if she insisted.&nbsp; From the looks she's getting from the numerous men in the bar, he's not the only one with that assumption... She turns her head, surveying the place, wondering why it feels so familiar?&nbsp; She fingers the bills in her pocket, wondering why she is carrying so much cash... doubt sinks its sharp claws into her, worrying at her thoughts, the feel of the bills between her fingers making her uneasy.&nbsp; Could they be a whore's earnings?&nbsp; &nbsp;She shuddered at the thought, trying to push it away, but the seeds of doubt had been planted.&nbsp; Was <em>she</em> Daisy?&nbsp; <br><br>She wishes she knew.&nbsp; She feels like crying, so tired, so lost... not in front of this... creature, though, his eyes full of lust and contempt.&nbsp; Is this the first time someone has looked at her like that?&nbsp; Or had she, at some point, grown so used to it that she hardly noticed it anymore?&nbsp; Then, she makes a realization, having been lost in her own dark thoughts.&nbsp; He <em>does</em> recognize the place.<br><br>"Is it close by, then?"&nbsp; She's tempted to snatch the matchbook, to reclaim her one clue to what has happened to her, but waits, wanting to find out first before she angers him... Watching him, she decides she doesn't want to anger him at all, all too aware of her vulnerability here... a strange woman on an untravelled highway, no id, no idea of who she is or how she came to be here... suddenly, she feels the slow ebb of fear rising in her.&nbsp; The way the bar tender stares at her, the looks from the men as she came in... humanity was such a thin veneer sometimes, easily shed given the slightest provocation.&nbsp; Her gaze fell on the pair of keys on the rack, suddenly wanting to flee to saftey, to hide behind a locked door. <br><br>She slid her hand into her parka pocket, reassuring herself that the gun was still there, the thought of what they could do to her, should they cross over the line from human to animal.&nbsp; Rape her, certainly.&nbsp; Lock her up and use her over and over before strangling her and dumping her in some field, lonely and forgotten.&nbsp; <br><br>She was almost shaking as she carressed the worn handle of the revolver, keyed up, persperation breaking on her skin.&nbsp; In a voice that trembled more then she would have wished, she nodded towards the hotel rate desk.&nbsp; "I'd like a room for the night... please?"&nbsp; It came out as a plea, one she hoped he wouldn't react to as a shark to blood.&nbsp; <em>Please, please, please</em>she prayed silently, gripping the revolver in a death grip. <br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>21-08-2007, 21:21:26</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Cold silver-gray eyes slide from the mirror to her face, perceiving her fear with impassive stare.&nbsp; His wide lips are tightly pressed together, and smoke rolls from his nostrils in white ribbons, then a steady stream as he exhales.&nbsp; Blood in the water indeed.&nbsp; "No.&nbsp; It's not close.&nbsp; But it's not far."&nbsp; He doesn't offer more than that.&nbsp; He flicks ash from his cigarette on the floor with a gentle tap, almost lovingly awakening the orange-glowing cherry from its carapace of ash.<br><br>She can hear the click of metal, then again... <em>something metal, some action working.&nbsp; Some trap being set, perhaps, something spring-loaded... </em> <br><br>His eyes don't leave hers.&nbsp; Not for a moment.&nbsp; <br><br><em>... some guillotine being drawn?&nbsp; ...no... some firearm being cocked...</em>&nbsp; <br><br>An epiphany, this... he could sense the weapon.&nbsp; He smelled it, saw its shape, or somehow felt it-- perhaps he sized her up so carefully that he noticed a limp-- whatever it was, he knew it.&nbsp; He'd keep the gun on her, do what he wanted, and finish her swiftly with a blazing hot lead that would cool with her body temperature, freeze in the winter, be found somewhere near the front of the skull when Jane Doe 76 was found two years later in a field by those miles and miles of useless barbed wire.&nbsp; No ID.&nbsp; No clothes.&nbsp; Just a camera.<br><br>CLAK-- a plastic clipboard met the counter in front of her.&nbsp; She felt herself jump, hoped that she didn't just cry out.&nbsp; No sign that she did, the man's face hasn't changed.&nbsp; There is ringing in her ears, beyond that the smooth click-click-click of a ball-chain that dangles from the cheap plastic pen as it it pools on the counter, then the pen falls still.&nbsp; The register is spattered with wrinkling splotches of color.&nbsp; Somebody's meal from months, maybe years, before.&nbsp; <br><br>"I've got one room left."&nbsp; The barman's eyes don't betray any amusement at her fear, but something in her can sense that hunger in him being stirred.&nbsp; The cigarette-hand reaches for the peg with two keys, draws one off and lets it sail for the counter where she sits shaking, hand in a deathgrip on the pistol.&nbsp; If she'd had her finger in the triggerguard, she'd have blown off half her leg.&nbsp; "It's not a nice room."&nbsp; He tilts his face, rookish in his coldness.&nbsp; "It's under repairs, but you seem... desperate."&nbsp; One black-rimmed eye almost closes in a wink.&nbsp; "It's fifty.&nbsp; Cash up front.&nbsp; No TV.&nbsp; There's hot water, sheets."&nbsp; Same apprasing cold.&nbsp; "Lock on the door."<br><br>There's a raucous laugh from the other end of the restaraunt, and one of the greasy-fingered men-- the one wearing a wrinkled and disheveled gray flannel suit-- climbs back into his chair with a drunken swagger, cursing bitterly at his company.<br><br>The barman leans back, places the cigarette at his lip and draws once more.&nbsp; Through his narrow-eyed appraisal, his sarcasm barely bleeds through.&nbsp; "Need help with your luggage?"&nbsp; A green lunar moth pecks insistently at the glass behind him, above the wood-barred money-exchange hole, like an insistent ghost trying to breech the wall between worlds.<br><br>She feels desolate.&nbsp; She needs a darkroom.&nbsp; But what would she see in those first negatives?&nbsp; What would she find in those cellulose spools of memory?&nbsp; Or, worse, would they be exposed-- develop as black sheets of nothing, like the nothing left where she used to be?
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>24-08-2007, 18:39:50</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Cold fingers run down her spine, her fingers feeling numb as the whole strange scenario plays out in seeming slow motion.&nbsp; She's going to die, she feels it in her bones.&nbsp; She wonders what kind of a person she was, whether she's destined for heaven or hell... a small part of her finds the thought humorous.&nbsp; In a way, she's already in hell, only she'd never imagined it like this...<br><br>The cliboard falls on the counter, and she jumps, relinquishing her grip on the pistol, her eyes flying to the pen as it rolls from side to side before stilling.&nbsp; Her eyes travel up to the barkeeper, traversing his blacker then black tee shirt, focusing on his eyes, wondering what he's seeing... a stripper or a hooker... maybe it's best that way, she thinks.&nbsp; Maybe it's even true.&nbsp; At least, he's less likely to ask questions that she has no answers to this way.&nbsp; She offers him a tentative smile, one that feels forced and doesn't quite reach her eyes.<br><br>"Sounds perfect."&nbsp; she can't hide the tremor in her voice, the lack of surety.&nbsp; Strangely enough, his wink seems assuring, almost friendly.&nbsp; Perhaps it's just the relief of interacting with another person.&nbsp; It had felt so lonely out... there... wherever it was she had been.&nbsp; She remembers the face on the windscreen, shuddering, wondering if that might have been her fate had she not found this imperfect oasis.<br><br>Reaching into her pocket, she pulls her wad of cash out, careful to keep it on her lap and, hopefully out of sight, peeling off 3 twenties and handing them over to the bar keeper before gathering up her key.&nbsp; "That will be fine.&nbsp; Really.&nbsp; I just want somewhere to get cleaned up, sleep..."&nbsp; <br><br>Laughter draws her atttention across the room, her eyes targeting the drunk on the chair.&nbsp; She feels tension in the air as his words cut through the atmosphere.&nbsp; He's looking for trouble, or at least falling face first into it.&nbsp; She looks around the room, thinking these aren't the sort of men who'll ignore his words, writing them off as drunkend ramblings.&nbsp; These are the kind of men who will make him regret the spill of bile that spills from his mouth.&nbsp; She needs to be away from here, locked safely in her room.&nbsp; The stray thought of what else her pack contains flits throuht her head, and a distant memory of sitting in a darkened room, the soft glow of red light over one shoulder while she watched black and white images slowly come to life beneath the surface a chemical and water filled bath... <br><br>She held onto those thoughts like a dying man clutching at a rope as she pushed herself away from the bar, keys in hand, desperate to be away from here, safe in her room, before someone took an interest in her.&nbsp; Suddenly, she was thankful for the drunk in the grey suit for diverting everyone's attention.&nbsp; She should buy him a drink... she giggled nervously at the thought, her heart still hammering from the almost confrontation with the barkeeper, intent on holding herself together long enough to match her room number to the key her fingers had curled fist like about.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>24-08-2007, 23:09:10</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The bills disappear under his tattooed hand as she slides the bills away.&nbsp; He leans back against the register, folding the bills between his fingers and slipping them gently into the front pocket of his jeans.&nbsp; His serpentine gaze pans over her once more before locking with her eyes.&nbsp; He tips his pock-marked chin toward the door she came in.&nbsp; "Out that way, last one on the left.