a songstress in the making : camilla st. john

[cajun_songbird]

<center>When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye.
You're just like an angel.
Your skin makes me cry.
You float like a feather in a beautiful world.
I wish I was special.
You're so f-cking special.

But I'm a creep.
I'm a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.

I don't care if it hurts; I wanna have control.
I wanna perfect body.
I wanna perfect soul.
I want you to notice when I'm not around.
You're so f-cking special.
I wish I was special.

But I'm a creep.
I'm a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.

She's running out again.
She's running out.

Whatever makes you happy.
Whatever you want.
You're so f-cking special.
I wish I was special.

But I'm a creep.
I'm a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.
I don't belong here...

( creep : radiohead )

----</center>


"Guess what?"

"You grew an extra head?"

"Naw.."

"We're goin' to the moon?"

"Cam, yer really ba--"

"Oh, I know. Mere and Papa are gonna be sober one day?"

"Now yer just bein' stupid."

It had been a while since she'd had any type of dream, nightmare or no. This one was one of the types; you know you're dreaming, but then again, you feel like you can do anything. Reaching over carefully, her hand settled on Samuel's shoulder, pleased when it didn't pass on through. As well, she was pleased he wasn't her black burbling nightmare-admirer. Rocking back to the side, fingers tangled together in her lap as she stared out over the expanse of field. No falling stars, no dead bodies, no stage-- this was a familiar place. The creek was right up the road from here, and the rickety house they lived in was visible just on the other side.

"You gonna button it and listen t'me now?"

Jade greens shifted her way with a mixture of amusement and wariness, just waiting on the smartass answer she was sure to give. Instead, she nodded simply and gestured a hand to the air in front of them; telling him nonverbally to continue.

"'Bout time y'shut up." The grin that appeared was unmistakable. Full of Louisiana charm and just a hint of the grown man he had become. "Y'been losin' it, 'Milla."

"Losin' what?"

"Somethin' y'was never supposed t'." Turning her to face him, his hand ghosted over her palms and then her forehead, smile fading off into a frown abruptly.

Her own expression made a change, morphing into the hard mask she'd perfected over the months to shut people out. "Can't help it," was muttered bitterly before he jerked her chin up, forcing blues to meet greens.

"Yeah, y'can."

Shifting uncomfortably, Sam immediately scooted up to his feet and walked out a few steps from where they'd been sitting. "I can't tell y'much, Cam. Ain't m'place t' tell y'what t'do, but I can say this. Don't never lose it. Y'do, that's when yer gonna end up like me."

"Dead?" The word came out short; terse. Peace had been made with the fact that he was gone, but she didn't think she'd ever be able to get over how he died. It had been such a tragic waste..

"Yeah. Dead. Lemme tell ya, it ain't that fun."

"Sammy, wha--"

"Don't ask me questions I can't answer. Don't got long, so real qui--"

His own words were cut off as if someone had clicked the 'off' button on his voice box. Instead of looking horrified at this, Sam's features darkened with annoyance. A misty shape was moving up behind him-- a dark arm sliding around his neck as if to drag him backwards. Without warning, Sam reached up and threw the arm off of him, half turning to hold up a finger at it. Just one moment. Walking back over to Cam, he pulled her up to her feet and immediately began patting at her pockets, in search of something. Moments later, something cool and solid was pressed into her hand, and without a word, he headed back to the shape.

"Sam, wait..." Fingers wrapping around the object, free hand came up as if reaching for him. The more she reached, the smaller he became, until it felt like she was losing her footing and stumbling to the ground.

****

Jerking upright as soon as her dream-self almost made contact with the grass and dirt, fingers uncurled from her palm as she looked down. In the dim lighting coming from the window, the silver of the cross on her rosary glinted dully at her. Slumping down, her head dropped back against the headboard of the bed as the beads were wound around both hands; fingers steepling up just in front of her mouth.

"Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in c?lum omnes animas, pr?sertim eas, qu? misericordi? tu? maxime indigent...."

____________________________________________
* O my Jesus, forgive us of our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls into heaven, especially those in most need of thy mercy.

[cajun_songbird]

<center>I could kiss you in the rain forever.
Turn all of your pain to pleasure.
Fill up all your days with sunlight.
Make the passion last every night.
Give you my every possession.
Make you my only obsession.
Climb up to the sky and pull down all the stars above.
But I could never love you enough.

----</center>

"You're a hard woman to get in touch with, Camilla."

It had been over a week since she'd heard from him, so there was a mild blink of surprise when the voice slithered over the line. Fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, the phone was tucked between chin and shoulder.

"Busy, busy me. Y'know how it is."

"Indeed. I assume you're on your way to the club?"

"Mhm."

"Good. There's a present waiting for you in the dressing room."

Click.

Oh joyful day. A present. She could hardly contain herself. Flipping her own phone shut, cigarette was removed from its perch between her lips; a long stream of smoke following its departure. As the cab slowed to a stop at the curb of the club, he was paid quickly so that she could exit and get on inside. Lord knows, she was already an hour late. Bri was probably about ready to hang himself with the amp wire.

Another healthy ( oxymoron ) draw of smoke was taken as she threaded her way through the crowd, murmuring insincere 'excuse me's and 'pardon's if anyone was hit. "Where the he--" Brian's words were cut off by her hand lifting, palm facing him. Don't even start with her right now. His lip snapping shut appropriately, he turned and shook his head, cueing the rest of the band to go ahead and get in their places.

Cigarette was dropped to the cement floor of the dressing room, bag unslung from over her shoulder so that she could get her stage outfit out and on before everyone had a heart attack. Jesus. Be late one time, and they act like the world's going to fall in. Tugging the black fabric out of the bag, eyes lifted just in time to catch sight of a large silver wrapped box set on the vanity top. And here she almost forgot. Dropping everything, hands slid carefully over her hips as she approached the box, head inclining as if trying to hear any ticking. Rattling. Never hurt to be cautious.

