Scene Title Lacrimosa
Synopsis Old lives are never completely gone; they merely collect dust, ready to be picked up again. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it does not.
Date September 21, 2009

Contrary to what many may believe, Huruma does in fact, sleep. Late nights, through the morning; enough to leave her awake for the day, yet late so that she might do what she does best.

The afternoon seeps through the curtains, shading the room with a daylit glow, waning out of the last hour of the morning. The September chill clings to the pillow and sheets underneath of her, at least until Huruma's lungs fill with waking air, spine arching and limbs stretching to the lengths of the mattress. Her figure remains relaxed in extension for some time- a cat protesting the end of its long nap. Cheek meets the cold space of pillow as she stretches her neck next; spine twists, arms snake below, and one hand brushes empty over to her left. Huruma's face, cradled now by the firmness of furrowed feathers, peers over the ridge provided by the valley of the pillow below her head. Bed, sheets, blanket, pillow, wall, lamp, clock, door. Carpet, when two strong arms push her bare, contrasting torso upwards from the warmness of her sleep and the white cotton. The absence of any presence is duly noted and subconsciously mourned.

The outside world welcomes Huruma as it always does. A breeze on her face and the sounds of life. The noise of the city drowns out nature, as usual. There are clouds. Big stretches of cotton across the skylines. She is not a creature of habit, when it comes to locations; she finds herself in a new place every single day.

Today, it is a small cafe in Greenwich Village. Huruma sits outside, knowingly averting the seating of others on the walk and inside the small building, squashed between two others. One leg crosses over the other, the soft friction of her pants inaudible below the sounds of the newspaper unfolded in her long fingers. White eyes scan over the top edge every so often, searching silently for the one face she wishes to merely see. When they fail, they dart back towards the rustling paper.

Humanis First!: Terrorists or The Future?

Thank you, o'gracious opinion page. Emile would be proud.

No Leads in Mysterious Disappearences from Financial District

Maybe someone from Staten got plucky?

Missing Weapons Shipment

Some very nice guns.

Phoenix Viral Campaigns: Connecting with the World

They need more meat, less grisle.

The pages turn, one by one- Huruma pauses at some points to scan articles, afterward glancing up to the streets again. One hand lifts to the table, taking up the pair of sunglasses left there. She slips them onto her face soundlessly, the same hand trailing smoothly over her head. The last pages begin to turn, and halt abruptly.

Earthquakes Continue to Shock Western Africa

Now that- it makes little sense. Along the east, they are strong. There is a plate underneath of Tanzania, and Uganda. The edge of the Somali plate. That is where the strongest epicenters are, not so much Angola, Namibia, and there in Botswana.

She finds this perplexing, but has little time to continue dwelling on such a thing, now so far away. As Huruma comes to this, her features harden, and inside, her heart beats wildly. Angrily, almost. As she stands and begins to depart, newspaper under her forearm, her last glances around afford her the vision she came to find. Somewhat contented, Huruma disappears around the buildings.

Time passes, the day closes out. But Huruma is still thinking about the article from the afternoon. It began a snowballing of memories, nostalgia, and yearning. Obligation was never such an issue before, tying her back- but perhaps it is not obligation, but some manner of subconscious fear that itself keeps her from returning. The irony is lost on her this time.

Her gnarled emotions of the day culminate in an angry, gruesome hunt that night. But even as her knife cuts, and her hands rip- something nags at her mind. All she can do is attempt to tuck it away, much like hundreds of other things. The disemboweled man she drags along by his leg does not care about what troubles her, though he offers amendments to her thoughts in the form of pitiful moans- that for the most part only meet the stinking air of his dying aura.

One solace that Huruma knows she will always have is back at the place she calls home these days. At first, the sound is garbled. The keys smash angrily as her fingers alight down and strike hammers to strings. The window is open, moonlight spilling inside and over the reaches of the room; trapezoids of silver sit on the farthest wall, disturbed only when Huruma rises from the bench to pace the room indecisively. When she finally sits down, her fingers run calm over the ivory piano keys. They are all still cold to the touch, warming once her hands begin to play upon them.

Her lips whisper words along with the music, creases appearing between her eyebrows as she looks back into the filed memories that feel as if they are from another era entirely. In a way, they are. She realizes now, why exactly she had been so transfixed on one silly article for the length of the day and led her to remember her past well into the night. Huruma's features crease even further when she feels something else. The door that feels miles away opens with a muffled hush of steps on hardwood, a quiet voice among them.


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