&nbsp; Pleasant dreams," he says in a coarse whisper around the pluming cigarette that dangles at his lips.&nbsp; "You get lonely, come back for a drink.”&nbsp; <br><br>She doesn’t recall leaving the barstool, crossing the floor, or opening the grate-covered door with the pipe handle.&nbsp; But she’s standing in the night, key dangling from the fingers of her left hand, her right squeezing the grip of the pistol until her knuckles burn with acid.&nbsp; Her breath comes in rapid sobs suddenly, the rims of her vision blurring as her eyes sting with tears.&nbsp; She passes room after room, windows patched with tape and solder, puddles of brackish condensation under the ticking, humming air-conditioning units that jut out like bricks from a tomb, shadowing remnants of leaves and, beneath one, the bones of a rat.&nbsp; <br><br>She passes five doors before her room, only half the bare-bulb lights work.&nbsp; Door 3 practically vibrates with the noise of gunshots, sirens, and tire squeals as someone watches a crime flick.&nbsp; &nbsp;The room’s closed off by a metal fire-door, painted red once, now faded by sun to a sickly, burnt-orange hue, and bearing a peeling, blackened-edged reflective sticker emblazoned with a black 6.&nbsp; The short, rusty key grates in the lock, and the knob is sticky, but the door opens.&nbsp; Mottled brown carpet, long-threaded and coarse, spans the floor she can see.&nbsp; She reaches for the light switch.&nbsp; Unwilling to turn her back on the empty room, but aware too of the blackness of night behind her back. <br><br>Her hand meets the doorframe, exposed drywall.&nbsp; She finds nothing, sees a lamp’s silhouette on the bedside table.&nbsp; Ghostlike shapes loom in the room, and she must force herself through to reach the switch.&nbsp; The door stands open, cicada and cricket calls serenading from beyond the pool of light in the hotel’s front.&nbsp; She finds the switch, throws a wan light across the room.<br><br>She reaches for the door, moving with the desperation she’s growing accustomed to, and slams it shut.&nbsp; The window quivers.&nbsp; Shaking fingers work the tumbler for the deadbolt, the privacy chain, useless as she knows privacy chains are.&nbsp; She crumples to the floor, still wearing her wet clothes, and is wracked with violent sobs that shake her to the core and escape from her mouth like bats from a collapsed mineshaft, wriggling and desperate, then bursting forth, taking flight.&nbsp; <br><br>When the girl stops, she swipes at the tears on her cheekbones.&nbsp; The ‘do not disturb’ sign stares back at her, creased and stained, a caricature man-in-the-moon winking at her face with a sly, knowing smirk, complete with 50’s-era ‘sparkle’ lines.&nbsp; She laughs, slumps back on the carpet, and stands.&nbsp; Her bag, somehow, made it in on her shoulder.&nbsp; And she didn’t even shoot anyone.<br><br>One look over the room, however, and she actually has second thoughts.&nbsp; <br><br>Clear plastic sheeting covers the mirror and sink, and the mottled-brown ceramic backsplash is in dusty, jagged fragments, exposing bare iron pipes and valves.&nbsp; A phone is on the nightstand—a rotary phone, of all things—black and heavy.&nbsp; Black plastic trash bags, cut to make sheeting, cover the floor between the bed and dresser, which has no drawers.&nbsp; There’s no television, but there’s a bed… big and made up so long ago that it’s accumulated dust—she throws the coverlet to the floor, and sighs with relief to see no palmetto bugs or visible vermin among the ivory sheets.<br><br>Reluctantly, she approaches the bathroom doorframe—the door is missing.&nbsp; Inside is a 70’s-era pale green tub with no curtain, but no point in showering anyway—a bare stalk of a showerhead faucet sticks out with no nozzle, a downspout for a bath—if there’s hot water, it’ll only be useful for a bath.&nbsp; Though with the sink out, she might be brushing her teeth there too.&nbsp; There’s a toilet, backed up with rusty water, but not repulsive, and under a sheet of clear plastic, there’s a short stack of white towels—gray, really, but they seem clean enough.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>29-08-2007, 10:02:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It's like something out of a bad made for TV movie, she thinks.&nbsp; Looking around, she amends that.&nbsp; More like a B horror movie.&nbsp; The thought unnerves her slightly, knowing that if it holds true to form, she'll be the next victim, just as soon as she does something stupid, investigates strange noises in the hall, perhaps, or wanders out into the hall without a light when the electricity goes off.&nbsp; She's being paranoid, she knows, but it's almost impossible not to.&nbsp; She stares at the bed, wondering if she'll be able to sleep tonight and if her memories will return with the morning sun.<br><br>She's suddenly warm, not that the heaters working or anything like that, but a surge of fear and adreniline seem in danger of searing her flesh from the inside out.&nbsp; She tears her parka off almost angrily, dropping it to the floor as gravity loses becomes confused.&nbsp; <br><br>She runs suddenly into the bathroom, barely pausing to stare at the reflection of the stranger in the mirror before she's kneeling on the dirty, unmatched and broken tile, throwing up the conents of her stomach, each heave bringing a new wave of pain and nausea until she's sure she'll turn inside out before she's done...<br><br>Finally, it comes to an end, and she collapses on the toilet rim, not caring that drool and vomit trickled sideways across one cheek, too weak to even flush away the offending contents.&nbsp; She stares into the bowl, trying to make sense of everything, realizing that it's impossible.&nbsp; Maybe that's the key. She's crazy... best to start thinking like a crazy person.&nbsp; She giggles suddenly, thinking that she could cut herself if only she had a razor and write random quotes on the wall...<br><br>Reason slaps her like a cold hand, and she shakes, frightened at where her mind had suddenly gone.&nbsp; Pushing herself away from the toilet, away from the bathroom, she falls backwars on the bed, at first staring at the ceiling, then going into a fetal position, her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped about her shins.&nbsp; Squeezing her eyes shut, she prays for sleep.<br><br>It does not come.&nbsp; The sound of gunshots and tires on concrete fill the air.&nbsp; Her gun.&nbsp; Where is it?&nbsp; What if it's not the TV she hears, but reality?&nbsp; the corpse outside of her car, the gun... did she kill someone?&nbsp; Is she even capable of killing anyone? She wishes she knew more, had a name... Daisy, for now she'll be Daisy... maybe in her bag, though.. some sort of ID... she's yet to search it.&nbsp; <br><br>She unfolds herself, the dust on the bed turning to a light coating of mud, stained by the rain that still clings to her.&nbsp; She pulls her bag by one strap up beside her, her lifeline, the only road left to her that might lead to understanding, to sanity.&nbsp; She turns it over, dumping the contents on the ancient quilt.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>29-08-2007, 10:34:11</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The knapsack-- student-sized, reinforced canvas, synthetic blend... web pockets empty on the outside of its blue and black compartment.&nbsp; She upturns it, dumping the crumpled and disheveled contents onto the bared top-sheet of the bed.&nbsp; Knick-knacks, knots of clothes, and little jingling things tumble out.&nbsp; She thinks of a pinata... there's even candy.&nbsp; <br><br>The light giggle that bubbles up in her throat doesn't seem like her.&nbsp; Is as familiar as the face in the mirror, though she had no concept of what she should look like.&nbsp; As familiar as anything else, as Daisy, as the gun, as the spiderweb on the bartender's left hand.&nbsp; "Beautiful," she whispers sarcastically to herself, sorting out a split roll of ginger candy... quite a lucky find, actually, since ginger naturally soothes the stomach.&nbsp; A toothbrush, stuck hastily into a plastic sandwich-bag, its white bristles looking used, but clean, a sample-tube of toothpaste.&nbsp; The giggle returns, "Ah, the puzzle comes together..."&nbsp; she shakes her head and scoots them to the side, gathers about 54 cents in change.&nbsp; Eyeliner, lipstick, powder, shadow.&nbsp; <em>Fantastic, I'll be made up when I'm found dead.</em> She places them beside the toothbrush in a little cluster.&nbsp; Tampons, little individually-wrapped, lost soldiers.&nbsp; She reunites the platoon.&nbsp; Three pairs of underwear... nothing fancy, dip-front cotton... and clean, thank goodness, black, beige, and white.&nbsp; She wonders what color she's wearing, but can't remember.&nbsp; Three t-shirts, ladies' size small... no spare jeans, no socks, no spare bra.<br><br>These things sorted out, she is alarmed by just how very little there is to see... paperclips, an empty film can full of them.&nbsp; The camera, of course, still in its case.&nbsp; A hairbrush... the metal-tined sort, which she tries... it feels natural enough to brush her hair, but doesn't stir the memory of a particular style.&nbsp; Nothing, no hint of herself.&nbsp; Just the basics, the core of what is needed to get by.<br><br>She pushes it aside, realizes she's still damp.&nbsp; And miserable... she picks up her parka from the plastic-sheathed floor, taking the pistol in her hand, and twists the knobs on the tub.&nbsp; She's rewarded with a low rumble, a couple of jolts from the spigot, then finally a spurt of rust-tinged water than, a few seconds later, runs clear.&nbsp; At this last assurance, she sets the bath stopper and begins to fill the tub with warm water.<br><br>The phone stares back, and she reflexively digs out the matchbook.<br><br>Then numbers are old rotary dials, so she lifts the receiving and dials the frst 5 digits-- tentatively, she places the heavy black receiver to her cheek, and turns the dial once more.<br><br>There's a pause, then&nbsp; ring.&nbsp; Another... <br><br>A man's voice.&nbsp; "Hello..."<br><br>Silence, she's floored.&nbsp; What to SAY?