When it didn't explode, the top was lifted off and thrown to the side; tissue paper inside parted so she could take a peek. Once the silver threaded fabric came into view, her jaw was already setting with annoyance. It was one thing to tell her when to sing, but to tell her what to sing in? The thought of throwing it into the trash crossed her mind, and at the same time, fingers brushed across a small card that was atop the dress. Plucking it up, thumbnail was used to flip the card open:

It's all part of the deal. Don't fuck up.

Men were always trying to get to her heart with pretty words. Made her feel all fuzzy inside. Tossing the card down with a multitude of choked off curses, the outfit was yanked out of the box roughly. Round two to him, whoever he may be, but rest assured.. Round three was going to be a doozy.

[cajun_songbird]

<center>

Make up your mind.
Take me or leave me.
I've been doing fine,
with or without you.

I'm wasting my time,
Letting you deceive me.
The truth is in your eyes--
but I deny what I see.
Time and time again.

I let you get back under my skin.
I let you break me down again.
I let you get in close, way too close.
But I see through it.

You gave me that smile,
and I gave in.
And you knew that I would,
time and time again,
you pulled me in.
Just to give me up again.

What is a dream,
if it doesn't come true?
I believe I'll find love,
but will it be with you?

I never would've thought,
that such a pretty little face--
could offer me so much,
and take all that I had.
Well I want it back.

I let you get back under my skin.
I let you break me down again.
I let you get in close, way too close.
But I see through it.

You gave me that smile,
and I gave in.
And you knew that I would,
time and time again,
you pulled me in.
Just to give me up again.</center>

( give me up again ; jonny lang )

[cajun_songbird]

<center>I'm not the one who's so far away,
when I feel the snake bite enter my vein.
Never did I wanna be here again,
and I don't remember why I came.

Candles raise my desire.
Why I'm so far away.
No more meaning to my life.
No more reason to stay.
Freezing feeling, breathe in.. breathe in..
I'm coming back again.

Hazing clouds rain on my head.
Empty thoughts fill my ears.
Find my shape by the moonlight.
Why my thoughts aren't so clear.
Demons dreaming, breathe in.. breathe in..
I'm coming back again.

I'm not the one who's so far away,
when I feel the snake bite enter my vein.
Never did I wanna be here again,
and I don't remember why I came.

Voodoo...

( voodoo : godsmack )

----</center>

<u>Take One</u>

The song sounded muted, like someone had draped a sheet of plastic over the Victrola. She didn't rightfully know where she was, but the interior of the room also had a muted quality to it-- fuzzy around the edges, like someone had blotted out the corners and smoked up the place. It was one of those dreams where you knew you were dreaming, but still couldn't process why things were they way they were. Staring blankly at the well dressed, masked people milling about, it took a moment to prompt movement out of the high back chair she was in.

Heavy skirts fell to her ankles, and glancing down, she realized she was dressed just like they were. The second realization of the moment: she had her own mask on and fingers went up to touch the stiffened silk and feathers. There was a sudden shift in the music, a low lilting waltz starting up. Bodies moved away from the single congealed mass they'd been milling about in and formed two lines.

Floundering, frantic eyes darted around the room in confusion. It seemed that hundreds of hidden eyes returned the stares, looking at her as if she didn't belong here. One of the lines broke briefly, allowing a tall figure to step through. His mask was a twisted configuration of black and red; a distorted Devil's face that bled back easily into his ebony hair. He was dressed like a Victorian aristocrat; a lace cravat topping the snowy white linen of his shirt, doe skin breeches that were half hidden by the polished knee length boots.

Glancing back to someone that had grabbed his arm, a beatific smile was cast the woman's way-- head shaking to whatever offer that had been extended. Muddled blue eyes settled on Cam after a moment, and what might possibly be a smile curved his full bottom lip. No questions, no apologies, her hand was taken with fanfare; his form lowering to one knee ? genuflect ? before he stood once more. With that, she was led between the two lines, and a strong arm was quick to find its way around her waist.

"So nice to see you again, Camilla," was whispered directly into her ear, and he was sweeping her into the waltz without a second thought.

---

<u>Take Two</u>

The bayou was such a peaceful place. There were no harsh outside noises, like cars driving by. Just the gentle sound of the wind sweeping through the grass, and the whippoorwills strumming out their nightly symphony. If you strained your ears, you could hear the swamp life moving around, going about their business, with no interruption from human hands. It was these nights that she loved to be outside the most. The moon was almost as big as the sky, and the stars seemed to be twinkling just for you.

Glancing up from her seat on the dewy ground, eyes were trained on the far end of the field-- over towards the line of trees bordering the property. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end suddenly, and the sensation of something crawling along her arms intensified into almost a burn. Power was coming her way... a thick, heady power that no man could contain, and no person should really possess. Like an apparition from a horror movie, a white figure suddenly emerged from the inky forest. The sound of tribal drums began faintly, and a wary look was cast around.

"Doan worry, chile." The voice came from behind her, and she whipped around, only to come face to face with a woman no taller than five feet. A smile that was meant to reassuring was sent Cam's way, and the woman reached out to touch her arm lightly. When she drew back, there was a faint tingling at the point of contact, and blue violets dropped to see if a mark was left. "Do I know you?" Instead of receiving a reply, the woman seated herself on the ground and pulled out a small bag. "Dat ain't got nothin' t'do wit'nothin', girl. Sit." As soon as the command was verbal, she found herself moving back to the ground.

From the bag, a deck of tarot cards were removed; the thin parchments shuffled carefully between gnarled and bronzed fingers. Eye contact wasn't made during any of this, though the drums seemed to be intensifying. Just when Cam thought they were going to drive her insane with their repetitive beat, all sound came to a standstill. Wide eyed, she found that her gaze was locked on the cards. The mamba smiled serenely and dropped the entire deck to the ground. Odd thing about it all, only three cards flipped themselves over in the mess. Stranger yet, a scorpion had appeared from somewhere and was now crawling lethargically over the crude pictures.

