kapuchu✿ the pretty little bird_
✿ Elenei Kiều_
✿ The First Day, Early Evening_
✿ The First Day, Early Evening_
I’m falling.
No… no… that’s not it, is it? This isn’t the breech that I descend upon, but rather, my own psyche.
I’m dreaming.
I’m dreaming that I’m flying. I always dream that I’m flying.
Perhaps this makes me an entirely uninspired individual.
Do you think it does? Hmmm.
I don’t care what you think. I like the feeling of flight. If I felt comfortable declaring it, I may even say I loved it. As it stands, I never got to do it much when I did have two good wings for flying-- perhaps I’m misremembering? I think I always found it relaxing, at any rate.
Maybe I hated how flying actually felt. This thought doesn’t bother me.
I know I hated the wings otherwise. I still do, though now it’s just the one-- I can’t even fly.
These dreams always seem to carry themselves to completion in, generally at least, much the same way, and I’m thankful for that-- it’s one of the few guaranteed things I have to look forward to, hypnos's sweet embrace, and this pleasant phantasos and pasithea granted by his kin...
I feel the world moving around me, like I’m in place and still, but some force is causing everything to reconfigure around me, to blur across my vision. The sky's becomes a dim azure, this visceral grey-blue that is the child of clouds and sky. I’m forever falling up and down, in this impossible state of existing purgatory.
Above me, impossibly, I see the stars and the milky way, despite it being noon, it’s as though I can look past the sun, while the sky is still the shade of this great sapphire. The moon is massive before me, a great silver eye, much larger than the sun.
Am I to interpret this? Are the sun’s energies not of great import to me? What is my psyche saying to me? I never see the sun in my dreams, but the blue of the aether is always due to it’s light-- it’s always daytime.
Truthfully, I don’t particularly care what a psychologist would say. I’m comforted by the dim moonlight illuminating the sky-- the sun is too bright. It’s nice.
Below me. The world.
I fly over the it all, I glide easily across French fields from my native Monaco to Loom. Traveling faster than one could comprehend, I think. Minutes, or perhaps just seconds, padded to feel like minutes. I see everything, and so much of nothing.
I’m going so fast, but I can see each individual detail of our earth, jade grasslands and cobblestone villages, I can see the beautiful Gothic Franco structures, older than I can comprehend. The gale is gentle against my flesh, I don’t have to squint.
I look to the faces of those that can see me-- I like to think they see me as astonishing. Children and adults alike, look up in awe at this wingless creature from the heavens.
‘I’m just a person,’ I’d like to tell them.
That’s not true though, is it?
They’d know it’s not true. Even in my dreams I am apart from them.
A gentle hand nudged the dark haired girl awake, “Melly?” came a soft voice.
Mel sighed, light returning to her vision as her eyes opened, sharply and quickly, but slight. The sigh was broken, not quite resigned-- her joy had gone errant, but apathy replaced it, not depression. It didn’t matter. “I fell asleep?”
The doctor nodded, “It’s becoming too common for me not to be concerned about, Mel,” Dr. Plath stepped back to her chair, “This is the 5th time in a row you’ve fallen asleep during our breathing exercises. Are you getting enough sleep at home?”
Mel was silent, her expression became a hard stare.
“Mel?” The doctor pleaded.
Mel shrugged, looking away from the woman.
Dr. Plath sighed, “A lack of sleep could be negatively impacting your mental health…” The doctor noted Mel’s downcast glare, “Mel!” She snapped, and was rewarded with the woman’s focus returning to her, “Your mental health is at risk, not to mentioned declines in physical performance, which, according to YOU…” She flipped through her notes, “Is ‘very important’ to your work.”
Mel’s eyes narrowed, her eyebrows glowered, before quickly relaxing, “I’m sorry for falling asleep, Doctor.” Mel didn’t smile, but she made an effort to at least appear kind-- the result was a kind of tragic half-smirk, “No-- I don’t get much sleep during the night, so I supplement by sleeping during the day-- these sessions mean I need to wake up a few hours earlier than usual.”
Dr Plath made a note of this, “So what are you doing all night?”
Mel shrugged, “Working mostly. I train, attend meetings with my father and complete whatever assignment he might task me with-- it’s mostly a lot of sitting around. I like going to restaurants, late night bistros have the most gourmet coffee, and some of the finest cuisine if you know what to look for--”
“Do you have any friends?”
Mel winced, and then sulked at this, Dr. Plath noticed this immediately, but it was already too late to take back the question. The two sat for a time-- two women illuminated by dying sunlight cut by the blinders-- Elenei’s wing could almost be mistaken for the brown of a fowl’s in the radiating orange light, the doctor was a picture from a black and white crime drama. Her expression a mixture of stark professionalism and genuine empathetic concern.
“I guess Mya…?” Mel muttered. Tilting her head to the side, processing the question, fully aware of why it made her so sad, and why it was important. Mya was her aunt-- she didn’t count. She should have real friends. She was on good terms with some hookers, barkeeps and baristas-- but you weren’t supposed to be embarrassed to tell people about your friends....
A heavy quiet dominated the air between them with a thickness like water.
“I miss the sea.” Mel declared, breaking the silence.
