Today, truly, it was a beautiful day. Nat could even venture as far as saying it was sublime, as a warm wind shook her hair and the flowers she had woven in. The sky was a blue like no other, with nary a cloud to be seen save for a few wispy wanderers making their way across the firmament. Blades of grass, with flowers woven into them like her own hair, danced in the empty field in front of her. Her rear was sore from sitting on the hard, trampled dirt of the path, but she didn’t mind for a moment as she stroked a particularly long bang of hair, smiling as the smell of the earth, the flowers and the scent of a roasted chicken mingled in the air like close friends. The occasional crinkling sound from the paper bag next to her being agitated by the breeze didn’t bother the woman in the slightest. Amid the constant birdsong, her ears carefully listened for the rare distant roars, cries and bellowing of far away beasts, until, her eyes closed, a new sound came along, footsteps. The footfalls were heavy, belonging to strong legs in sturdy boots and she knew in an instant who it was, but she decided to keep her eyes closed, instead waiting for the character to come closer.
“Nat, dun act like ya dunno I’m ‘ere.” A voice with a thick accent that easily replaced all music for her spoke up and she grinned. “Ya won the race this time, but I had more ta carry! A chicken is easy, try a bag a’ grain!” The ground trembled ever so slightly as a hefty sack landed next to her.
“Excuses, as always! Have you maybe thought of just being better?” Nat jeered, patting the sack. “If I find a single ounce of grain missing because you just vented on it, you’re
running back to town to get more, darling.” Nat stood, picking up the sack and she almost sighed in disappointment when she didn’t find a single puncture. “Aren’t you lucky? They make these bags sooooo tough...” She winked before tossing the bag back to him.
“If I’m lucky, it’s ta ‘ave the most amazing wife, ha!” Her husband had a hearty laugh as she sauntered over to the man and gave him a kiss on the cheek, hair getting between her lips.
“And to have a wife who tolerates you constantly ‘forgetting’ to shave? It’s as if you stopped caring after we married, how sad...” Nat play pouted and her beloved responded by bring her into his arms, dropping the grain. “What I said about you going back to town if grain is missing still stands, you know~” she scolded him before he placed a thick finger on her lips and quieted her.
“Ya know, moments like these almost make the time ya used me as bait for a wyvern worth it.” The tall, yet fairly slim man was clearly amused, long used to her banter. After all, tonight would make six years of them being married. Nat looked less amused, but this sort of exchange was, as aforementioned, common between them.
“You’re just not satisfied with poor Nat anymore, are you… two children and now you let everything go… Ah...” The wife made herself look as sad as possible, but it was hard to hide her smirk. This kind of moment had become her favorite. Her beloved grinned and stroked her hair.
“I’m more satisfied than any other man in the Land a’ Fenoglio! In more ways than one...” he whispered at the end as he grabbed her rear. Nat jumped, then settled down into his chest, mumbling sweet nothings that he could hardly hear. “But let’s get goin’ home, Drew an’ Alan are probably gettin’ hungry, eh?” He removed his hand and gently let go of her with a sincere smile that Nat happily returned. Picking up the grain and laying the bag carrying the roasted chicken in it, as per the bet for the race, he grunted before slowly beginning to walk.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
An alien noise froze Nat, literally. Stuck with a warm smile on her face, she was unmoving as if petrified, and she couldn’t move a muscle in her body. Her skin was still warmed by the breeze and sun, but no matter how much she struggled, she couldn’t move, not even breathe.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
She wanted to scream, but it was if she suddenly had no lungs or mouth. Everything was moving save for her, her adored husband was walking away from her, slowly as if still waiting for her to come to his side. Once, she had been at this side as he walked this path, after this exact exchange, but now, Nat was drowning without a drop of water, frozen in the air, as the feeling of the embrace faded away.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
The footsteps were gone now, everything was gone, silent, save for the shrill sounds attacking her ears. Her chest felt like it was going to split in two and dots flitted around her vision, growing larger and larger. Not even her own thoughts made sense anymore, a melee of inner screams, sadness and despair.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Everything was dark now, she couldn’t feel a thing save for the pain. There was no fifth set of beeps.