Death. King of Wands. The Fool.

----

Back in the land of consciousness, a sharp scream erupted.

( June 24 : ?Aftermath? )

______________________________________________
<font size="1">[ Just for some light reading! All the below information is from Ata Tarot. Though it may not be the card's meanings exactly, it's just a general basis for the Major and Minor Arcana. ]

In the Tarot, as in reality, Death is nothing more than a transition to the next level of life. Whether you believe that a soul goes to heaven or back to Earth to be reincarnated, the fact remains that the soul lives on. The candle is extinguished, but only because the day has come. The river shown on many versions of the Death card is a symbol, showing that life will go on, no matter what disastrous things happen.

The King of Wands is pure fire energy, but strangely enough, he has the least to do with actual creation and creativity. His forte is not in dreaming up ideas and implementing them himself, but in taking an idea and changing the world to match his vision. As such he is a natural leader and commander of all kinds of people. They flock to him to hear what he has to say and leave just as eagerly when he gives them something to do for him.

The Fool is unmoulded potential, pure and innocent, neither positive nor negative yet containing the possibility of both. He is the unconditioned soul about to come into manifestation for the first time to start learning the lessons of the world. Though everyone calls him a Fool, he does not pay them any attention, and he simply goes on his way. Certainly what they say can be justified, since his ignorance of the world can lead him to do things that more experienced people would never imagine. But in these things he can find knowledge and enlightenment. He does not care what others think or say about him, because he knows that what he is doing is right for him.</font>

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 27, 2005 01:30 AM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

<center>I feel irrational, so confrontational.
To tell the truth I am getting away with murder.
It is impossible to never tell the truth.
But the reality is I'm getting away with murder.

----</center>

( June 26 : ?Unexpected Guests? )


The phone ringing at five in the morning was a rare occurrence. Usually, it indicated that someone was hurt, dead, or dying-- no good news ever came from a phone this late/early. Reaching blearily across the night stand to grab her cell, eyes widened then squinted shut as clarity tried to sink in.

"For the love of Christ .."

Mutters were broken off and the call was engaged, small phone tucked haphazardly to an ear. "What?" was barked out a little more harshly than intended. Right now, she could only think of three people that would be calling: Bren, Des, or Oliver, though she wasn't understanding what could be that important. The sound of static was her only reply for the longest moment, and just when she was about to hang up, the familiar voice slithered into her ear.

"Did I wake you?" He sounded amused. Her turn for a long pause.

"No, I was just watchin' the back of my eyelids, prayin' for you to call." She sounded annoyed.

"Yes, yes, it's a blessing among blessings isn't it?"

A faint, rustling sound drifted through, and for those few, terse seconds, she contemplated hanging up. Sitting up in the bed, reaching around to tug a pillow into place at her back, lips twisted as she eyed the far wall. Deep breaths through her nose, long exhalations out of her mouth-- calm. Calm...

"Look, it's late, I'm sleepy, either you gotta point or you gotta dead line."

So much for calm. His dry, permanently amused-tinted voice began again.

"So fiery. You're going to burn up one day. But yes, there is a point."

And he seemed in no hurry to get to it. Cupping a palm to her forehead, teeth clenched and unclenched in an effort to not tell him to fuck himself and die. It's bad business. You want to find out who he is one day. Pissing him off can only lead to bad things. Speaking of bad things...

"What do you want?"

Her voice was more quiet now; resigned and just slightly curious. The curious lilt made him chuckle into the mouth piece. This game was very, very amusing to him-- the more upset she became over it, the bigger his advantage was. Control was a hard thing to cling to when anger overrode your better judgment, and he knew her anger wasn't something to be taken lightly.

"Seen your friend today?"

The question caught her off guard, and the breathing exercises stopped. Grip on the small phone tightened as she moved to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Something in his voice made her nervous. Something was wrong.. Phone firmly wedged between her shoulder and ear now, she bent down and began tugging on her sandals.

"Which one? I've got a few."

Nonchalant. Pretend it doesn't matter.

"The one that s-s-s-stutters."

All breathing ceased at that moment. She only remembered to inhale when it felt like she was about to choke. The mimicry of his vo--

"No." Firmly and icy.

"Perhaps you should..."

Words trailing off, the call was ended as he hung up first. Unhunching her shoulders, letting the phone fall onto the bed, hair was scraped back and tucked beneath a baseball cap. The black pajama shorts and red t-shirt were going to have to do. Without wasting another second ? phone grabbed again ( as well as something else ) en route to the door ? she was already tapping out numbers to the studio. A trench style jacket was thrown over her shoulders in haste.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Biting off a few choice curses when the answering machine clicked on in place of an actual voice, her free hand waved frantically to stop a taxi. On foot, it'd take her twenty minutes or more to get there. The cabbie eyed her warily; with the trench only half tied shut, and her bare legs peeking through the bottom, he was quick to assume she was a hooker. A really badly dressed hooker. What he wanted to think and what she was worried about, well, that was two very different things. When the damn beep finally sounded, her voice was immediate.

"Oliver, if you're there..." He'd pick up the phone if he was there. Or if he was able to. ".. just.. fuckin'.." Yeah, that's real comforting, you stupid skirt. "I'll be right there." Phone placed in her lap, fingers went up to tap against her bottom lip as the taxi zoomed through the streets. Thankfully, this time of morning, there wasn't any heavy traffic.

Approximately five minutes later, they were pulling up to the apartment building. Throwing a few bills at the driver with a mutter to keep the change, the cab door was nearly ripped off of its hinges as she slung it open, and then slammed it shut. A blink later, she was through the entryway and taking the stairs two at a time. First thing that struck her as odd ( ironically enough ) was that the studio door was ajar. The second thing she had grabbed in her bedroom was suddenly hefted into her hand; the polished chrome of the Browning High Powered. It hadn't seen daylight ? or moonlight ? since...