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>29-08-2007, 10:57:43</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Nothing.&nbsp; Frustration overwhelms her and she tries to fit the puzzle pieces together, only to find that not only do they not fit, but they don't even seem to from the same box.&nbsp; About all she can tell from the contents of her pack is that she is female and not prepared for a long trip, although she'd obviosly planned on being gone for the weekend... what day is it, she wonders.&nbsp; Even that escaped her.&nbsp; <br><br>The phone.&nbsp; The numbers on the matchbook push their way into her thoughts, bullying her fragile memory.&nbsp; She finds herself dialing the phone, wondering if she's making a mistake.&nbsp; Still, there's little choice left to her.&nbsp; <br><br>She dials clumisly, the old fashioned phone unfamiliar to her fingers, and waits.<br><br><em>Hello.</em><br><br>Such a simple word, she thinks.&nbsp; Just what one would expect.&nbsp; But still, it takes her by surprise.&nbsp; She almost hangs up the phone in a panic, but stops herself.&nbsp; She needs to know.&nbsp; It's a burning obsession.&nbsp; Knowledge is power.&nbsp; The phrase dredges itself up from the depths of her mind, and she grasps on to it like a drowning man.&nbsp; She doesn't want to be trapped her in this motel, on this road, in this stranger's body. <br><br>"Hello.&nbsp; I'm looking for..."&nbsp; Who?&nbsp; Daisy?&nbsp; She is Daisy.&nbsp; Isn't she?&nbsp; She wishes she knew.&nbsp; The phone almost tumbles from nervless fingers, but she saves it, pushing it hard against her ear and cheek, knowing that her breath sounds fearful.&nbsp; She decides to take a chance, though.&nbsp; What choice does she have?<br><br>"I... I'm a friend of Daisys... kind of.&nbsp; Is she there?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>29-08-2007, 19:31:49</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Through the heavy plastic receiver, the sound of the phone cord twisting, of the man's mouth opening, are like boulders tumbling, rolling end upon end down a sheer drop.&nbsp; "Daisy's not available," the man says, obviously innoccuous, as of one in on a joke.&nbsp; "Can I give her a message?"&nbsp; Something in the background... droning synth-music, thrumming bass and hissing whispers of vocalists harmonizing words that she can't quite make out.&nbsp; The clink of glasses, high, distant laughter of a woman... fake laughter, she knows its type.<br><br>Something in the girl reels, there's a feeling of vertigo... eagerness, hope at almost making a connection... her dry lips open, begin to speak, preparing to rattle off something-- a phone number, there's one printed on the dial in plain typewriter text, cut and adhered with packing tape-- ask a time to call her, ask if she's missing someone--<br><br>But what she says is entirely different.&nbsp; That vertigo, the subtle pivot of the corners of the room... she stands, meets her reflection in the lamp-glare on the plastic-coated picture of a sailboat faring a black storm, spiraling along the coast in mediocre detail.&nbsp; Her hair is limp, eyes rimmed with shadows.&nbsp; Her lashes are clumped together, but her reflection isn't terribly clear-- trick of the light, the lamp's baleful glow over her reflected-self's shoulder makes her shadow-face a backlit silhouette, details hard to trace... her lips move without volition, her tongue becomes deft, takes on a harsh clip, subtle, meaningful.&nbsp; With authority, but not <em>hers</em>... it is as if the shadowy reflection is the one that speaks, not the girl herself...<br><br>Her head lowered, eyes taking on a killer stare.&nbsp; "Tell her the flowers are on time."<br><br><em>What the--</em><br><br>Silence. She waits.&nbsp; Her hand trembles, fights to hang up the phone.&nbsp; The shadow girl in the plastic reflection won't let her.&nbsp; The dark-rimmed eyes the black pools where her irises should be, fringed by the fainest white at the corners.&nbsp; She fights to hang up the phone.&nbsp; She can't.&nbsp; The high, stupid laughter comes through like digital feedback in the distance.<br><br>She sees her lips move in the mirror.&nbsp; "Well?"<br><br>Movement again, granite from the over-sensitive mich on the other end's receiver.&nbsp; "Do the barman.&nbsp; One eye for the mark.&nbsp; Do what you want to him first."&nbsp; The gun in her parka, there on then floor like a hunk of brick waiting to be thrown.&nbsp; "Get the proof."&nbsp; Gaze darts to the bed, where the camera case sits, patient as a sleeping cat.&nbsp; <br><br>The shadow-girl in the reflection is her now.&nbsp; Her eyes widen, are her own again, the whites she could barely before see now rim her irises clear around.&nbsp; Her lips hang open, and the shaking stops very suddenly as every muscle goes rigid as stone.&nbsp; <br><br>"Miss you, baby."&nbsp; Grinding stone, rumbling, as the receiver is moved, meets the carrier, and cicks dead, leaving in its wake a prolonged, soft buzz, like a moth next to a microphone.<br><br>The receiver falls from her hand in a simple arc, slow-motion tumbling through space, and she sees the girl in the plastic reflection for, perhaps, the first time.<br><br>She asks her, "Is this what I'm supposed to do?"&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>29-08-2007, 20:21:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She waits for the girl to answer, hoping, praying that she shakes her head, mouths the word 'no'... she would even welcome voices in her head, if only they would carress her with reassuring words, convince her it was all a mistake, erase the growing sense of dread.&nbsp; 'Daisy', however, doesn't co-operate.&nbsp; Eyes dark and cold, she nods back, a smirk on her face.<br><br>"You know what to do, Daisy. Not like it's the first time baby.&nbsp; If you want, I can help..."&nbsp; <br><br>She stumbles back in terror, visions of her standing, legs spread, a smoking gun held between two sweaty palms as the tattooed bar keep slides slowly down the wall, a blossom of blood covering his chest...<br><br>"No..." she moans.&nbsp; She's a photographer... that's what the camera is for, the gun is for protection.&nbsp; She's looking for someone, trying to get answers, she's not a paid killer...<br><br>"Is that what you think, Daisy?"&nbsp; the girl in the mirror asks.&nbsp; "Is that how you sleep at night?&nbsp; By lying to yourself?"&nbsp; She shakes her head, amusment on her features.&nbsp; She rasises her hand, and the reflection does too, runs fingers over her face to find the same satisfied smile of amusement on her face.&nbsp; God, she is going mad.&nbsp; Maybe she doesn't want her memories to return.&nbsp; Maybe it is better this way.<br><br>She turns slowly as if drawn by magnets, staring at her parka, her eyes searching out the gun in the right hand pocket.&nbsp; Trance like she takes a step, and then another, kneeling beside the rain stained jacket, reaching in...<br><br>The pistol grip fits comfortably in her hand, bringing no memories with it, but knowledge.&nbsp; The image of her finger tighening gently on the trigger, the hammer cocking back and then falling explosivly come to mind... a gunshot in the room down the hall way startles her and she almost drops it.&nbsp; Police sirens wail setting her nerves on end.&nbsp; She recalls the scene in the bar.&nbsp; The barkeep, the drunken man in grey flannel, the other patrons.&nbsp; Best to wait... but... her mark... she lays the gun down carefully, making sure the saftey is off, her fingers pressing to her temples.&nbsp; She's confused... who is her mark... the barkeep? the man in grey someone who's yet to arrive?&nbsp; She glance up at the mirror, but her reflection is lost to her from where she kneels.&nbsp; Maybe, if she stays down here, she can sneak out, crawl across the floor, slip out the door and hide.<br><br>She laughs, shaking her head.&nbsp; "Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.&nbsp; You never were any good at this, were you?&nbsp; If you want, I could take over.&nbsp; Make it easy on you dear.&nbsp; After it's all over you'll just wake up down the road, no memory of what happened, what you did.&nbsp; Would you like that?"<br><br>She thought of the terror of waking up on the side of the road ealier, the face of the dead man... she almost threw up again.&nbsp; "Oh my god...&nbsp; I killed him..."<br><br>It was inescapable... she had kiled someone.&nbsp; Cold bloodedly gunned them down and then... her eyes sought out the camera, suddenly fearful of what images the film would contain.&nbsp; How many?&nbsp; How often had she done this?&nbsp; She had to stop herself.&nbsp; Maybe if she could convince Daisy to go away, make her think she was going to carry out her assignment, she would have time to think this through, to find some way to stop her...<br><br>She rose, staring long and hard at her reflection.&nbsp; "I... I can do this.&nbsp; I don't need you."&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>30-08-2007, 20:42:22</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br>Black eyes stare back, something of a smile lingering on the youthful lips, a satisfied, feline smile, certain of the pointlessness of pressing the point.&nbsp; Without a word to follow, the girl's last words.&nbsp; <em>i don't need you</em> The cool, chiding smile states flatly, giving it's answer... <em>we'll see.