At that moment, Natille awoke in her bed, thrashing around and actually screaming from pain and sorrow. With a loud yell of anger, she jumped out of bed, fell to the ground and after a groan, she scrambled for the alarm clock, a red, bright “6:00” lit up on the front, and tore it away from side table, causing the lamp to fall as well. Ignoring this, she punched the clock over and over, her knuckles bleeding and covering the clock in blood and tiny bits of skin as she pummeled the device, the plastic cracking and breaking until there was little more than shards of plastic and a main board and screen. Meanwhile, she cried out at the victim and perpetrator, demanding why it took her life away, why the world made her die, why it was all gone for good and dozens of other questions in the span of seconds. These were questions she often asked the world, not really expecting an answer but rather expressing her torment and disappointment with reality. A quiet “beeeeeeeee-” droned out of the single speaker. Without a single moment’s hesitation, Nat picked up the largest part of the clock, opened her window and tossed it out, hurtling out of the extremely high window onto the grass of an empty park. Upon impact it finally tore apart, the remaining united components fleeing in different directions. Natille stared out the window at her enemy.
Finally, she took a deep breath and slumped down against the wall, next to the lamp she knocked over. The bulb was broken, adding to the mess of shards on the floor of her room. Nat stroked the lampshade as the blur of rage left her eyes and blood trickled down her fingers onto the lampshade, which miraculously soaked up most of the crimson liquid before it stained the wooden floor. A slight aching on her arm reminded her that the nicotine patch she wore to have more vivid, but unfortunately oftentimes more violent dreams, was still stuck to her arm. Removing her stinging, burning hand from the red and brown lampshade, which had originally been of a black and white checkerboard design, she tore off the patch and stuffed it in the pocket of her nightwear. Nat took a deep breath before standing up to leave her bedroom.
First, she put a copious amount of alcohol and bandages on her self-inflicted wounds, then, now in the kitchen, she filled a glass and put a copious amount of alcohol in it, coming from a random bottle of whiskey she picked without paying much attention to. Nat downed it in a few gulps, the liquid burning her throat but calming her down somewhat. For a few minutes, she set about cleaning up her room, starting with the shards of glass, then the shards of plastic, then replacing her lamp with a stack of artbooks she had bought on a whim.
“Sirilla, turn on.” Nat muttered a flat line as she walked into her large living room and slumped down on the couch. A chime indicated her speaker system and “personal assistant” turned on, though she always considered the latter more of a way of controlling her phone with her voice rather than touch. A typical ‘good morning, Nat’ was her response as she took her phone off of the wireless charger anyway. The young woman didn’t bother for a moment with turning on the TV, instead she just tapped a widget on her phone’s home screen and the lights came on. “Cirilla, please play something by The National.”
“Playing About Today by the National.” An artificial voice responded to her demand and the song began playing out of the speakers as the Nat finished her breakfast bar and stared out the window. Lazily, she reached for the box of cigarillos on the coffee table and pulled one of the wrapped sticks of tobacco out, itself wrapped in some plastic. She took a moment to unwrap it and prepare it to be used as the music only dampened her mood with its somber lyrics which hit a little too close to home. Lighting the other end of the cigarillo, she put the music aside to think of what Rese might think of her smoking. She had never smoked in Soma, but had he been here today, what would he say?
“Honestly, dat can’t be good fer ya. Why spend on it, Nat?” she whispered to herself, imitating his accent.
“I’m a rich writer deemed delusional by most of the people who ‘care’ for me, what else do I spend money on in this useless world, darling?” was her response to herself a few puffs later, a wry smile appearing on her face for a fleeting moment as the song ended and she reached the halfway point on the cigarillo. “Sirilla, could you have not chosen a sadder song?” she complained
“A Sadder Song is not currently in your library, would you like to buy this track?” Nat was noticeably annoyed by the innocently programmed response.
“Fuck you. Why am I awake anyway so early? What are my appointments today?” She put the cigarillo out in the ashtray before crudely wrapping it in the plastic wrap again. Her “personal assistant” took no delay in responding.
“You have a meeting at eight-thirty AM with your publisher, a meeting at eleven-thirty AM with Dr. Templeton for a routine appointment and lunch with your father at one PM.” Sirilla read off the reminders that Nat had set without problems.
At least she does that right, she thought to herself and rolled her eyes.
“Busy day and I look like I joined a fight club.” Nat sighed while looking at the bandages on her hand and glanced at her desk with the monitor, keyboard and mouse sat on it. All the desks in her house were connected to one large computer in her actual office; she just found it more practical to work anywhere she wanted in the house without needing to use a laptop. Today, she would have preferred by far to write, but appointments were appointments. The deadline for the next volume of what she saw as her autobiography wasn’t for another month anyway and she could easily finish it in a good week of just writing, since she already knew what she had to write, the question was doing it and adding a narrative touch. There was a certain joy she took in writing, she was accomplishing her life’s purpose after all, making the life she had really lived and loved tangible for everyone who might ever doubt her. Of course, as far as her fans knew, it was totally fiction and good fiction at that, as made evident by the sales of each book. Her substantial royalties gave her a life without many difficulties, she never had to worry about paying bills, her penthouse apartment which offered her the freedom of the morning’s loud wake-up was paid for and belonged to her, as was her car, food wasn’t a worry, drinks of all descriptions either, and she even had enough to pay her psychologist.