Crouching down slightly, her frame was pressed to the wall just outside of the door-- hand sweeping to the side in persuasion for the structure to open a little more. A cautious peek inside, just to make sure there weren't any strangers lurking about, and her full appearance was made. In that exact moment, Oliver's full appearance was made as well, and choked noise came from the back of her throat.

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 27, 2005 01:47 AM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

<center>Cut my life into pieces.
This is my last resort.

----</center>

The lock and door hadn't been broken. In fact, almost nothing had. (Except Oliver, that is.) The worst was a couple drops of blood from Goon Two's nose and that had dripped onto the carpet. He wasn't quite sure how long it had been, but long enough for the room to turn from darkened to dim to gray. Vision was blurry, mostly because he could only open one eye. It took him some more time to figure out what was going on, and when he did, he let out a groan and proceeded to make mistake number one: trying to move. Stars exploded and things that sounded ominously like bones crunched. When he woke up again, he set some goals. 1) breathe. 2) move slowly. 3) try to get to the phone. The sound of the door opening again wasn't welcome, and he closed the one eye and went immediately limp again. Pray. From the door, his torso is visible from around the TV, and he is lying diagonally across the general center of the living room.

It was a good thing he couldn't see her when she came in. It wasn't that Cam looked like a gangster, but with the hat, ill fitting coat, and gun, she looked like a homeless person that had gotten lucky and found a play pretty. Moving away from the door, gun was lowered to her side ? safety clicked off quietly ? as a few steps were taken inside. Five-four..nothing looked out of place. Three-two.. No one was lurking menacingly in the drapes. One-- the moment he came into view, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as a slow stride took her that a'way. Pray indeed; she was at that second. Blue-violets turned into a mottled ocean as tears swam to the forefront, and it took some serious grounding to keep them in check. The last thing he needed was someone crying over him as if he were of the dead. Glancing around helplessly, incentive was taken to kneel down; gun placed at her side before fingers drifted over the exposed side of his face while the check was made to affirm his chest was rising and falling however shallowly.

Breathing was a go, though definitely shallowly, because he thought that if he took it in too deep, his ribs would do the searing pain thing again. Listening through the slow pound of blood in his ears, the creak of the floor and the soft breath of air allowed through a wide open door. The bluesboy was not of the dead; and the hurt was not so much that he wished it was so. She must of taken a breath, made a familiar sound, because the one eye opened a touch too quickly just as she touched his face. He made mistake number one again, but it was a slight error. Of all the people that ended up here first... but oh, she was a sight for sore eyes. Eye. A small part of him had hoped he would have time to not look quite so bad if she saw him... but then his bruised mind offered up the memory of the phone call. God damnit. Speech was beyond him, just at the moment; but hey, he's conscious.

Consciousness: that annoying thing between naps. Or black out periods, as it were. Breathing too deeply might encourage one of those broken ribs to puncture through a lung ( if they hadn't from all the punching/fighting/etc. ) He wasn't spitting up blood, so she was holding on to hope. Shallow breaths were the way to go. Offering a small ? very small ? smile (that was supposed to be comforting; not her biggest trait ) once his eyes.. eye opened, she sank back on her heels and looked him over completely. His face.. shoulders.. arm.. the hitching movements his chest was making. As long as he was alive, she wasn't caring too much what he looked like. In the vain sense. In the worried sense, fear and anger were coiling together like the joy luck dragon and serpent on her back. First thought to kick in: where to start? She didn't know the first thing about tending to wounds other than a small cut. Zane or Des usually were around to help with this sort of thing. It wasn't possible to call a doctor. You could trust the medical profession in Rhydin just as much as you could trust the vampires. Ribs. Ribs were the primary focus. Those had to be bound before he even thought about moving. Maybe a sheet... With that thought in mind, it was a quick haul up to her feet and a sprint up towards the bedroom. The bird would pay Max back for what she was about to rip up.

There was blood on his mouth, but he had a cut lip, so it was hard to tell if he breathed it or bled it. He wouldn't be able to tell her; all he tasted was the harsh metallic of blood, and a gag reflex is suppressed, because a cough would be much too painful. And he hadn't meant in the vain sense; the message hadn't been for him-- it had been for her. Like he was going to deliver it with any more enthusiasm than he absolutely had to. The easy melodic voice is reduced to a roughened, barely audible croak as she looks down at him. "'ey." Sadly humorous greeting. Not only conscious, but coherent. Looking good so far. ...Max didn't need to know about any sheets they replaced. Whether for medicinal reasons or otherwise.

The greeting on his part prompted a "Shh," from her. Talking wasn't necessary. Just keep up with the breathing thing. If the blood was coming up from his lungs, there wouldn't be any suppression. It was either cough it up or slowly drown. One of the perks about being so short, when you wanted to book it? The Flash didn't hold a candle to you. Push came to shove, she ripped the damn sheet off of the bed-- balling it up in both hands before scrambling back down to the living room. Veer, in the kitchen, a knife and some paper towels were commandeered. What they needed was a bottle of Makers. Not to drink ( even if a shot or two might actually help a little ) but to clean the wounds open on his face. It was so uncreative to use regular rubbing alcohol, but it'd do in a pinch. Zippity-doo-dah, it took a grand total of two minutes to grab everything and get back to him. The knife was used to shred the sheet into pieces. "When I go to wrap this under you, s'gonna hurt, so you know.. don't take a swing at me." Words were kept light ? humorous was good ? and easy. Don't cry, he's going to be fine, cut the sheet up and focus.

No more blood seemed apparent on his lips, so fortunately it was safe to assume he hadn't punctured a lung. She would have a lot less time if that'd happened. The eye had closed as she moved out of his immediate vision. When she returned with all her goodies, there was a slow moment where he didn't move. But, eventually, the familiar blue eye appeared again. There was a pause again as her words sunk in to be comprehended around the stubborn pounding, but once they did lips moved in a slight smile. The tip of his tongue touched the split lip, and the smallest understanding nod he could muster didn't fail to start the pounding a little heavier. He understood, but he was trying to get himself not to anticipate and tense up, which'd probably make it worse.

