Letters from Home

[Torn from legal pad, blue ballpoint: dec. 19, two yrs. ago]

Dear Oliver,

I'm hoping this finds you doing okay. A[something scratched out here] says that you move round a lot but youve got a system for sending leters, I'm so glad I can finally talk to you, when you left it was so sudden and then I had to pretend I was angry at you when I wasn't at all, and poor Ma carrying on all the time, but let's try not to think about it.

One of the deputies comes by to check on me every week or so, but I don't think they're looking for you anymore, and nobody in town says anything to me anymore either, not even Ellie at the grocery store. You remember when she used to give us some candy if we went there straight after the first day of school? It makes everything really quiet, like I'm living in one of those plastic bubbles they always lock kids up in on tv when they get real sick. But I don't want you to worry about me and Ma, I've got a job at the diner outside of town and its nice to have people not know me or us or Ma or Pa come by and talk to me, and Ma's pretty quiet and fine with those pills she takes, except at night sometimes when she starts yelling like Pa is still here. She [a line scratched out here] misses you something terrible too, keeps asking me to tell you to play some music and its too quiet around.

I'm glad you're doing so well, since you're sending money, but you better not be skimping yourself and don't you lie to me, I can always tell and I'll twist your ear half around just like I used to. What kind of job do you have? A (remembered that time) says you're gonna move around more, but make sure you stay in one place long enough to get a good breakfast and sleep, or you'll end up looking like the devil, see if you don't. You better still be playing too, and I don't care how bad it gets don't you ever sell Pa's guitar. I know he wasn't the best Pa but he was still our Pa and the good book says to forgive even if we can't forget [two lines scratched out, with words "hurt" and "awful" barely visible]. Can't magine Christmas here without you, but I'll pray and find a tree you can make a wish on for me.

Take care and send me a letter so I can hear from you, I'm waiting and thank A for helping us,

love your sister,

Annie

--

[Motel 8 stationary, black ballpoint: jan. 24, one yr ago.]

Annie,

Got your letter at Christmas, and it was the best present ever. I'm doing just fine, I'm on my way out of Idaho right now, but I stayed in Idaho Falls for a while and right now I'm at Yellowstone Park, because I wanted to see if they really had those crazy buffalo we saw on tv and damned if they don't. Sorry, I can just hear you wailing on me cussin at you, but it's fun to see you get all frustrated and do that stomp and twirl thing you think is all intimidating. While I've got you all riled up I can tease you about your awful spelling and all those sentences without periods you're always writing; but don't change a thing.

It's freezing up here, though, and I got a good job helping the hired out snow plow up on some of the cabin roads, because once in snows in nobody goes nowhere and it didn't seem likely anybody'd ask me too many questions. Nobody'd recognize their own mother wrapped up in all them scarves anyway.

How is Ma? Stop telling me she's fine all the time, because I can tell when you're lying, too. Even if we don't want to talk about it Ma's sick and we have to make sure she's as good as she can be. I remember everything you said before I left but I just can't let them take her somewhere else; she got all hysterical when she had to leave the house even when Pa was alive. I figure A's doc knows what he's talking about, and if he says she needs something else tell me and I'll get the money somehow. Or if you need anything, you can tell me that too.

I'm sorry it's not going well for you at home. I'm sure if you give it some time Lizzy'll start talking to you again, and that bastard Frank will get up the guts to come a-courtin' and I won't be there to punch him in the face again. And I know you're blushing, so stop it.

I think this pen is running out of ink, so I'll stop, sorry. Hugs, Anniegirl.

Oliver

P.S. keeping the gibson

<font color="#999999"><font size="1">[ May 26, 2005 05:44 AM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font></font>

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 26, 2005 04:04 AM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font>

<center>
6th and green is a warm place in November
When the air is cold and the leaves blow on the ground
And I don't think that I can even remember
Why it was that I came to this town

Because I just want to be lonely tonight
Just me and my maker in this cold moonlight</center>

[ The back of a couple Winsom County Faire flyers, black ballpoint. march 12, 1 yr ago.]

Annie,

I?m glad you?ve made a friend at the diner, Anniegirl, you?ve been sounding so down lately, and you deserve some happiness. You mean to tell me somebody got up off their ass and built a movie theatre on West Street? Be damned if they didn?t wait until the second I left to do that. If it wasn?t for you, A, and the Gibson I would?ve been bored outta my head when we were growing up; that place has as much excitement as a mortuary half the time.