However, that last note reminded Nat that she didn’t have the luxury of taking all the time she wanted, at least not this morning, and she hurried to get herself cleaned up and dressed.
Today’s meeting reminded Nat of how much she hated meetings with her publisher. As one of the most important authors with the company, she wasn’t given the casual treatment she received before when she first gave the drafts of her book to the company, now she had to sit in a stuffy meeting room for three hours as she answered questions, talked about new deals such as a manga adaptation and listened to the company’s employees rant on about their thoughts on recent themes in the books and how to advertise the series and making translations into other languages and localization for countries where certain parts of the story would have to be modified (an idea which Nat rejected at every proposal), Nat meanwhile stared out the window and sighed as new appointments were made with all sorts of people. Finally, a reminder for the next volume’s deadline was given and she was out the door.
Only minutes later, she was in front of her psychologist’s apartment-slash-office. It was a quick trip. Even if it took her halfway across the city, her Audi R8’s V10 Plus made short work of the journey. Loud work, too, which was something Dr. Bridge Templeton always took advantage of in order to be at the door as soon as his patient arrived. Sure enough, Nat had barely knocked when a
bespectacled man opened the door with an alcohol test in hand. “Good morning, Natalia!”
Nat sighed loudly, attempting to make a point out of her lack of amusement. “It’s Nat, you know that, Bridge. Don’t talk like my grandmother. What’s with the tester?” The doctor put it up to Nat’s lips without answering and she blew without an answer.
Here comes the lecture... “You really shouldn’t be driving with that much in your system and definitely not a vehicle like that! I-” Bridge scolded her as he read the measurement on the tester. Nat shrugged and pushed past him to hang her jacket and remove her shoes, walking into his living room and sitting down on the sofa without waiting for his permission. A “make yourself at home” would be redundant anyway, Bridge’s abode was practically a second home for her, she had slept on his couch on various occasions. Bridge was a bit slower than her at returning, taking his time to put her shoes out of the way after she left them in the middle of the entry. “How’s my favorite crazy today?”
“I pay you the most and the most consistently, of course I’m your favorite.” Nat got off the couch and went to make coffee with the capsule coffee machine, as Bridge meanwhile gathered up various papers, then settled down in his “shrink chair”, Nat’s name for his old leather seat that was his throne at every appointment. Nat knew this just from the sound, a creak resounding throughout the small apartment living room and kitchen. It always made the girl wonder why in the world he lived in such a small place if he earned so much as a psychologist with a full doctorate. Sure, the area was quiet, but even in her own penthouse she often felt cramped. It was a question that went unanswered to this day.
“You wound me! I’m such a fan of your personality, with how cold, apathetic, pseudo-sociopathic you can be! You really do make for such a wonderful conversation partner!” He replied in a near yell as steaming coffee poured into a mug in the kitchen, Nat straining somewhat to hear him anyway over the sound of the coffee machine.
“I’ve never paid a conversation partner before.” she retorted flatly as she took Bridge’s mug away to fill another, which was her chosen mug when at Bridge’s place, decorated with the text “Department of Redundancy Department” in black letters. In the meantime, she brought the psychologist’s mug over to him.
“Call it royalties since I was the one who told you to start publishing your dream autobiographies.” Bridge chuckled and Nat shot him a glare. She hated it when she called anything involving her old life a “dream”. Still, “dream” was better than “delusion”, so she tolerated it.
“Had a rough morning?” This question was accompanied by a tap on her bandaged hand.
Nat shrugged and replied with a tone dripping in sarcasm. “My alarm clock picked a fight with me.”
“By that you mean you dreamed of your dream life --my, I feel like I’m repeating myself –, the alarm clock ruined it and you had an incident?” Dr. Templeton put on a much more serious tone, adjusting his glasses and reaching for the coffee. At this point, Nat’s own beverage was ready, with it in hand, she returned to the sofa, took a deep breath and replied.
“Is mindreading something you learned to get your doctorate? It was a dream with Rese, our sixth wedding anniversary-”
“Stop right there, don’t say a thing! I haven’t read that far, you’ll spoil it!” Bridge joked and waved the latest volume at Nat, which managed to make the patient smirk for a moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an entire shelf filled with her books.
“If you’re such a big fan, you’d know I haven’t even written that yet.” She took a sip of the coffee and almost wished she had put a few drops of calvados in it, though she knew the psychologist didn’t stock French liquor. Capsule coffee always felt blandly bitter to her.