Dr. Plath didn’t look up from her pad, “Did you consider it a friend?”
“I’m not 12, Doctor,” Mel shot back, crossing her arms, “I don’t think the ocean cares for my well being… but…” Her expression softened, “I didn’t feel bad feeling alone whenever I went sailing. Something about the waves soothes your stress. It doesn’t matter if you feel alone-- it doesn’t have to be such a big deal, you can just… be...”
She continued jotting down her notes, “Have you considered heading down to Loom’s marina?”
“Nah.” Mel yawned, “I came here on my family’s drifter, Loom’s waters are different. They’re grey, stale… like… mechanical. Something about them freaks me out.”
“Hm.” Was all the doctor could respond with, before looking from the pad over to her watch.
“It’s about time, isn’t it, Doctor?” Mel preemptively said, already starting to get up.
“Afraid so…” Dr. Plath gave a sad smile to Mel as she made her way to the door, she got up to open it for her, “Please be safe getting home, Elenei…”
“Same time next week?”
“O-of course!” The doctor was taken aback by how quickly she was willing to confirm this with the girl, “And Mel?”
“Yes?” Mel stood half in the room, half out of the room now, she’d already picked up her sword, and her wing was completely in the hallway. From this angle, all one could see was a sad looking little girl. Not the weapon toting one winged chimera she was.
“I want to apologize for my questions earlier, you should know that I have no intention in hurting you when I ask you something. This should be a safe space for you, and I violated that by being too forward today. I’m sorry.”
pale skin gave way to a slight pinkish blush at that, “It’s okay, Doctor.”
“It’s really not, Melly-- It was unprofessional and came across as mean, I appreciate you accepting my apology in any case.” The doctor smiled, “Besides, I shouldn’t have to ask such a question, I already know at least one of your friends!”
Mel tilted her head for a moment-- but only a moment, her confusion was soon replaced with feelings of happiness and personal embarrassment as the doctor leaned in to hug Mel, saying “Me, of course!” Mel’s blush became a much more obvious red at that.
By the time the doctor said “I’ll see you next week, Melly.” she was already pressing the elevator button.
Mel exited the train station.
She was well used to the odd looks-- she looked enough like an angel that demons and humans alike would look cockeyed. ‘Why isn’t she just flying?’ They might think. Then they notice that she was missing one-- if she’s lucky, they won’t recognize who she is. Humans will just look at her pityingly.... Demons, no matter how well meaning, always just seem to look hungry.
Which, if she was being honest, that was fair-- most one winged angels must look like an easy snack.
Either type of judgement was better than the times people did recognize her as her father’s killing machine. Then came either abject fear, or some type of weird misplaced jealousy.
Apparently, the angel’s essence her father had used to cure her had possessed some type of magic-- because she could make her wing disappear when she focused on it. But as it stood, it required a tremendous amount of energy for few benefits. Maybe she was just bad at it?
Walking down the now dark, almost empty street, Mel made a beeline for an alley. The already dark sky was consumed by towering skyscrapers above her. It wasn’t like one could see every star in Monaco-- but in Loom one couldn’t even really get a glimpse of the moon.
Mel knocked on a non-descript door. Of course it had to be non-descript. It took her weeks of digging around to find any strip joints. Apparently the angel’s strong influence on Loomese law had made people ‘sensitive’ about places that ‘sold flesh.’ Laws like that meant that places like this-- The Saints and The Sinner Ladies-- were practically in hiding. Owning a strip place wasn’t illegal in Loom, but, to her understanding, it wasn’t really legal either.
How were aspiring gumshoes supposed to gather information to solve crimes if you make all the hangouts illegal? How does one investigate anything? And ignoring that, how do you hate a strip club? They had everything! Scantily clad men, women… things if you wanted, alcohol, fights, information, conversation…
If they served coffee, she might never leave.
Mel narrowed her eyes in frustration, and knocked again, slamming her fist against the old steel door hard enough to leave a dent. A metal panel slid, revealing a pair of worn-out, red eyes.
“What’s the password?” bellowed a dusty voice in a cockney accent.
Mel’s own French came through as she yelled right back, “It’s Morena Joy! Just let me in you asshole.”
The slide immediately closed, and the door opened. Before her, stood an imposing blue man, with a beer belly round and large, protruding in any direction several feet. Her arms and legs were muscular and stocky, yellow horns jutted wildly from his head like hair, his tired eyes glowed a dim red, and his nose wasn’t upturned like a pig’s snout, so much as it was a pig’s snout. He wore expensive brown jeans, ripped to hell and probably designer, and luxury sneakers he was no doubt about to brag to her about. He didn’t wear a shirt, and instead all that could be seen was a mass of green-inked tattoos, chest hair, scars, and golden jewelry.
“My pretty little bird!” He said in his exaggerated British, he immediately swept the tiny girl up into a hug that threatened to break her spine. Transporting her immediately from a dull, featureless street, into the purple haze of the neon club.
“Hi Belwas.” Mel managed to breath out under the strength of a hug that felt like the full pressure of Marianas trench. As he let her down, she made her way over to an empty table-- she always came early on days like these-- with Belwas following, “What’s new?”
