Participants:
| Scene Title | Among the Shards |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Insecurities plague one flu victim in the most seductive of nightmares. |
| Date | May 26, 2011 |
In Dreams
The lights of the private room are low, as long as he's been coming here, they've been turned down this way. It's a preference. It's small, fitting only a small cushioned couch wrapped around a circular stage that doubles as a table. The walls are lined with mirrors, allowing the renter to view the entertainment from all angles. Even the ceiling is mirrored, bordered by a strip of dotted lights that sparkle in the dimly lit space.
He requested a tall redhead, something a little different from the usual busty blonde that's been his flavor for the longest while. Of course, management is always willing to comply. When she arrives, she's scantily clad but not enough that there isn't more to take off. It's all about the presentation. She's taller than the average woman in the club, with long legs that stretch practically to her neck. The stilettos just make her that much taller, possibly even taller than he is.
The music is piped in, his own selection, which is what makes the joint a little different than the usual. He doesn't catch a glimpse of her face, only the long stretch of red curls that reach just past her shoulder blades. Not until she swings around the pole the first time.
His eyes, half-lidded with a mixture of drowsiness and alcohol and a touch of ennui, suddenly widen as he sees the familiar face surrounded by the halo of curls. He jerks a head back to look for a way out — ridiculously as if he could escape her notice, as if she wouldn't have seen it was him, as if it's not too late.
The closed door is a mirror as well, and all it reflects back at him is a face too pale to be healthy and blood-red eyes. Still, he ducks his head, pulling out a wad of money to fling onto the stage, enough to cover the rest of the night's tips. Sliding out of the booth, he moves to the door of the small chamber.
"Where are you going?" She stops before swinging around fully again, staring him in the eye via the mirrors in the room. Then she turns to look over her shoulder at him before climbing from the table to stand in front of the stage. "Is there something wrong with me?" The question isn't harsh, quite the opposite in fact. There's a touch of hurt creeping into the tone as well as the expression on her face as she crosses her arms just under her chest.
"I can send in another girl if I'm not what you wanted." Her eyes flit to the camera above them for a brief moment before focusing on his retreating back again. "But they said I was the right look, so I don't get what the problem is."
Nick stops, hand on the door, and watches her through the mirror before sighing, raking a hand through his hair, and turning to regard her with narrowed eyes. Something doesn't add up here, but the hurt in her voice is enough to make him pause, to try to assuage the injury his attempt at escape has caused her.
At whatever cost to himself.
"I gave you more than I would if you danced," he mutters, nodding to the money on the stage. "I don't want that from you. It's not what you're about. It's not what we're about." He swallows, muscles in his jaw twitching before he glances away. "Why are you doing this, Red?"
"Come back, sit…" She hooks one slender finger in the air andd slowly draws it toward herself in an attempt to coax him back to the sofa. Then she lifts herself on to the miniature stage and swings her legs back up, hooking them at the ankles. Her slender hands reach down to play with one of the straps of her high heels, tracing the slim strip of leather up her foot and around her ankle. "Besides, how do you know you don't want it from me? I've never danced for you before."
It's almost like he's a stranger, as if she doesn't know him at all. Still, there's recognition in her eyes, enough that she doesn't blush or pretend to be shy around him.
"It's my job to entertain you," she replies lightly as she extends her arm up the pole and uses it to pull herself up. Wrapping one leg around it, she begins a slow swing that twirls her around the pole until she slides down to the floor of the stage. Or the surface of the table. "He'd want me to give you a show that you'll never forget. So you'll keep coming back…"
With another shaky-handed rake through his hair, Nick shakes his head. "It's not… you're better than that," comes out in a near whine that's unlike him. "I didn't come here for you…"
There's confusion in his gaze, and he looks around, eyes squinting in confusion at his surroundings. Why is he here? Why is she here? And…
"Who's he?" Nick manages, not moving to sit, and averting his eyes from her when she begins to dance. His cheeks color and he takes a step closer to the door.
Delia pauses but only to pull the ribbon ties of the baby doll that's barely covering her. When it opens, she rolls one shoulder, letting it slip down her arm as she watches him not watching her. A small smile plays on her lips and she lifts her chin toward the camera. "You know, the boss…" Only when she refers to 'the boss' do her cheeks tint a pale pink and she bites her lower lip to hide a small grin.
The blush is gone by the time the flimsy garment is shrugged off completely and tossed in Nick's direction. What she's wearing is more revealing than before but still more than the average bikini, just a little more risque. Black lace boyshorts with pink satin ribbon accents, bra and garter to match. Two bras to be more specific, one layered over the other, perhaps to give the viewer more of a show. "So who did you come for?"
His hand curls into a fist that he leans against the mirror after pulling a near punch; he drops his gaze to examine his shoes rather than watch her in the mirror or over his shoulder.
"Stop it, Delia," he growls, leaning his head forward to rest on the glass. "This isn't real… you're doing this, you're dreaming me here for some reason, is that it? I don't want this, I don't want you like this… Just- just stop…" Nick's voice grows shaky, plaintive. Weak. "I'm leaving," he adds, glancing over his shoulder, his hand falling to the doorknob again.
When he attempts to turn the knob it doesn't move. He's locked in with her.
"You're so weak," the whisper comes from her puckered lips, but it's a voice not her own. It's more masculine with a London accent, punctuated by a twitch to one corner of her lips. Grabbing the pole with both hands, she jumps onto it and wraps her legs around it, climbing only enough to fall back in time with the music. Her soft voice rises just above the thumping tune. "I guess he was right about you… I'd hoped for better. Don't worry if you really want to go, he'll take good care of me. He always has."
Still, even with her permission, the door won't move.
The fist moves back to the mirror, this time not pulling the punch, and the mirror is shattered, a spiral spider's web fragmenting his face and her form behind him, blood smearing the center and dripping down from his knuckles.
"I'm sorry I didn't get to you in time, didn't help you back when you first woke up," he whispers through gritted teeth, addressing the floor and the shards of broken glass that sparkle there. "I'm sorry I failed you… will fail you…"
Looking up at the splintered glass, Nick brings his hands up to pry the glass away, intent on escaping through the mirror, if the door won't open for him.
The music ends and Delia leands down to scoop up the cash and tuck it into her bra. "I'm sorry that you didn't come here to see me, that you're looking for someone else." Her tone is stronger than his, almost chiding in its delivery of the barb. "I'm sorry you're so quick to give up… that you won't even try to change."
A slender shadow appears behind one of the mirrors, revealing it to be only one way, and she graces it with a smile before stepping toward it. Raising a hand, she presses it against the glass and blows whoever is behind it a kiss. "Just leave, Nick, run away like you always do. Leave me behind… eventually I won't care anymore."
"Obviously I can't make you happy if you keep going back to him," Nick growls back, fingers dripping with blood as he breaks off the glass to finally climb through between jagged shards.
The darkness on the other side swallows him like a mouth, the glistening points of broken glass dripping with his blood.
In the Dispensary, the silence of the night is shattered by the crack and subsequent ringing of breaking glass.