</em><br><br>She throws her belongings back into the bag, leaves out the toothbrush and paste, a black shirt, fresh underwear.&nbsp; It doesn't seem to fit at all... these are not the clothes of a killer... shouldn't there be a bullet-proof vest, a suitcase full of knives and explosives, strichnine and cyanide?&nbsp; Shouldn't the underwear by some sexy Natasha-like silk garment, with hidden knife-sheaths in the garters and an ace of spades on the seat?!&nbsp; <br><br>Laughter, high and wild, like the laughter of a child-- so out of sorts it must be that of a lunatic-- peals in her ears.&nbsp; Panic grips her, but she reacts beyond panic, beyond comprehension.&nbsp; She dives for the gun,twists it from the pocket of her parka, brings it to bear on the door with the hammer back the safety button smoothly depressed to 'off', and-- no one.&nbsp; The laughter sontinues.&nbsp; Her pulse thrums in her ears, like a massive pair of goat-hide drums, the plastic sheeting crinkles, slick and vile under her bare feet.&nbsp; The laughter dies down, matches the sobbing wrenching of her breath in spurts.&nbsp; It was her own laughter.&nbsp; <br><br>She eases the hammer back to its place against the cylinder, clicks the safety smoothly back into place.&nbsp; <br><br>Maybe it's not so hard to believe that she's really a killer after all.<br><br>* <br><br>The bathtub spigot runs cold, brown water for a solid minute before it goes clear again, the faint, milky whiteness of chlorination in the hot water tinging it like pale, thin milk.&nbsp; It settles out, becomes tolerable, and she stops the drain.<br><br>Steam fills the bathroom, rolls out in lazy waves to before dissipating in the air-conditioning.&nbsp; The air control thrums, clicks and sputters from time to time, but the car chase has died away.&nbsp; A door's opened and closed next door, muffled conversation, a woman and man.&nbsp; The bathtub noise still as it fills, but she's watching the door.&nbsp; She opens the chamber of the pistol, notes that all the chambers are filled.&nbsp; She locks it back into place and begins to wipe it down with the clean t-shirt, shining and polishing every surface, removing every trace of the oils from her fingers.&nbsp; The water's echo in the next room is more resonant, deeper in pitch.&nbsp; Must be full by now, she thinks.&nbsp; She lays the cleaned weapon atop a folded face-towel and carries it that way to the bathroom.&nbsp; <br><br>She sets it on the rim of the tub and cuts the water, takes off her clothes, and steps in, the warmth of the water up to her knees nice.. she lowers herself in, feels tension easing away instantly, tries not to splash as she eases back, settles in, sinks up to her neck.&nbsp; She curls up, is immersed for a moment, and opens her eyes under the warm surface, ears going to a low roar as they fill with water, eyes and nose filling with water.&nbsp; She doesn't exhale, holds her breath placidly, until the surface of the water stills and she's staring up at the brown water-stains and mildew on the white-spackled ceiling, distorted and wavy through an inch of water.&nbsp; Her hair floats about her face like the tendrils of an undersea jungle.&nbsp; She feels the slowly building burn in her lungs of her breath, wanting escape, and she lets the crystaline bubbles of air spill slowly from her lips, her mouth.&nbsp; <br><br>How utterly simple it all feels now, how distant, with the tears and sweat and fear in her pores dissolving, washing away.<br><br>She straightens, hears the melodic splashes of water from her hair and face trickling into the water around her.&nbsp; She's slow, her head held back as she rises, so her hair is slicked back over the crown of her head, out of her eyes.&nbsp; The gun waits obediently, the air conditioner still thrums in the next room.&nbsp; The man next door says a couple words here and there, the woman answers with a laugh.&nbsp; Same practiced, foolish laugh.&nbsp; Only a man would believe that laugh, or expect it.<br><br>She sits that way for a long time, her fingers wrapped over the enameled tub, watching the steam curl from the water looking over the skin of her body and wondering who she is.&nbsp; No tattoos, no piercings, no serious scars.&nbsp; One knee has an old scar from when she was a girl, when she wrecked her bike on the serrated asphalt of-- of-- oh, shit, it was almost there!&nbsp; The asphalt had seashells in it... commonly used as a filler to increase road traction and hardness of the roads in... <br><br>Florida, was it?&nbsp; No... The coast of Texas.<br><br>No.. California, Los Angeles... or Santa Monica... or...<br><br>The couple next door is fucking, the bed squeaks softly as the headboard buckles against the wall, a steady rhythm of work being done.&nbsp; Breathy gasps, some soft, purring words.&nbsp; She can almost picture it, almost feel it it's so close.&nbsp; She almost cares.<br><br>They stop eventually... a pretty good session, she supposes... must have been close to an hour, the sound pausing only for short increments before changing in pitch and frequency.&nbsp; The tub's grown cool, the soles of her toes are wrinkled with the water.&nbsp; Her fingertips, though, aren't... she hasn't moved them, hasn't touched the water.&nbsp; The pistol still waits on its towel.&nbsp; Now, she moves it to sit on the toilet tank, stands slowly, listens to the tinkling cascade of the water dripping from her skin, then wraps in a towel, wrings out her hair.&nbsp; Picks up the gun-- can't seem to leave it behind now-- and sets it on the nightstand as she lays on the splayed, bare sheets.&nbsp; <br><br>She stares at the plastic on the floor, she thinks.&nbsp; ... do the barman, one eye for the mark.&nbsp; She seemed to remember a detective movie she saw once, where a murdered man was shot through the eye... turned out that he worked for the cosa nostra, was killed to conceal something he'd seen.&nbsp; Maybe the barman saw something too.&nbsp; &nbsp;Is that what they meant when they said, 'one eye for the mark..?'&nbsp; Strange... <br><br>She rises, stows away the clothes she'd left on the carpet, brushes her teeth with water from the tub faucet.&nbsp; Wraps the towel over the curtain bar, puts on the underwear and t-shirt.&nbsp; She has no watch, and there's no clock in the room.&nbsp; Two hours must have passed, at least.&nbsp; Enough time for the shock and horror to ease out of her bones, washed away, leaving a warm numbness and comfortable ease.&nbsp; Acceptance, strangely.&nbsp; She is going to kill a man, that's all.&nbsp; She walks to the door, pulls back the vinyl-coated synthetic fabric of the curtain and peers out through a narrow slit. <br><br>No dead face, no gang of thugs.&nbsp; The light on the restaurant is still on.&nbsp; There's two cars in the lot... a pickup truck (she guesses it's a 60s-model Ford), and the Roadrunner she parked there.&nbsp; There's another two cars in front of the hotel spaces.&nbsp; Moths swarm the bare-bulb beside the '--EAK HOUSE" sign, the occasional jagged dart of a bat, taking advantage of the feeding grounds to snap up a moth.<br><br>She waits, stands.&nbsp; She stretches her neck, surveys the shitty decor.&nbsp; She waits, counts moths.&nbsp; She sees a car pass along the highway, its headlights like the lantern of a wandering pilgrim.&nbsp; Its red tail-lights fade into the distance, fading eyse.&nbsp; She looks to the bar, she waits more.&nbsp; <br><br>There.&nbsp; The neon Michelob sign switches off.&nbsp; The light for the signs dies, and-- without thinking, she cuts off the lamp behind her to prevent glare.&nbsp; The lights in the bar start to wink out, one by one.&nbsp; The orange neon "NO" is the only one left on outside. The barman is closing up, it's time to move.<br><br>she slips on her jeans, steps into her sandals.&nbsp; There's anticipation, nerves.&nbsp; Her hand is steady despite a cold chill of dread.&nbsp; Time to go.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>04-09-2007, 17:16:09</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				*ahem*