A blank look was given down to the seven or eight strips in her hand. Camilla was many things ? had taken on a variance of occupations ? but anything to do with healing she hadn't the first whit of a clue about. Tight. They needed to be tight to keep the bones in place... Glancing up the ceiling briefly, a whispered prayer sent up, she began the careful, tedious job of sliding the cloth beneath him while trying not to cause too much pain. It was inevitable, but.. she tried. Almost absently, words were sung quietly under her breath; trying to ease him. "Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot. Pr?te-moi ta plume pour ?crire un mot.." An old lullaby her brother had used to lull her to sleep while alcoholic fights brewed just down the hall from them. "Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu. Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu.." Every so often, eyes would flick up to his face to judge if he was still awake or not, while fingers tightened and tied the strips as securely as she could manage without breaking something, herself.

Her and him, both. He had absolutely no idea how bad it was, but he hadn't died in the time between, before she'd got there, so he hoped -- prayed-- that he wasn't going to. And it hurt quite a lot, so he knew he was still alive. The only signs of the increased pain as a rib that shouldn't move moved was the irregularity of his breathing. No way to tell just at the moment, but only the one was broken, the rest just cracked. "Just" cracked. Ha. At some point, as she tightened the makeshift bandage to keep it secure, he made a sound, but other than that, he didn't say a thing. It sounded as if she was on some kind of train that passed time and time again, the sweet sound of her voice growing louder and then suddenly softer only to return just as loud again. He didn't pass out, which may or may not have been a good thing. As soon as she finished with his poor ribs, he lay still for a few very long seconds only to say, oh so quietly, "Ouch."

The cracked ones made you wish they were broken just so there'd be a full justification for all the pain. Whenever his breathing would shift, she'd wince. When he made the low sound, her movements froze completely; a deer in the headlights expression angling her features. Words died off just as quickly, and her head ducked down so she could concentrate on finishing. Securing the last makeshift bandage, fingers traced a ghost pattern over the fabric before eyes lifted back to his face. The 'Ouch' in face of everything was just.. she didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or kiss him. Considering there's blood on his mouth, we'll just skip over that last one! Careful ? carefulcareful ? not to jostle him or knee him in the side ( how much would that suck? ) she scissored at the waist and put those paper towels to use by dabbing at the blood on his face. This would work a lot better if they ( paper towels ) were wet... "Do you want something to drink? A pillow? Darvon?" All three were easily acquired, just say the word.

Yeah, stupid ribs. They did it on purpose. Though still ragged, somehow his breath managed to even out, and after the first wince of a dry paper towel on the cheekbone cut, he just shut the eye. Softly, again, still rough and without vibrato melody that had seemed so much a part of it: "N-n..." pause for a breath, and on exhale, "no." Despite the pain-laced nature of his current awareness, he'd rather not lose any of it. Perhaps unreasonably, he wanted to avoid the fearful, unfeeling blank of unconsciousness at all costs. Didn't she have some Maker's right there? Because that'd be really good for the cuts and the boy. Really, really good. Then he cautiously turned his head up toward her, and caught sight of that welcome bottle. "Whiskey?"

He was braver than her. If the tables were turned, she'd be jumping all over the offer of something to knock her out. Then again, pain and Cam, they went way back. Had stopped talking to each other after their last meeting. And whiskey? Where? You mean the bottle she's taking a swig out of before upending it with the paper towels held over the mouth of it? Once they were damp enough, folded squares cleaned off the remainder of the blood ( as much as she could get without wiping his face like a baby ), and then she concentrated on the burn mark on his collar. His arm... eyes were quick to shoot to his hand, making sure it wasn't twisted or broken looking. Thank God for small favors.. "Yeah," returned quietly after the word-made-a-question, and the bottle was raised again. Free hand slid up under his neck, helping to get him upright enough to take a good draught. The only thought running through her mind at that moment; this was hers. The beating, the pain.. it was for her benefit, and she hoped the benefactor rotted slowly in the deepest circle of Hell. Eyes were shuttered when they lifted to his-- another smile worked at and the bottle tilted accordingly.

Not braver, for it was fear of not being able to feel anything at all except a cool death that kept the painkillers from him. That, and his general opinion of medicine-- though right now rational opinions didn't really come into play. The whiskey warmed him some, and helped, though it made the cut on his lip sting stubbornly. His thoughts followed along with hers, but he'd already moved all of his fingers before she'd gotten there, to be certain. Without doubt: Thank you, God. Leaning back and trying to relax through just existing, he looked up at her and then just over her shoulder... Abruptly, he made his first real effort to move since before she'd come, a sudden, almost violent attempt to rise. Gaze on the still open door behind her, irrationally envisioning those three coming in behind her; and there'd be nothing he could do to stop it if they did. The white light blossoms behind his eyes put a stop to that, and he fell back, gasping, "Shut... the ... d-door!"

If she was going to die, she'd rather just be.. oblivous. Then again, everyone had their opinions and preferences on the matter. Don't fear the Reaper, fear his method of appearing. Stealing another sip once he had taken his, the bottle was set just out of reach, and she was about to concentrate on putting that arm in a makeshift sling until something more helpful could be produced when.. Wide eyed stare down to him, completely uncomprehending what the spaz-antics were about. Until he verbally told her, anyway. Give this broad a helmet--the songbird kept enough locks on her door to keep Jesus himself out, but had left Oliver's door wide_the_fuck_open. Placing a hand on his ( non-dislocated ) shoulder, once it was clear he wasn't getting up ( again, a helmet please ), it didn't take her very long to haul up, slam the door shut, and twist whatever locks were on it into place. Maybe he understood her reasons for having so many now? If so, it was a lesson learned the hard way. Coat was shrugged off on the way back to him-- intent on rolling it up and sliding it beneath his neck.