“I’m not that big a fan, it’s just that you’re my patient and all...” Bridge winked, then cleared his throat. “Jokes aside, how realistic was the dream?” Finally, the doctor took a pen out of his pocket and set about taking notes. Nat thought hard about it, but in the end, it came down less to finding similarities between this dream and her memories and more finding differences. There were none, save for the end.
“No differences. It was as if I was playing back a movie.”
“How did you act?”
“Same as always with Rese. Loving, playful, lots of banter.” Her general mood, previously lightened by the exchange before was now much more cheerless. Dreams like that were bliss and torture at the same time. It all ended too early and everything was gone. The only thing left were the memories and as far as everyone in the entire world was concerned, it never happened and never existed. Rese, Drew, Alan, the friends she had made, all of it disappeared. Replaying it all often made her feel alive again, but it always came to an end. Often violently. “I froze at the end. Not temperature, you know, just not moving. I could only feel, no longer act and I suffocated.” Bridge nodded in a way that always seemed awfully psychologist-esque to Nat. He was, after all, an actual shrink.
“Dreams of freezing often represent an inability to take action or progress…” he began.
“Well, ain’t that the truth! I can’t do shit anymore, I’m stuck in this world, and all of Soma is gone, forever! No one even believes it happened! I remember it all, every year… All twenty and even that wasn’t enough.” After the outburst, Nat’s hand shook as she held her mug. Of course, Bridge had heard this from her dozens of times.
“Let’s change subjects. This isn’t the first time you’ve had a dream like this after all.” He spoke kindly, sensing the change in atmosphere. “Let’s talk about your books lately. Your latest has had some interesting themes, actually. The story itself is the same as always – and that’s a good thing, mind you, you’ve kept it very interesting since the first volume – but the narrator and the narration itself have gotten quite existential in tone, no?” Nat stared at him for a moment, then replied, looking at the TV, shut off, on the console table. Her face was reflected in the black glass.
“You should be a literary critic, not a psychologist.”
“Am I that bad?”
“Joking.” Her tone was distinctly serious. “Just trying to keep things interesting, maybe aim for some of that literary audience who enjoy philosophical themes and all.”
“Oh, so now you have a business objective? I know that’s not what you mean and since your books are very popular as is, I doubt your publisher is bothering you for anything like that, unless it’s to bicker on their own preferences. It isn’t like you to mix how you feel about the world you live in with what you write in your book, you always kept what actually happened sacrosanct. Life is getting heavy for you, that’s it. Too heavy.” Nat bit her lip. “This is just my advice as your psychologist, but let your writing be that dream life. When you write, be the Nat that lived twenty years in that dream world, writing her diary. Let the writing be what gives you real joy, not an achievement of a purpose, but a way of really reliving it. Hell, reread what you already published. I’ll lend you my copies, if you don’t have them for some reason. Write what you lived, not what you live now, writing a memory. You’re wealthy now, let people be damned and do it, Nat.” She was taken aback by this. She didn’t often get that much out of him, usually their appointments became banter and light chat.
“I’ll… think about it.” Nat finished her coffee then gazed into the bottom of the empty mug for a moment. “I’ll get some fresh air this afternoon and think it all over. Have a lot of things to think about.”
“Like selecting an artist for the manga?” Bridge smiled at his patient’s shocked expression. “Don’t act so startled! There’s been rumors about it for a while now and recently one of the artist candidates leaked a bit of it. Your books aren’t that popular in Japan, due to them being seen as just a foreign take on the typical parallel world light novel concept, so they hope to make some ground by creating a manga adaptation.” Nat laughed.
“You know it better than I do!” She stood up and headed for the door. “I was thinking of rejecting the proposal all together, actually.” Templeton wagged his finger from across the room as she put her shoes back on.
“Miss Gerwulf, you should really consider it! It could be an interesting opportunity to give a visual appearance to those apparently colorful characters of your world. The candidates that have been revealed thus far don’t seem bad at all as well. Out the door already?” Nat was often shocked by how fast the psychologist changed subjects, even if it was nothing new With her shoes and coat on, she avoided replying to him directly and instead just pondered it silently.
“It’s strange.”
“Hmm? What is? I can’t mindread, honest-”
“You acted like a real psychologist today.” Nat opened the door and awaited his response, leaving the check for the appointment in an envelope on the ground, glancing at Bridge in the reflection of the glass. He was unfazed by her words, instead still wearing a warm smile.
“While it’s true most of our appointments turn into pure banter, I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or a complaint.” Bridge chuckled. “Call me next time you’re up for an appointment.”
