Part 4
Anna awoke with ease, ready to begin her day in the world of the real, away from vampires, demons, and the world of excessive bumpiness in the night. The day was shiny and new, bright with the light of fusion power, but dulled with the smog of nitrous combustion. She was always wary of this world, she felt she had to be so careful not to underestimate it. There were a hundred twists and turns, and a thousand dimples in the system.She dressed quickly and quietly, worn, old clothes, light for the summer months. The sign of a true professional, all her clothes were free of bloodstains, with only one exception. This dress, her only dress, which she had only ever worn once, hung lonely in the wardrobe, unclean and hurtful. It was a blemish she refused to acknowledge, and was therefore unable to leave behind, a memory forever branded in her, as clear as if it had been cut with white hot steel. She pulled her long hair back into a tight regimental bun, disciplining the thin undernourished strands slick against the back of her neck. Autonomously she straightened the bed covers and smoothed the net curtains she never bothered to draw, making sure all was neat and tidy.
Again she set the kettle to boil on the stove for another cup of tea, and hawed with an impressively blunt knife at the stale end chunk of the day-before-yesterday’s loaf of bread. It wasn’t the infamously heavy black bread affordable to even the poorest workers, but it was not much better. A white baton, pure stodge, and perfectly passable when consumed fresh the same day as it was bought. 2 or 3 days later, however, it was dried out and hard, resembling a badly cooked casserole dumpling closer than it would ever emulate a fluffy yet crunchy French stick. Her mouth mentally watered at the thought of the delicacies she had tasted in the company of her watcher. It had been a blurry, unreal, and dream-like experience at the time, and was now many corpses behind her.
She shrugged off the memory, and pulled a small tub of precious margarine and a fatty salami style sausage common to the area out of the cool cupboard she used in place of a refrigerator. It was either fresh bread with nothing on it, or making a loaf last several days but getting something with it. She chose the latter, it made it all a little less boring, and she had the slight feeling it was healthier too. She buttered the bread ever so thinly, an almost unnoticeable membrane of vegetable fat on the rough slices, and she folded some thin slices of sausage onto it. Then she rinsed out her mug, made the tea, and sat down to eat her breakfast, her buterbrod as sandwiches were known around here. This was her main meal of the day, her exact routine repeated without variation every day, and once it was eaten she tidied it all away.
Her hand paused on the knife; she held it loosely in her palm. Fiercely she blinked her eyes; as a memory unwilling called hit her full force, a sudden flashback to scene best left forgotten.
The cold steel sinking smoothly into the warm flesh, the sinew parting without fuss, the slow trickle of sticky blood, scarlet red with haemoglobin...
She stumbled back in shock, the acid gall raised to her throat biting, as she fought to regain control of her mind. She dropped the knife, knocked over the chair, and supported herself against the wall. Gasping, she took in deep mouthfuls of air, almost choking on the stuff in her panic, as her hair cascaded loose from the knocking her head was taking against the wall… and she was there again...
The smooth fabric clean and fresh against her skin, the sweet scent of an indulgent French eau mixing with her natural body odour as the sweat trickled down the back of her neck to meet the pale pink neckline of the dress. The silver clasp of the necklace burning against the bump of her spine, the flesh tingling... And then there was the cold steel sinking smoothly into the warm flesh, the sinew parting without fuss, the slow trickle of sticky blood, scarlet red with haemoglobin... And she can see it all in clear view. Anna looks up, the neurological overload of sensory perceptions hitting the base of her skull like a nightstick. Her surroundings flash in and out at her, the landscape view of the river and dark brooding sky, with the full panorama of the medieval bridge watching intently. It must have seen centuries of bloodshed, what could it possibly feel for what was happening this night? It was just one more unknown murder on the gothic cobbles to the bridge. The she was jerked into seeing his eyes, his pupils dilate and eyelids flicker, as yet more of his life juice flowed away from him. The beat of his pulse under his chin, flying furiously only minutes ago, was now timorous and weak. She was watching him dieing, she could see it all, and a new emotion rose from her stomach, effervescing into her consciousness...
She opened her eyes to the bad lighting of the flat, the throbbing in her head deadening. She rose from where she was sat, crouched against the wall, picked up the chair and looked at the knife again. It had once been serrated, but was just an old kitchen knife, with a grubby and marred plastic handle. She had never had an episode like this, had never been warned of anything in a dream, although she knew this was common for the chosen one. Her watcher had said she should expect to be able to sense things, to be connected to some mysterious force, but she just smiled at this idea, and had never provided Mr. Walters with even the most insignificant dream to interpret. Until today, just those few minutes ago, she had considered herself immune to these obscure glimpses looked for by her watcher. She considered her head to be a place for her and her alone, and she was glad to be ‘as psychically active as cheese and biscuits’ as Mr. Walters had termed it.
She looked at the knife again, moved it from hand to hand with the eased casualness of familiarity and expertise. She lowered it again, a deep frown ruffling her face, reflecting her consternation at this morning’s event. Then she snapped and raised it, flung it at the wall, getting it as far away from her as possible. It should have stuck there, quivering in the wall with her rage. Instead it just chipped the plaster, fell to the floor in a cloud of dust and fragments of the wall, it was that blunt. She let it lay there, and went to the tiny bathroom.
She washed herself, and tidied her hair, working her appearance with haste; if she didn’t hurry she would be late for work. She looked at here reflection in the greasy; mirror, watched herself staring back unquestioningly. Her skin was pale, the skin stretched over the facial swerve of her delicate oval bone structure. She had once been very pretty, or so she had been told, yet there was no flesh or shine on her face now. Her eyes were deep pits of murk and grime, the effect of the long-term pattern of sleep deprivation she inflicted on herself. People noticed her as downtrodden, and could not define exactly what it was about her that made her so, yet she knew the impression was largely due to her eyes. Her finely bridged curve of a nose finished the picture, and she was sure she would make an exquisite skeleton some day.
Her coat still hung where she had placed it when she had returned home earlier this morning, and she checked the pocket for the stake she always carried with her. Then carefully she locked the door behind her, and left for her job.
The room lay silent and empty as it always did, the bed so carefully made, the kitchen area clean. The dust settled for another day, and the tap in the bathroom dripped determinedly. The knife lay predictably still, and there were no dancing toys or monsters under the bed. The sun shone thinly through the window, settling on the wardrobe with its thin layer of dust over shiny polished wood veneer. A cockroach considered taking its usual skitter across the floor, but was interrupted. The door burst open, and Anna rushed in. She flung open the wardrobe and seized the dress, wrenching it off of the hanger. The bloodstains were still there, and she would now be late for work.