She did it, and he finally relaxed, breathing heavier. He blocked off vision again, and let her pillow his head with the coat without really responding. He didn't even have the energy to apologize for spazzing out on her there. The locks would have made absolutely no difference, whatsoever. If people wanted to get into a place, they would. Not that he would argue against a god damn steel door or about five more locks, either. Oliver liked his existence, and he couldn't afford to leave those he cared about behind; so yes, he feared death. Feared it with a healthy fear tempered with a patient acceptance of inevitable. Ugh, everything hurt. A lot.

----

Pain was good; it meant that you were alive. When things started going numb, or didn't feel as bad as they had just moments ago, that's when you wanted to start worrying. The jacket rolled up behind his neck was only the beginning. Making sure that he was as comfortable as he could get, it didn't take her very long to head back up to the bedroom. The bed was stripped of the pillows and blankets. Him getting up and moving just didn't seem feasible at the moment, so she'd take the extra comfort to him.

His arm was worrying her, but short of calling an ambulance ? which would present a lot of questions she didn't feel like answering ? there was little she could do but give him a few more sips of bourbon. It was a nice cushion. Making the floor beneath, and around, him a makeshift pallet, only when his breathing evened out ? indicating sleep ? did she curl up near him. The trench was suitable enough cover, and one of the couch cushions was tugged down so she wouldn't be sprawled directly on the floor.

The gun was placed just within reach, in case there happened to be more unexpected visitors ( even though she was praying for utter silence ), and very carefully, an arm reached out until her fingers brushed the edges of his. None of this would've happened if not for her, and she would stay for as long as she could.

It was going to be a long week..

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 28, 2005 12:48 AM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

<center><font size=1>Close my eyes, let the whole thing pass me by.
There is no time to waste asking why.
I'll run away with you, by my side.

I've learned to let go, let go, let go of this pain.
Asking why.

I think about your face and how I fall into your eyes.
The outline that I trace around the one that I call mine.
Time that called for space, unclear where you drew the line.
I don't need to solve this case, and I don't need to look behind.

Close my eyes, let the whole thing pass me by.
There is no time to waste asking why.
So I'll run away with you by my side.
I need to let go of this pride.
Until this echo in my mind.
Before this echo can subside.

Do I expect to change the past I hold inside?
With all the words I say, repeating over in my mind.
Some things you can't erase, no matter how hard you try.
An exit to escape is all there is left to find.</font>

( echo ; trapt )

----</center>


"Sorry I've been away so long, sweetheart."

The familiar ( in more ways than one ) voice slithered over the line, and she nearly screamed in frustration. The past two or so weeks, he had been little more than a figment of her imagination. She had hoped he disappeared and wouldn't be a bother anymore; then again, if hopes and dreams were nuts and candy, we'd all have a merry fucking Christmas.

"Just when I thought you'd forgotten about me," returned just as sweetly as she could manage, sarcastic honey almost dripping from her tone.

"Now, how could I have done that? Forgotten my favorite canary?" He made a scoffing sound. "Not in a million years. Missed me?"

"Like the clap."

She was tired of these games. The word play, the hidden and not so hidden dislike.. Fingers found her forehead wearily; a glance spared over towards where Oliver was resting comfortably. The poor guy didn't sleep as much as he should, and for once, Camilla was glad he was out like a light. Leaning forward on the piano bench, an elbow found her knee, phone held loosely to her ear.

"You're so demure and ladylike, Camilla Violet. I don't know why some gent hasn't swept you off your feet and married you yet." Where her tone was syrupy, his was completely bland; as dry as any desert and holding an undercurrent of ever present amusement. The use of her given names caused a brow to arch, and something started churning in that little mind of hers. So familiar...

"Pure luck. Can I help ya with somethin'?"

A chuckle caressed her ear after that. "Just making sure you're still doing what I've asked."

"Aw, c'mon. We both know you have your little spies set up everywhere. Who were the ones that went after the guitarist?"

If he knew Oliver's name, she didn't know. Pretty sure he could find it out -- or had found it out -- easily, but it wouldn't pass her lips. Another chuckle skipped over the line. "Can't give away all of my secrets. I'll see you tomorrow."

Without another word, the call was ended. Clicking off her own phone, it was tossed ontop of the piano; fingers threading back through her hair as her lean forward became more pronounced-- completely relying on elbows to keep her from toppling to the floor. Eyes closing, she forced herself to take deep, cleansing breaths. Focus on what tugged at that memory. Try to put a face with the voice.

Sitting upright suddenly, the phone was grabbed again-- a set of numbers tapped out rapidly with her thumb. Three rings later, and a gruff voice answered. "Broken Glass, what can I do ya fer?" Relief flooded over her to hear Tom's voice, and she nearly laughed. Gaining control, she pushed up to her feet and started pacing. "Thomas Delacroix, ya sound positively classy." It was easy to revert back to that awful Southern slur when it was verbally attacking your hearing.

He laughed quietly, and the sounds of bottles clinking together could be heard. "Gotta be, y'know. Ari's all bossy when it comes to shit like that." Laughing as well, her free hand drifted around to the small of her back. "Speakin' of Her Majesty, is she around. I need t'talk t'her for a sec."

"Yeah, hol'on a sec. She's downstairs for once.." His voice muted as the phone was lowered. "Ari, phone!" Wincing slightly, her gaze averted up to the ceiling as the pacing stopped. A shuffling sound redirected her attention back to the call just in time for, "This is Ari, can I help you?"

"I dunno, but I was kinda hopin' y'could." The corner of her mouth quirked up into a smile at the woman's voice, and you could almost hear the smile in Ari's tone as well. "Anything I can do, you know I'm on it. What's going on?" It was so easy for her to merge pleasantries and business. Cam guessed she had to learn, being the main dame in the Quarter and being married to what was rumored to be the town's new Kingpin. Though imagining Orin with that title was hilarious.