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>04-09-2007, 18:29:14</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It’s a long walk down the hallway.&nbsp; She flashes on a visual, prison blues, hands and ankles cuffed, large, savage men lining the way as they watch silently through steel bars.&nbsp; &nbsp;Dead man walking.&nbsp; Except, she’s not the dead man.&nbsp; &nbsp;There’s a frown of frustration on her lips accompanying the feeling that she’d been so close to grasping lost memories.&nbsp; Still, even if they were fleeting, perhaps it means that they are coming back to her?&nbsp; Slowly, tantalizingly putting themselves with in reach. If she could just reach them… the image of a small child on tiptoe, reaching up towards a silver and red angel hanging from a Christmas tree assails her, a strange dichotomy to this moment.<br><br>Her hand never leaves her palm, the grip of the pistol cool, her palm strangly cool as well.&nbsp; She’s done this before.&nbsp; How many times?&nbsp; Hard to say, but is feels… familiar.&nbsp; How and why?&nbsp; The thoughts are fleeting, and she pushes them away before they intrude any further.&nbsp; She needs to focus on now.&nbsp; The sound of fucking disgusts her.&nbsp; In a place like this, the exchange of bodily fluids is most likely an exchange of cash as well.&nbsp; More likely small bills, passed over to a hooker whose face looked much younger and prettier in the shadows of the bar.&nbsp; That makes her think.&nbsp; There will be witnesses.&nbsp; How does one go about shooting someone in the head in a crowded bar.&nbsp; And afterwards?&nbsp; Does she just leave?&nbsp; Thankfully, the girl in the mirror seems to be in control of her body.&nbsp; All she has to do is to go along for the ride.&nbsp; Before she’d left the room, she checked her load, spun the cylinder, and pushed the safety.&nbsp; All very professional.&nbsp; Oh, yes, she’s done this before.&nbsp; Or Daisy had.&nbsp; She stumbles on that thought, trying to recall if she had decided to be Daisy or if it was the killer… It made little difference, she was sure, but somehow, she felt it important.&nbsp; She needed a name, an identity, a purpose… and not just to kill…<br><br>This was getting her no where.&nbsp; Despite everything, she’d been set into motion, primed and loaded.&nbsp; Someone was going to die tonight.&nbsp; Of that she was sure.&nbsp; She wondered if he had a family, someone waiting for him, a dog even, or a cat… someone depending on him.&nbsp; She felt tears brimming and slipping between damp lashes, wishing she could stop her, stop Daisy from doing this terrible deed, but she felt powerless.&nbsp; <br><br>She stepped into the room, surveying it.&nbsp; Very little had changed since she’d last been here.&nbsp; The man in the grey flannel looks a little worse for wear, subdued, but other then that it was as if she’d stepped back into a painting. Nothing had changed, not even the smallest of details.&nbsp; A moment stuck in time.&nbsp; <br><br>Six long strides was all it took to take her to the bar.&nbsp; The barkeeper was still there, curse her luck.&nbsp; She looked at him, anger clouding her face.&nbsp; It was his fault.&nbsp; If he hadn’t been there, she could simply turn and go back to her room and try to coax sleep, dreams, and memories from the ether.&nbsp; His fault.&nbsp; Suddenly her despair turned to hot anger, targeting him.&nbsp; His fault, she thought as Daisy pulled the gun from her pocket, lifting it slowly, pointing it carefully at his head, her finger tightening on the trigger.&nbsp; <br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>05-09-2007, 00:12:25</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The pistol in her hand clicks, as if impatiently chiding her, with each step to the bar.&nbsp; The barman's eyes stay serpentine and cold, his face unflinching from its scowl of fury.&nbsp; The bullet cold in its chamber, the pistol tenses with delight as her hand steadies in an accusatory point.&nbsp; This, too, is familiar.&nbsp; 'That's the man right there,' she says and the hammer falls with the care and casual relinquishment of one resigned to obey.&nbsp; Spring-loaded, pressure-sensitive when primed, it's like drawing a rubber band in her finger.&nbsp; The tooth of a trigger snaps some invisible plane and trips the mechanism, there's a flash, powder flare.&nbsp; The barman has one eye now, the other's a black hole as he slumps to the ground.&nbsp; <br><br>Gray-flannel-suit lurches back, his hands up near his face like someone just tipped back his chair, or someone told him to look surprised.&nbsp; She swivels the pistol, it points where she looks, and she looks into his eye down the stub-ears and nose of the gunsights.&nbsp; The night is incredibly warm, the room still reeks of cigarettes and sour whiskey, now tinged with fresh cordite.&nbsp; "Thzzzzat's thza ticket, geddem while they're HOT!"&nbsp; the man in grey flannel pulls a Leuger, an honest-to-got Leuger from his jacket, starts squeezing off rounds.&nbsp; Some crazy fucking relic from a pawn shop, but a nice gun, nonetheless... <br><br>Daisy is bemused.&nbsp; Best not to give him a chance while he's busy setting off M80s; she wants this to look good.&nbsp; The man's Leuger bursts in his hand, sends him reeling his head back, so she almost misses.&nbsp; The misfire scatters his smoking, burst gun.&nbsp; She squeezes the trigger now that he's stunned and holding still, and his head blossoms backwards.&nbsp; Her ears are ringing fiercely.&nbsp; Ususally she likes to wear cotton plugs if she hasn't got a silencer.&nbsp; The contracts are good, but who wants to grow old and rich while completely fucking deaf...<br><br>With a sigh, she leans over the bartop at looks at the dead barman, down among the motley remnant tile and broken bottles.&nbsp; He's deader than dead, and the girl in Daisy's head is a quivering wreck.&nbsp; Daisy, however, is patiently wiping down the grip of her pistol, placing it on the countertop like a tip.&nbsp; The tender's face still has the same grimace, the same one he's had for years, as if he spent all those years miserable just to ensure that his expression stayed this way when he died.<br><br><em>flash</em><br><br>Without thinking, she's lined up the camera, opened the aperture wide and set the shutter speed.&nbsp; The bounce-flash's white light resonates through the room, and she imagines for a moment that the light is a richochet, purifying the vile place with light that bounces and rings like aluminum in the wind, leaving behind the rising-pitched whine of the flash recharging.<br><br><em>flash</em>&nbsp; His face so clear, damp and empty.&nbsp; <br><br>She turns to the man in the suit, catches him twitching.&nbsp; <em>Maybe this time-- flash-- I'll catch a snapshot of death at work.</em>&nbsp; Somehow, she thinks of a silver-plate picture, a dauguerreotype, of a family cast in white shadows like some threads of the rending sunlight are shredding, falling upon them.<br><br>None of the people she's killed, Daisy knows, were ever good people.&nbsp; Some had good things, but cry me a river if you think that they had something to contribute besides pain to this fucked up world.&nbsp; She cleans out the register smoothly, quickly.&nbsp; Gets her sixty dollars back.<br><br>She strolls casually around, her pack gently bumping her shoulder, and strolls to the door.&nbsp; She's already slept tonight, hasn't she?&nbsp; And the car lulls her steadily closer, like an old friend.&nbsp; There's miles to go before sleep's needed again.<br><br>Minos.&nbsp; Not far, not close.&nbsp; Somewhere ahead.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>05-09-2007, 18:04:50</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She gazes out, a prisoner in her own body, or is it Daisy's body and she is only along for the ride?&nbsp; The horror that she had fought so hard to quell is back, each flash of the gun, each thunderous boom, each eruption of death sinking terrifying claws into her.&nbsp; Had she a voice, she would have screamed,and once she'd begun, she'd doubted if she could stop.&nbsp; She had to wrest control back, fight the dark eyed woman's invasion of her... <br><br>She paused, wondering if perhaps she was the leech, the unwanted hitch hiker, wondered if somehow she had become entangled in the killers psyche, in her mind like some sort of X-files drama.&nbsp; &nbsp;She tried to fight it, tried to wrest control of Daisy, fought with all her might to put the gun down, but it was hopless.&nbsp; The best she could acomplish was to make her shed a single tear as she walked from the mayhem she had single handedly caused.<br><br>Minos.&nbsp; The word means nothing to her, and yet, she sense it is some how tied to her fate, so she ransacks her memories, frantic, hoping to dredge something up, anything... Daisy would know.&nbsp; She wonders if she could ask?&nbsp; Fighting hard against the stronger woman, she puts all of her concentration into moving her mouth, making her tongue work, forming words...<br><br>"What... is Minos?"&nbsp; and then, she is spent.&nbsp; She wants to curl up into a small ball, wait until it all goes away, until she wakes from this nightmare.&nbsp; Through the window dead landscapes roll by in the darkness, endless and dreary.&nbsp; She can only stare as they pass.&nbsp; She considers jerking the wheel, sending them into a ditch or a telephone pole, perhaps preventing another scene like the one that played out in the bar, but fear grips her too powerfully.&nbsp; She wants this to end, but she doesn't want to die.&nbsp; Not yet, at least.&nbsp; <br><br>So she drives, slowly becoming used to, if not comfortable with, sharing herself with this cold blooded killer, stealing glances in the rear view mirror of her, once realizing that her hand had drifted to the butt of the gun, carressing it thoughtlessly.&nbsp; The image of the barman's face came to mind, his eye a ruin of blood and bone and brain, and she felt sick.&nbsp; Perhaps it would be best to sleep... she could do that.&nbsp; After all, Daisy was driving.&nbsp; She let her eyes drift closed, praying for the solace of dreams as the car hurtled smoothly down the highway towards their destination.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>07-09-2007, 00:35:53</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Daisy-- Daisy's driving.<br><br>"My name's not Daisy," the girl in the rearview tells her.&nbsp; She can't see the girl's mouth, only her eyes, fair-browed and thick-lashed and staring at her with the same cold intensity she has for everything else.&nbsp; The faint glow of the dashboard indicator lights and the reflection of headlights from the road makes her seem more surreal, mysterious.