“I appreciate it, doc.” She appreciated many things about Bridge Templeton and the appointments with him. One might even imagine there was something more between them, but their relationship was strictly platonic and Nat had the intention of always keeping it that way. He was one colorful person in a monochrome world and this world’s love would make him turn to grayscale. It happened to her father, after all, loving him again after her old life made her realize how colorless he truly was. She was startled by Bridge tapping her on the shoulder.
“One more thing before you leave; are those flowers that are always in your hair real?” She turned towards Bridge, gave her hair a stroke and sadly smiled. “That’s a secret, my friend. And before you ask why I wear them, I won’t spoil the story to come.” Reflecting on the flowers never ceased to make her melancholic, but she always took time to weave them into her hair every morning.
With a short wave goodbye, she descended to her car and paused before getting into the leather seats to send a message to her father to move their lunch appointment to the next day. Nat needed this afternoon for herself.
Much later, 11:40 PM
Nat's afternoon for herself ended up being as lackluster as she expected. It was better than suffering through lunch with her father, sure, but she wished now that she had just returned home and spent the rest of the day writing or killing time. Well, she had killed time either way. When she kept herself from writing, things became a matter of killing time, always. Writing her story was her purpose, after all, any time she kept herself from doing that for some reason just dragged on and on and this afternoon was no different. She had gone to the park, spent a while meandering in Shine Junction, returned to the park, went to another park and unceremoniously buried her alarm clock after the morning's incident, had dinner alone in some expensive bistro which she really did find too expensive for what it served, even went to see a movie. She couldn't recall which movie it was for the life of her, though, her mind was blank the entire time and the projection just became moving images and colors.
Still, she didn't want to go back on her word to Bridge, that she'd get some fresh air and think things over. So far, she accomplished one of those goals and that goal did not involve choosing an artist. After her movie, she had exited the cinema, returned home and had debated with herself between drinking herself to sleep with a nicotine patch and going out again. What brought her to decision, ultimately, was her stock of booze. Lots of vodka, a few bottles of fancy wines -- which she really just drank for nostalgia purposes, being the most popular drink of the Land of Fenoglio where she had once lived --, some cocktail bases and a total lack of beer. An excuse to go to a bar, it seemed.
Always excuses. she thought to herself. She never did anything without an excuse that told her to do so, nothing had a real point, after all. She had done it all before, it was different, but the same. Nothing really thrilled her, but at least it gave her something to do when she wasn't writing. If she finished writing all of her twenty years too soon, she'd have nothing left to live for and she was undeniably young. Giving herself that fate so early on would be the worst thing imaginable. She wouldn't pad things down by writing about the simple days just to take more time in accomplishing her purpose, as well.
Within twenty minutes, she had stripped, showered, clothed herself in a simple set of clothes fit for a warm summer's night, consisting of a blue knee-length skirt, brown stockings, a simple white blouse and a light sweater over that. The ensemble was complete with some white gloves.
It was 11:40 when she arrived at the nearest bar her GPS showed her, roaring up to a free spot across the street in her Audi. Leaving the supercar, a warm breeze had her instinctively check her hair for the flowers. Sure enough, they were there, woven in well enough not to fly away from the breeze, save for the occasional petal. They were, in fact, real, delivered every morning and evening to her apartment by a favored florist of hers'. White roses, with exceptionally thin stems and the thorns cut off by the florist before delivery. She usually wove new ones in every morning, but evening excursions had her replace them.
"The Cornerstone, huh." She sighed.
The name isn't bad, almost feels like something from Soma.. Nat crossed the road now and entered the bar and she was sort of shocked at how many people were inside. Sunday nights typically weren't the most popular nights, but sure enough, a fairly unique crowd of folk were making themselves comfortable. To Nat, though, they were still all colorless. Unique among the monochrome, but monochrome nonetheless. She sat at the bar, gesturing to the bartender to come over as she sat down. "Surprise me. No cocktails. Thank you." She flatly asked and as the bartender looked her down with a somewhat confused expression, she glanced over at the beers and shrugged. "European, then."
The bartender took his turn to sigh before pouring her a glass of something Bavarian. "Times?" she inquired.
"We close at 1:30 PM." His response was flat, like her own question.
Fair enough. Golden rule, treat others the way you want to be treated. I don't care how I'm treated. "Thanks." she opened her bag and pulled out her passport, showing the age. Nat had yet to get herself a local ID. "If anyone needs a round, here, for the trouble.", she told the honestly confused bartender, replacing her passport on the counter with some cash.
"What trouble...?" The bartender murmured as he took the cash. Nat finished her drink and was onto her second. Alcohol was a good partner in crime when it came to killing time.
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