"I need you t'look in on someone for me. Let me know when and if he's left N'Awlins, how long he's been gone if so.. stuff like that."

A pause followed -- Ari was grabbing a pen and a napkin -- before saying, "What's the name?" Straight to business; pleasantries were just an afterthought now.

"Gavin Laroux."

"I'll call you tomorrow with the information. Come visit sometime, we miss you."

Without another word, the second call of the night was disconnected. Staring down at the phone a little blankly, it was tossed back onto the piano. Tomorrow.. Hopefully she'd be a little more knowledgeable about the situation, tomorrow.

[cajun_songbird]

<center><font size=1>From lashes to ashes and from lust to dust.
In your sweetest torment, I'm lost.
And no heaven can help us.
Ready, willing and able to lose it all.
For a kiss so fatal and so warm.

Oh it's heartache every moment,
from the start 'til the end.
It's heartache every moment with you.
Deeper into our heavenly suffering,
our fragile souls are falling.
It's heartache every moment, baby with you.

And we sense the danger, but don't wanna give up.
'Cause there's no smile of an angel without the wrath of God.</font>

( heartache every moment ; HIM )

----</center>

The clock was stuck. The hands weren't moving, the seconds weren't ticking by, and she was slowly going out of her mind. Pacing back and forth in front of the floor length vanity mirror in the dressing room, heels were kicked off haphazardly as another look was spared to that damndable clock. It wasn't really stuck, but it seemed to moving backwards instead of forward. Scowling, a look was flicked down to her watch to see if that'd make a difference in the results.

It didn't.

The club was starting to close down; her set had been over for an hour, but Cam had stuck around to see the follow-up band perform. As well, it was a good reason not to be at home when and if the phone rang. There were already a lot of questions she didn't want to answer, and when Ari called, it wasn't going to be to exchange recipes. Slinging a hand to the side as she turned -- pacing resuming -- the bottom of the mirror was given a kick. That only succeeded in making her hop slightly as her bare toe decided to give in to the wood's stoic defense.

"Godda--"

Curse was broken off by the cell phone's tinny ring; a rousing, mechanical rendition of "My Way" by The Chairman of the Board. Des' ringtone -- the screaming, tank noises -- had scared a few people at the club. Nearly tripping over herself, the cell was grabbed from the vanity table. "Yeah?" The word was breathless, and her free hand shot out to stop herself from falling ontop of the vanity. Grace persooooonfied. "Got what you want," was Ari's gracious Hello, returning Cam's with the same business-like tone.

Exhaling slowly, she carefully settled onto one of the metal folding chairs, legs tucking underneath it as she listened. There wasn't a need for her to talk right now; once Ari was in full information giving mode, all you could do was sit down, shut up, and take notes. Not that she needed to; everything that was being said wouldn't be forgotten anytime soon.

"He left New Orleans about six months ago, and didn't leave a forwarding address. None of his business associates knew where he went, and he just showed back up in the city two weeks ago. A rather large sum of money was withdrawn from his personal account, and without making contact with anyone, he left again."

Another breath was exhaled, one Cam didn't even realize she'd been holding, and her grip on the phone was punishing. So punishing, in fact, the plastic case cracked a little beneath the slim fingers. "You don't know how much this means to me, Ari. If I can ever do anythin' for you..." It was left open ended. They had each others' backs. "I know what you can do for me," returned easily, the sound of paper folding heard from the other end. "Come sing at the club one weekend. It'll be great, and I need the revenue." The smile was almost visible, and Cam couldn't help her own faint one.

"I'll try my best once everythin' gets calmed down somewhat on this end. Tell Orin, Tom, Val... and everyone I said hey." A certain name was left off purposefully, and thankfully Ari didn't need any extra explanation. "Will do, sweetie. I'll see you soon, but speakin' of Orin, I think he's tryin' to shove a plastic shark up Tom's no-- ORIN, don't make me hit you with a chair.."

The call ended abruptly, and she was left to stare at the phone glassily before bursting into laughter. It bordered on hysterical for the duration, and both hands went up to cover her face. She could only imagine what torment the poor bartender was being put through. One thing was for sure though; Gavin's number was up and she was about to pull the switch on his ass. All this for ten grand? Smiling suddenly, the broken phone was shoved into her bag before the strap was thrown over her shoulder. Shoes slid back on-- it was past time to go home.

Lips pursed into a whistle as the door was targeted. Halfway out, words formed-- "One way or another, I'm gonna find ya... I'll getcha.."

[cajun_songbird]

<center></center>

<font size=1>I never said I'd lie in wait forever.
If I died, we'd be together.
I can't always just forget her,
but she could try.

At the end of the world,
or the last thing I see,
you are never coming home.
Never coming home.
Could I? Should I?
And all the things that you never ever told me.
And all the smiles that are ever ever..
Ever...

Get the feeling that you're never all alone and
I remember now at the top of my lungs in my arms she dies.
She dies.
At the end of the world,
or the last thing I see,
you are never coming home.
Never coming home
Could I? should I?
And all the things that you never ever told me.
And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me.
And all the wounds that are ever gonna scar me.
For all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me.

If I fall
If I fall (down)

At the end of the world,
or the last thing I see,
you are never coming home.</font>

( The Ghost of You ; MCR )

[cajun_songbird]

<font size="1"><center>Change my attempt, good intentions.

Crouched over, you were not there.
Living in fear but signs were not really that scarce.
Obvious tears, but I will not hide you through this.
I want you to help and please see the bleeding heart perched on my shirt.

Die, withdraw, hide in cold sweat.
Quivering lips.
Ignore remorse.
Naming a kid living wasteland.
This time you try all that you can, turning you red.

Change my attempt, good intentions.
Should I? Could I?
Here we are with your obsession.
Should I? Could I?