&nbsp; The eyes of a vixen definitely, the eyes of a killer perhaps.&nbsp; One might tell even without the gun.<br><br>"Oh, the fucking gun."&nbsp; She rolls down the window, welcome night air spills in a torrent, whipping the girl's hair wildly about.&nbsp; She's about to throw it out-- Daisy is, then catches a glimpse of herself in the side-mirror and gives a faint wink, a sexy cock of the head, before adjusting the mirror better on the road.&nbsp; She doesn't throw the gun out, but Daisy knows she should.<br><br>"My name's not important though," the voice that comes from the eyes in the rearview persists.&nbsp; She turns the radio on and up, and she can hear a song by Three Dog Night, staticky and tinny in its AM glory, but she knows the song very well-- <em>Shambala</em>.&nbsp; "What matters is where you're going, and why."&nbsp; Daisy smiles, a small, but genuine one.&nbsp; It's in her eyes.<br><br>The girl turns her gaze back to the road just in time to see the fence; the sudden bend in the road, the luminous slats of brown where the split-rails cross each other.&nbsp; Something takes over and, rather than lock the brakes and pray, she snatches the park-brake and levers it up, pumps the brake once and cuts the wheel hard to the left... The tires squeal and smoke, she must have been going close to a hundred.&nbsp; The car drifts, skids, and she accelerates with a hard double-pump of the gas and lowers the handbrake, tires squeal still, there's a shift.&nbsp; She accelerates out of the drift and meets gravel, one tire lifts on the shoulder... there's the sickening lurch of inertia as she's lifted up, then dropped back down with a chirp of rubber on asphalt.&nbsp; The car's tail bounces on its shocks once, she skids to a halt.&nbsp; She's facing open sky, headlights pointed up a rise.&nbsp; The road's fifteen feet to her left.&nbsp; If she had a passenger, then they could reach out the window and touch the old worn pine rails of the fence.&nbsp; <br><br>Three dog night continues to croon, "yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah..."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>09-09-2007, 20:13:37</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She cracked one eye open, staring at the girl in the mirror, nodding thoughtfully... she was right of course.&nbsp; <em>She</em> was Daisy.&nbsp; How could she have gotten the two confused.&nbsp; She watched the lights illuminated the road, two patches of light illuminating a broken white line between them that kept repeating itself over and over and over and... one of the patches was dimmer then the other...&nbsp; She focued on that one, thinking she was like that.&nbsp; slightly dimmer then her counterpart.&nbsp; A ghost, perhaps?&nbsp; inhabiting the body of an assassin.&nbsp; <br><br>She felt a sudden stab of lonliness.&nbsp; She was on a road trip to nowhere with no one to talk to.&nbsp; An ironic smile split her face in too, the dim light of the dashboard lights making a dark canyon of her lips, empty caves of her eyes as she realized that wasn't entirely true.<br><br>"I suppose that would make <em>me</em> Daisy."&nbsp; She paused, knowing that it was madness, talking to herself like this, but she was suddenly curious.&nbsp; Who <em>was</em> this girl, so confident and cold?&nbsp; "So, where <em>are</em> we headed?&nbsp; I don't rembember... anything.&nbsp; Don't suppose you might fill me in...?"<br><br>She trailed off, not quite sure what to expect, thinking of the scene at the hotel with a shudder, wondering if, even now, there were cops at the scene, taking pictures, asking questions...&nbsp; They'd be after her soon.&nbsp; Or so she supposed.&nbsp; There was only one obvious way for her to flee the scene.&nbsp; <br><br>She watched the dull, formless scenary pass her by, lulling her into a sort of dazed calm, and then, suddenly her heart is beating a million miles and hour as the car screams around a corner, her hand clutching the wheel with a death grip, so many sounds filling the air all at once, the roar of the engine, gravel rattling against the side of the car like hail, her own voice cursing over and over hysterically as she feels gravity's pull like a magnet, pulling her over sickenly... she watches as death reaches out for her, feels it's fingers trailing over her cheek, it's breath kissing her tenderly...&nbsp; <br><br>She's thrown foreward, the belt holding, pressing painfully across her breasts, one hand losing it's grip and settling, instead, on the dash, her head carreening of the driver's side window once, twice, a third time, leaving a smear of blood against the glass as it spiderwebs into a thousand pieces before exploding outwards invisible in the darkness...<br><br>And then there is silence...<br><br>She sits, her breath coming in gasps, feeling the trickle of sweat and blood running down the side of her face, tickling her cheek, over her lips, metalic and salty as her tongue clears it away, the taste not unpleasant.&nbsp; The face of the barkeeper returns to her, watching his blood pool on the floor as he lays there, his life a candle that she had thougtlessly snuffed out, and for what.&nbsp; A handful of dirty, greasy money?&nbsp; Worthless to her out here.&nbsp; Certainly not worth his life... her life either.&nbsp; For all practical matters, she was as dead as he was, as the car seemed to be, it's engine having shut off as it ground to a halt in the empty field...<br><br>She wanted to weep, a darkness blacker then the night sky settling over her.&nbsp; She wanted nothing more then to close her eyes and cry herself to sleep, but she resisted.&nbsp; Something, some sixth sense, told her that when she woke again, nothing would change.&nbsp; Instead, she turned the key in the ignition, unsurprised to be met with silence.&nbsp; Only the sound of the fucking radio.&nbsp; She didn't wait until the song was over, jabbing the buttons with her finger until it too was silent...&nbsp; Lifeless.&nbsp; Everything died here, had died.&nbsp; She was in purgatory, a fitting punishment for a hired killer.<br><br>She turned her eyes to the mirror, noting with satisfaction that the woman who was not Daisy bled from a gash on her temple as well.&nbsp; She began to giggle, clamping on hand over her mouth, smearing her own blood across her lips, psuhing her fingers into her mouth as the giggles threatened to become hysterical laughter.&nbsp; It served the bitch right.&nbsp; This was <em>her</em> doing, <em>her</em> fault.<br><br>"I hope you burn in hell." she whispered, staring at her reflection, her eyes full of sudden venom.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>12-09-2007, 22:49:21</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"You first."<br><br>The voice isn't from her mouth.&nbsp; It's male, deep.&nbsp; Crackling like a slow and very hot campfire, resonant, soothing like a tomb.&nbsp; In the dark cabin, shadows are all black, light half white, half-pink.&nbsp; Blood in one eye.<br><br>She starts to scramble for the door handle, but can't find it.&nbsp; Her fingers slip, trace red swaths across the glass when she reaches it and it's locked.&nbsp; Daisy-- or whoever she is-- is gone, somewhere out there in the dark around the car, melted into the moonlight like a nymph in the water.&nbsp; "Just kidding, precious," in the vowels, a distinct Southern tinge, like a stretch of Georgia asphalt blazing in the sun.&nbsp; <br><br>"No offense, you understand..."&nbsp; behind her.&nbsp; She swivels, her jean-clad legs creaking on the leather bucket seat, and he's there... broad shoulders, inclined head.&nbsp; A man, just a man... the voice though, why does it make her think of... of..? "But, you look a fright, dear."&nbsp; He leans closer, she can smell vanilla, wysteria.&nbsp; And just beyond it, perhaps, some ancient pyre extinguished too soon.&nbsp; <br><br><em>It's burnt rubber from the tires, or engine overheat, or burning oil spillage </em>&nbsp; Her mouth quivers as hse fumbles for words, or action, or any adequate response.&nbsp; He leans closer, and now, curiously, she can see that he's wearing a mask.&nbsp; <br><br>Or perhaps he's not.&nbsp; <br><br>No, he's a fucking model-- she saw him on an Armani billboard, didn't she?&nbsp; Cheekbones to die for, a deep cleft in his chin, black hair, black eyes-- but is he wearing a mask?&nbsp; No, it's just a hat... no, a crown.<br><br>Comprehension slips through her mind like mercury through her fingers.&nbsp; He does wear a black suit, a white button-down shirt, black tie, vest.&nbsp; Classy, that, crushed red velvet.&nbsp; It's tailored, unbuttoned so he can sit, but she can tell.&nbsp; She's an eye for detail, and it fits him like fur fits a panther.&nbsp; <br><br>Strange, though.&nbsp; The thing she can't grasp is how he has horns... two, subtly curling, at the point where his black, smooth-brushed raven hair meets his forehead.&nbsp; His eyes burn as he looks at her, telegraphing that she is the only woman in the world, as certainly as if he'd grabbed her cheeks and buried his face into hers.<br><br>"I don't like to point out faults," he whispers, leaning between the high-backed seats so that she can see his face clearly.&nbsp; He doesn't seem shaken by the crash, not even unsettled, and as the window crank burrows into her lower spine he smiles a wickedly beautiful smile.&nbsp; <br><br>She laughs, maniacal laughter... ludicrous, maliscious folley.