Participants:
| Scene Title | Is It Far? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Are you coming to open the door? Are you near? Is it far? |
| Date | June 13, 2018 |
Staten Island Trade Commission
The room at the Staten Island Trade Commission isn't lavish by any stretch of the imagination, but it isn't the worst place in which she's had to hide out. The space feels too silent. Too empty. Odessa stands in front of a full length mirror and examines her reflection. The brown hair is the first point of dismay, but she understands a necessary evil when she sees one. The glasses have been left on the bedside table and earn themselves a dirty look.
Fight 'til your fists bleed, baby
Beat the fate walls enclosing you, maybe
God will unlock the cage of learning for you, for you
First, she shrugs out of her jacket and leaves it in a heap of black leather on the floor. She absently traces her fingers over the scar at her throat, which feels just exactly like it should. Dark bangs dust at her brows and she goes to sweep them aside with a huff. Then she understands why they're there – to cover the scar across part of her forehead. What the hell had happened there?
Fight 'til your fists bleed, baby
Kick and scream at the wicked things, maybe
God will unlock the door you need to walk through
Next, the black tank top is balled in her fists to tug it free from the high waistband of her sateen shorts and tossed aside. There's an old wound at one shoulder. She steps closer to the mirror and brushes her fingers over the front – the exit wound – then turns to look at the back. Someone had tried to shoot her in the back. Were they cowardly? Or was she running from a fight?
When will it happen, baby?
It could be near, but then maybe
It could be far
Again, she continues her work, reaching around to her back to draw down the zip at the back of her shorts. She hooks her thumbs under the waistband and pulls down. They fall to a heap at her feet and are hastily kicked away as she stares horrified at what she finds there.
Here we are in the waiting room of the world
We will wait until you call our name out loud
In the waiting room of the world
We will wait until you call our name out loud
Her hands move to her flat, naked stomach and feel the skin there, like there's some sort of trick and she'll find the ugly scar is just an illusion. Tears come to her eyes as her fingers feel the line from belly button to pubic bone. Whatever happened to her, it was messy. The implications of it… She turns away from her reflection, unable to bear the thought.
And the battle will never end well
You can't marry our heaven to your hell
We, Prolific, and you, the Devourer, need to see
All of it drives home the fact that she's in the body of another woman who looks like her, but is very, very different.
Some things are sacred, baby
Why have you gone and trampled them lately?
I guess it's all just a part of your way
There are similarities. There's still the scar at her brow to remind her of Peter. This Odessa, she expects, made very different choices. Terrible ones. She's a condemned woman in a crumbling city with virtually no support. Thank goodness for her mother, even if she wishes she'd never wound up here in the first place.
You should be ashamed
Odessa takes a silk nightgown the color of champagne off the bed, borrowed from Margaux, who seems too coked up to care about much of anything, shakes it from its haphazard folding and pulls it over her head. Her hair is pulled into a high, messy bun, unruly curls pointing in every which direction, and she stares at herself hard in the mirror. She isn't stepping into Desdemona's life, she tells herself, but she'll do what she has to in order to protect her own. For now, she'll crawl into this empty bed and long for her husband tonight.
I'm getting tired of fighting
I guess I should ask,
Do I go quietly down?
Do I kick? Do I scream when I'm bound?
The discarded clothes are left in a pile in the middle of the room. She sits down on the bed to test its firmness. It's not the soft nest that her own bed is, but it doesn't feel like a rock. There's a bottle of vodka on the night table next to the discarded glasses. She uncaps it and takes a long drink. She props up the pillows and sits with her back against the wall. If she can just numb herself enough to stop thinking…
Are you coming to open the door?
Are you near?
Are you near?
Is it far?
Some time later, she's awoken by the bottle beginning to slip from her fingers. She makes a dive for it. The world tips a moment until she slaps one hand down on the table and steadies herself. The liquor is set aside and the covers peeled back so she can slide beneath. There's a gentle swaying sensation from the inebriation. "I miss you," she murmurs to the empty room without thought.
Here we are in the waiting room of the world
We will wait until you call our name out loud
In the waiting room of the world
We will wait until you call our name out loud