Crowned hopeless.
The article red.
Living wasteland.
This time you try all that you can, turning you red.
But I will not hide you through this.
I want you to help.

Heat the silver, hollow silver.
Piercing through another victim.
Turn and tremble, be judgmental.
Ignorant to all the symbols.
Blind the face with beauty paste.
Eventually you'll one day know.

Change my attempt, good intentions.
Limbs tight, skin tight.
Self inflicted, his perdition.
Should I? Could I?

( wasteland ; 10 years )</font>

----

</center>

"Your past is what shaped you. Your present is what guides you for the future, so it all ties together in the end. Don't ever lose hope."

Glancing Ari's way, all she could do was nod. All those hoojie-boojie stuff was so far beyond her comprehension, nodding seemed the most logical thing to do. Shifting her position in the hard backed chair, a wince crossed her features before eyes slid down to the cards in front of her. Ari had just flipped three over -- face down -- and seemed to be in no hurry to show their meanings. There were so many questions in her mind right now, that any coherent thought wasn't able to fight its way through.

The breeze was picking up slightly, and abruptly, the candle in the middle of the table sputtered out. Why they were outside wasn't filtering in, but Cam had learned just not to think too hard on those things. Ari leaned forward, lips pursing together as she exhaled slowly on the wick, and the candle flared back to life as if nothing had happened. As well, the wind had tamed down, as if being told its place, only to leave behind a faint rustling as it moved through the grass underfoot.

"I know there's worry and fear, but I know you're stronger than that. You have to be stronger than that."

"I know.."

"Knowing and doing something about that worry.. that fear.. it's two different things. Do you want to see?"

"Not really. Last time this happened, a scorpion appeared.."

"Different dreams, Cam. You know you can always trust me."

She had a point there. Out of everyone she knew, Arianna was one of the people that held the most trust from Camilla. It was almost blind trust; the woman just had that feel about her. Smiling briefly, Ari went quiet as slender fingers went out to reveal the cards' faces.

Six of swords. Knight of Cups. Hanged Man.

Without waiting for any inquiries about the cards' meanings, Ari reached out to touch the first card lightly; her voice lilting quietly and almost blending in with the soft breeze that had picked up again. Overhead, clouds were starting to gather and thicken, trying their best to block out the moon's light, only to be held back by .. something.

"Six of swords. You're bogging yourself down in your problems, when what you should do is just not give them as much power as you do, and just walk away from them. You may think this brands you a coward, but when there aren't any alternatives left, what else can you do?" Darkened indigos flashed up to canary briefly before they fell back to the card. "Leaving them behind, forever, is of course not the answer, but time away can help you focus clearly on what's been going wrong. On what new paths are available for you. You're following what your mind tells you, rather than what your heart does. Like the saying goes, follow your heart; it won't lead you astray. It's time to see your life through the eyes of a newborn babe; without any judgment, hate, fear, or worry. When your heart and your mind are able to agree on a logical resolution, balance will find you. You won't find it by physically seeking."

Shoulders rolling beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, Ari pushed that card away and moved to the second. "Knight of Cups. Calmness and peace follow him where ever he goes, and he has the power to help you surmount your obstacles. The bearer of news, there can be tidings of love and the sharing of wisdom when it's needed. He also appears to warn people in a relationship that putting one on a pedestal is always a sign that a fall is imminent. A dreamer, beneath that calm exterior beats the heart of a lion; a passionate soul intent on making his dreams come true. When your idealism is staring to blind you, he will appear as a warning, showing you that imagination and drive are not only helpful to have, but they will make you realize what ever it is that you're striving towards. Develop imagination, but don't let it rule you. Show love, but don't let it shackle you."

By now, Ari's voice was coming a little slower; an almost thick sound, like verbal honey. Ringed fingers pushed away the second card, and slowly -- so slowly -- pulled the last towards her. Expression betrayed nothing as she started speaking once more. "The Hanged Man. A paradoxical card, as well as one of the most complex. His lesson is obvious, but accepting the message may be hard when it applies directly to you. Admit you are afraid, and you'll gain the ability to conquer that fear. Let go of your need for control, and see things fall into place. In a world in which you must run as fast as you can to stay where you are, the Hanged Man tells you to stop struggling - and you can move forward. You see how he's hanging there, unable to move? But how relaxed he seems?" Nails traced the Hangman's figure, showing. "He has no where to go, and all the time in the world to think about his situation; about what he has done wrong, and what he could've done to make things different, and he's come to peace with it. Sacrifice yourself to be mired, so that you'll be able to set yourself free. With his appearance, wisdom and happiness are at hand, but you'll have to sacrifice yourself in order to gain that. Inevitably, sacrificing something you value will always lead you to something even more valuable. In the wake of an unattainable dream you will find something else within your reach. Forgetting about one love will allow your heart to open to someone else."

Exhaling a long breath after she was finished, Ari reclined back in the chair as if all energy had left her; weary eyes shifting to settle on the other woman. Cam's expression had taken so many different turns in the last ten minutes, and now, it was crystal clear. Understanding and acknowledgement were the two most evident emotions, underlined by an unmistakeable tinge of fear and uncertainty. Loosing her own shuddering breath, the arms of the chair were grasped so that she could push to her feet. Ari smiled faintly.

"Voyez-vous maintenant?"

"Mais oui."

"Tr?s bon."

"Merci."

Without another word, the dream broke apart on a sigh, and she was left to stare at the ceiling of her bedroom. Reaching up to run fingers under her eyes, the tear trails were wiped away absently. "Merci.." repeated once more before lashes lowered to block out the room.

______________________
<font size="1">Tarot card information ( paraphrased and copied ) from Ata-Tarot

Thanks, Sasha, for randomly picking out the three cards for me to use!</font>

<font color="#7C2A39" size="1">[ July 29, 2005 01:45 AM: Message edited by: vintage faith ]</font>