&nbsp; This is madness, and she's living it.&nbsp; <br><br><em>My head,</em> she declares to herself with pristine rationale.&nbsp; <em>I'm unconscious, the wreck...</em><br><br>"Here... let me see."&nbsp; His eyes are the color of hammered copper, vivid with restrained virulence... some strange mixture of suavity and malevolence.&nbsp; His hand lifts, sretches toward her bleeding forehead, and he clucks his tongue.&nbsp; "Poor dear."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>15-09-2007, 10:49:31</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She watches him reaching out, unable to draw her eyes away from his hand... it's like a slow motion car wreck, where everything takes place so quickly, yet seconds go by as years.&nbsp; He's going to touch her and something inside her begins to whimper, tries to force itself up from her belly, past her throat as a scream...&nbsp; It dies within her, needing air to survive and she can't breathe, can't work her lungs to even speak.&nbsp; <br><br>She feels the heavy throb of her heartbeat, pulsing in her head, her veins thick with blood that has turned to black molasses, making her heavy with sleep.&nbsp; <em>Opium.</em>&nbsp; Where that thought comes from or what it means, she has no inkling, and soon, it is swallowed by something else, something fiercer, recognition burning in her heart... She's called this creature, this devil, to her... her words... She looks around wildly, willing the killer back to the car, wishing she was here inside her or perhaps beside her, taking control... she'd know what to do, she could handle anything, calm, cool, cold as ice. <br><br>She tried to speak, her words faltering, coming out as a mere hint of a whisper.... "Who..."&nbsp; <br><br>Before it had been given a chance to live, the word died, his hand finally, decades later, hovering before her, his fingers pressing against the skin of her head, burning, the agony of a thousand days chained to a rock while vultures tore at her flesh filling her... or it should have.&nbsp; Instead she felt... nothing.&nbsp; Numb with shock, perhaps, or maybe she was dead?&nbsp; That was it... she'd perished in the crash and all that was left was a ghostly spirit.&nbsp; <br><br>Her eyes trailed along his arm, covering the distance from his perfect gold cufflinks upon starched white sleeves the colour of angels's wings, upwards past a coat of shades and shadows, once again to his too perfect face, braving his eyes... It was a mistake, she knew that even before he locked gazes with her.&nbsp; Still, she could not help but look...&nbsp; It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever glimpsed.&nbsp; Perfect eyes, swallowing her whole, savoring her body and soul, passionated and hungry as they devoured her.&nbsp; She tired to turn away, but it was already too late and a terrible knowledge possessed her.&nbsp; <br><br>She wasn't unconcious... she was dead and the devil had come to collect her soul.&nbsp; It wouldn't matter that she wasn't the killer, it made no difference at all.&nbsp; It was her hand that held the gun, her finger that pulled the trigger, her voice laughing as death ate a hole in the barkeeper, the man in the grey flannel suit...&nbsp; <br><br>"I'm not who you think I am." she whimpers, shivering as she feels the acid taste of bile pushing it's way up her throat, naseous with fear.&nbsp; She coughs once, turning her head away from him, her last meal tearing at her chest with a sudden vengence as she begins to sick up on the seat beside her.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>17-09-2007, 09:06:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Vertigo, reeling.&nbsp; The door seems impossibly far, unreachable.&nbsp; She's still buckled in, the heaving stops, silences... her stomach all but empty, the act is painful, the seatbelt digs into her purpling, bruised collarbone, and bending her head forward causes the cabin to reel in a downward spiral.&nbsp; She clenches her teeth and breathes hard and fast through her nostrils.<br><br><em>I'll open my eyes, and he'll be gone,</em> she hears someone-- Daisy, perhaps?-- whisper in the vacuous chamber of consciousness, voice resonating off naked, black-stone walls.&nbsp; Suddenly comes a twinge of horror, a cringing, desperate spasm of fear. <em>My god, what if he's gone?&nbsp; What then?&nbsp; I can't be alone out here again... it's better than hell... maybe it is hell... maybe it'll be eternity before I see anyone again... maybe I can bargain with him, give him what he wants and he'll let me go... I don't want him to go, I...</em>&nbsp; Her eyes flutter open, light fading up from darkness, like waking from a dream.&nbsp; <em>I don't want him to go.</em><br><br>The clucking of his tongue is admonishing, unmoved, as the Devil watches her reaction to the shock.&nbsp; "Darlin', darlin'... tsk-- there there..."&nbsp; there's a feather-scratching of his talons across the tender nape of her neck.&nbsp; He had been holding her hair, of all the ludicrous things... like a college drinking-buddy, helping out in her moment of humiliated need.&nbsp; "... see?&nbsp; It's okay..."&nbsp; <br><br>Hands a flurry of rage, she strikes at him suddenly, like someone has set a livewire to her spine.&nbsp; Hands connect hard, audibly slapping, and he looks-- offput, disappointed.&nbsp; Her breath is in ragged gasps now, heaving her breasts and whistling through her open mouth.&nbsp; She can see him as clear as day.&nbsp; The horns are black, like obsidian.&nbsp; He must be all black inside.&nbsp; Everything... everything in him.<br><br>"It's okay, it's okay... I know, you've realized that you're dead, you're in hell, yadda yadda--"&nbsp; without warning, his splayed hand presses to her forehead, his thumb gouging the gap in her skin where warm blood trickles across her cheek-- skin pale with shock, pinking her vision in one eye as the blood mingles with tears that suddenly spring up fresh as the sting-- GOD it stings-- where he presses effortlessly with the flat of his thumb.&nbsp; <br><br>She's squirming, writhing with the pain, clawing at the slick cloth of his suit, where her blood trickles down his broad, golden-skinned hand to his wristwatch-- amazing that in a moment of pain, everything can become pristinely clear.&nbsp; For a moment, she can make out every crevice of his black talons, their short, smooth points gleaming clean like an adder's back.&nbsp; She can see the watch's face-- devoid of numbers and depicting an angel and devil on some infinite wheel of day and night, chasing each other with pitchfork and spear around the watch's radius in ivory and ebony... the intricate detail, so fine, it must be priceless... and in a surreal twist, the angel looks like she did when she looked in the mirror last, but clean, stoic and pale... the devil, of course, bears an unsurprising resonance with the man gouging her wounded forehead, his exquisite face unmoved at her agony.&nbsp; "Pain makes you remember, girl.&nbsp; You're not dead yet."&nbsp; She'll remember.<br><br>Her voice is caught in her throat and, when she wrests herself free-- no, best not to kid herself... when he <em>lets</em> her free-- his hand is still utterly clean, as if something in his gold, rubied cuff-links ate the blood before it dried, leaving no trace on his long-fingered hands.&nbsp; "I'm waiting," he says softly.&nbsp; "You're not sure who you are, and I know how unsettling that can be for... your kind."&nbsp; He rests his head on his hand, watches her with myriad-gold-and-red eyes that glimmer like rare gems in glass coffins from his impossibly comfortable perch between the seats.&nbsp; "But if it's any consolation... you're not the first to travel this road.&nbsp; You won't be the last."&nbsp; <br><br>He reaches past her, opens the door with a tug and a shove that rends the jammed steel mechanism apart like aluminum foil.&nbsp; The car lurches, settles on its broken shocks.&nbsp; She finds herself swinging her long legs... rubbery, bending under her awkwardly, failing to hold her aloft as she tumbles toward the long, brown grass and pock-marking gravel of the road's shoulder.&nbsp; She's lifted to her feet again, still nauseous, reeling inside... but his hand is on her arm, blazing with heat like fresh-forged iron, holds her up, straightens her with a subtle pressure that erects her spine, places her flat on the soles of her feet.&nbsp; "Cheer up darlin'..."&nbsp; A soft, subtle glow on the horizon.&nbsp; "Things are looking up..."&nbsp; brighter... oh god, let it be dawn, she hasn't seen sun in... in...<br><br>Headlights.<br><br>His voice tickles her ear, and that redolence of lust and retribution remains about her as his lips brush the earlobe tenderly.&nbsp; "Now, stick your thumb out..."&nbsp; Long, warm fingers stretch her hand from her waist, her thumb extends--<br><br>And he's gone.<br><br>Rectangular headlamps, far apart, low to the ground... an old-model car... approach slowly, steadily, the creeping insistence of the grave about them, and Daisy-- for lack of proof otherwise, she will be Daisy-- can no longer see anything but the light, must shield her eyes from it, strain like a man fumbling at the misery of his broken life for some shred of God to see through it, to see-- <br><br>The car creeps to a stop.<br><br>*<br>(cross-threaded from The Lost Road.&nbsp; Move here.)
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Valerian</strong> on <strong>19-09-2007, 04:30:14</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The girl brings the car to a halt, and she's just as still now herself, her hands placed precisely on the steering wheel, at ten and two o'clock, her back straight, almost stiff.&nbsp; A young woman, lost and alone and in need of help.&nbsp; Is it the girl in the road she's thinking of?&nbsp; Or herself?&nbsp; But she isn't lost, she isn't.&nbsp; She doesn't need help, and she likes being alone.&nbsp; She came here to be alone, wherever here is.&nbsp; Someplace where no one knows her, no one will see her.<br><br>The girl in the road shades her eyes from the light, sways gently, but doesn't fall, as though the beams are holding her up.&nbsp; It is blood, on her face... isn't it?&nbsp; The car door opens, and she steps out, hurrying, though every movement feels strained, her body weighted down, and she isn't sure she's moving very fast at all.&nbsp; Perhaps the lights are holding her back somehow, and she gives a brief, bemused smile at the strange thought.&nbsp; She should write it down.&nbsp; She has to check the notebooks soon anyway, to find out her name.<br><br>But the girl from the car isn't thinking of that.&nbsp; She knows her name, and she knows the girl in the road is the one who needs help.&nbsp; Her hands reach out, slow on purpose this time, trying not to frighten her.&nbsp; "Easy," she says, gently.&nbsp; "Careful."&nbsp; She's never seen anyone bleed so much... has she?&nbsp; But head wounds do bleed, and this one is painting her face like a nightmare.<br><br>There's a cloth in her hand, though she isn't sure where it came from -- a handkerchief, a real handkerchief, something she thought she'd never seen outside of a movie.&nbsp; But it's there, and she uses it to wipe away the blood, carefully, making soothing sounds.&nbsp; Fingers lightly push aside a stray lock of dark hair, caked with slowly drying blood.&nbsp; She frowns, flinches, realizing what she's doing -- covering her hands with the blood of a stranger.&nbsp; But there's nothing else to do.&nbsp; "Is there anyone else in the car?&nbsp; Anyone else hurt?"&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>19-09-2007, 10:01:23</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She's not dead.&nbsp; Not yet, anyway, if she can believe the halucination in her back seat.&nbsp; Or at least he was.&nbsp; Where he's gone to now... well, it's hardly important.&nbsp; All that matters is that she stay standing, her arm thrust out as the headlights hit her, blinding her.&nbsp; Eyes squeezed shut, she fights vertigo, unsure if she's winning or losing.&nbsp; For all she knows she's laying on the mist covered ground, bleeding her life blood away while the car passes her on by.&nbsp; One thing is certain.&nbsp; The devil was right.&nbsp; Pain filled her head, making her teeth ache, her stomach clench, and her memories, such as they were, replay over and over in her head....<br><br>The blossom of bone and blood, crimson drops spattering against the wall and on the counter... the foolish antics of the man in grey, his eyes growing sober and then going out like a burnt out bulb.&nbsp; The roar of a gun, the smell of carbon and gunpowder, the acrid taste of fear... She moaned, trying to push those memories away, trying to go deeper, but her heart was pounding behind her eyes, making it impossible to concentrate.&nbsp; She tried to remember if she still had the gun or if 'not-Daisy' had taken it with her...&nbsp; She tried to move her hand to her coat pocket to discover that she was no longer wearing it.&nbsp; Only her jeans and a blood stained shirt.&nbsp; Her toes were going numb and she cursed herself for not bringing along her sneakers and a pair of socks.&nbsp; Really, what <em>had</em> she been thinking when she... <br><br>She lost the trail of the thought, and could almost scream at the half memory that vaporised as well.&nbsp; Smoke through her pale fingers, slipping away like a ghost in the night.&nbsp; <br><br><em>Easy.&nbsp; Careful.</em>&nbsp; Who is she talking too?&nbsp; It takes her a moment to realize that it's not her voice, nor the devils, but someone elses, someone new... She nods, wanting desperatly to communicate her understanding, but fails, her head drooping until her chin rests on her chest and her legs begin to fold.&nbsp; She manages to steady herself, reaching out, grasping an arm, a shoulder... it would be so good to sleep, she thinks... but not wise.&nbsp; Would she ever wake up?&nbsp; Or maybe she is sleeping now and this is all a bad dream.&nbsp; She wonders if this is the first time she's had this thought already... it's getting so hard to think straight.&nbsp; And was it a myth that if you die in dreams you'll never wake up again?&nbsp; Best not to chance it.&nbsp; She can<em>not</em> afford to drift off, much as she wants too...<br><br>"She's gone... both of them..."&nbsp; A terrible sense of deju vu washes over her like lightning and she jerks, her eyes startling open to find a stranger before her, carefully tending her.&nbsp; She tries to focus on her face, but something's wrong with her eyes.&nbsp; It's all&nbsp; blur, like rain covering a window pane.&nbsp; She tires to scrub them, clear her vision, letting go of the stranger, only to find herself falling, panic setting in as she collapses on the shadowed ground.&nbsp; <br><br>"It's not safe... she's out there.&nbsp; Oh, god, please, you shouldn't have stopped."&nbsp; the words are slurred, barely coherant, and she can only pray that her good samaritan takes their urgency to heart.&nbsp; "I'm so sorry..."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Caustic</strong> on <strong>19-09-2007, 18:10:39</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The wounded girl... call her Daisy, for lack of certainty to the contrary... Daisy feels the world shift beneath her, though inertia keeps her still.&nbsp; Maybe the Devil from her backseat decided a clever prank would be to pull the rug from under them, so he was somewhere down the blacktop and tugging, grinning maliciously and giving the long stretch of pebbled tar a good, swift tug.&nbsp; The result: she topples, lands on the blacktop, the surface warm as the hide of some serpentine mammal through her jeans.&nbsp; The stars pivot over her head, a reeling dome, and her hands are in front of her, splayed, and she's panting.&nbsp; <br><br>The writer feels blood on her hands, sticky and warm, and sinks with Daisy to the asphalt.&nbsp; Familiarity... she can't place her name, but she knows the injured girl somehow. Whoever she is becoming is tender-hearted toward her, but can't place her name.&nbsp; Maybe she's a friend, a sister.&nbsp; Maybe she's been there...<br><br>Words spill from her lips at the sight of the girl collapsing... "Easy, easy--" and she realizes that she's helping her up, heedless of the wound, heedless of the risk.&nbsp; <em>head injuries don't get moved unless...</em> "Easy, easy... I'm--"&nbsp; <br><br><em>I'm a madwoman.&nbsp; I used to be a student, but then I became a Victorian housewife who went mad when her children died, and killed her husband and saw her dead daughter, but then I killed a different husband somewhere, but, oh, I forgot to mention when I was a teenager and I was in this house and there was a man--</em>&nbsp; <br><br>"I'm a nurse, let me get you to the light..."&nbsp; <em>Oh, really?&nbsp; A nurse now...?&nbsp; Too bad I don't know the first thing about head inj--</em> Her hands are on the girl's neck, testing for swelling around her spine.&nbsp; Finding none yet, not ruling it out... she moves the injured girl to the cabin of the half-wrecked car.&nbsp; There's a parka in the floor.&nbsp; A bag in the back.<br><br>"My name's Kat... What's your name?&nbsp; Do you remember the accident?"&nbsp; Kat.&nbsp; It sounds right enough, but the girl... the writer... screams again, distantly, as she slides down the pit of abyss into the shadows of nothingness to watch... to know and to forget, sentenced to the hell of the shadows between lost synapses.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Lost Road: Twilight's Crossing</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cherri Tart</strong> on <strong>21-09-2007, 08:34:46</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				Kat.&nbsp; The name doesn't ring any bells... not that there aren't bells ringing.&nbsp; Mostly inside her head, though, more of a deep drone then a clear chiming and they accompanied by a rush of disorientation as well... <br><br>"Yes... I remember..."&nbsp; and she did, the sound of tires on ashphault, the pull of gravity, the glass rushing towards her, splintering like so many dozens of memories, an explosion of pain, the horned man...&nbsp; She almost forgotten.&nbsp; Not him, but what had happened to her, that she was dead.&nbsp; Strange... she shouldn't feel any pain then.&nbsp; Maybe it was just the agony of her soul slipping away?&nbsp; Possible, but then so were so many other things.&nbsp; She lifted her hand to her head, unsure if she was verticle or horizontal, her fingers slipping through thick, crusted ooze.&nbsp; It was like oil... had the engine exploded?&nbsp; She held her hand before her face, and another memory took her... blood.&nbsp; She'd hit her head... <br><br>She began to giggle.&nbsp; It was hardly fair that the only memories she had were ones that she'd made after she'd lost all others and they were hardly monumental.&nbsp; Just stupid observations about the state of things... Her eyes suddenly focused on the stranger, having forgotten all about her for what must have been minutes... or hours even... a lifetime.&nbsp; <br><br>"Daisy.&nbsp; I'm Daisy... I think...?"&nbsp; She searches the woman's face, looking for some clue, reminded of her own reflection staring back at her, dark eyes, a cool half smile.&nbsp; The smile of a killer, of death.&nbsp; Sudden realization hit her and she started to cry.&nbsp; It wasn't fair.&nbsp; She hadn't hurt anyone... it wasn't her who killed all those people.&nbsp; She knew with certainty, though, what her fate was, lying on the cold road, staring up at the endless sky.&nbsp; <br><br>"I want to go home..."&nbsp; it leaked out as a whisper, barely an exhalation of breath, then held her breath, not daring to breathe, her eyes closing slowly, filled with more tears then she'd ever thought possible, still trying to leak out, burning her cheeks as she tried so desperately to think through her pain, through the nausea that made the sky swirl in a jumble of badly painted stars and turned the angel that hovered before her into a slightly blurred and out of focus film.&nbsp; She needed something to grasp on to... one hand lifted and sought out Kat's hand, needing proof that she was real, that she existed somewhere besides inside her cracked and broken mind.&nbsp; <br><br>She missed, her hand clenching around the woman's clothing, clinging, fingers almost cramping, so hard was her grip.&nbsp; A life line, if an imperfect one.&nbsp; Still, it might keep her from drowning.&nbsp; <br><br>"Please... don't leave me here alone."
			</dd>
		</dl>
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