Won?t tell you where I?ve been but lately I?ve been crawling around some big cities, as much to be the strange fish hiding in all the other strange fish as to see the sights. I didn?t much like doing it, but half the time I left the gibson at home because I looked enough like a little lost country boy already, and I didn?t go to stick out. Good thing about it was there was a lot of jobs people just needed an extra hand for, instead of all this paperwork and social security numbers and stuff that?ll land me in hot water. So here?s some money for your birthday, and I hope you like the watercolor postcard and bracelet charm; you can string it on the necklace your cross is on? I don?t think that breaks no rules. Happy Birthday, Annie.

Yesterday I was out on back roads and rolling grass hills, and while it don?t have so many trees here as home, I like it better than the buildings leaning in on you and the cold concrete leeching the life out of everything. There are roads out here so grown over nobody must use ?em often, and I had enough supplies I?d picked up in the last town to last a couple days out under them stars. Thing about cities is they close up the sky until you see it through holes instead of your eyes. Seems like the gibson always sounds better out here, and if I?m under some starlight it?ll charm the snakes out of the grass, it sounds so sweet.

Thing is, Anniegirl, I wasn?t paying attention and I think I might?ve charmed something I didn?t mean to be charming. I think maybe you know there were some nights, back at home out in the woods aways, where I?d start playing and after a little bit of time it sounded like I was playing somethin more than music, or maybe playing a different kind of music at the same time. It?s got a different sound to it, sounds like the gibson except all spooky: not haunted but haunting, and most times it happens when I?m singing, too ? but not just with my voice. There was a couple times when I saw it in your eyes staring at me all round, so I try not to do it; nothing wrong with being careful but things like that.

But last night I was feelin kinda lonesome, thinking about you back at home with Ma, and I started wishing after seeing you both, even if you?re a couple states away. I figure I was out in some nowhere, and it wouldn?t harm nothing, so I let myself slip into that other music. I was singing something slow and aching, taking my time, and I swear on the cross over the kitchen sink, something else out there started singing with me, and it didn?t sound human. It sounded like those coyotes that howl out past Daver?s farm after they?ve got themselves one of his chickens, except it wasn?t no dog and it wasn?t no coyote. It sang, Annie, no words but notes. I should have been startled or scared, I suppose, but I guess I wasn?t thinking, or I was caught up in the song or the voice or maybe just lonely, because I stretched to match the other voice with mine, sort of when you bend a note to go up an octave. And then there was this sharp, chillin crackle sound that made me feel like my hair was standing on end, except the noise soaked into my bones and stiffened me up like a day old corpse. ?Course, I stopped, but I think it was too late. I think I opened a door someone tried to nail shut.

Dunno what came out of it, but I coulda sworn I saw somethin out on the next hill, a shadow or a bit of darker dark, going slow like it was walkin out of syrup. Looked about the size of a coyote, but maybe the dog-impression was just my imagination making it out to be something that belongs up in these hills with me, and not somewhere? Else. But I can?t be sure. I reckon whatever it is doesn?t like me so much though, because it seemed sense to me if I can open something not meant to be opened, I should be able to close it right up again. And so I started singing again, an old blues growl of a thing that I picked up somewhere that talks about opportunities bein lost and doors a-slammin shut. The gibson almost seemed like it was helping, and I swear to God that old blues riff didn?t sound like it never did before. Took me less time than before to switch on over to the Other music, and smart as you please the door I could feel in my bones snapped shut again. It half-yelped, half-yowled, and then everything got death quiet. Mebbe the shadow-thing got out in time, maybe not. Either way, nothing came out of the dark around the edge of the firelight for the rest of the night through, so I guess that?s a good sign. It was awful quiet, though.

I?m posting this from the next town. Everything?s fine, it?s broad daylight and I reckon I scared myself silly for no good reason. Don?t mean to scare you, just wanted to tell somebody, I guess. I don?t think anything at all will come of it, just me spookin? myself out there in the dark.

I think the waitress is wanting her pen back, so I?ll close,

All the best,

Oliver

<center>
This is me on the eve of an ending
To what I've known's been constant for a year
And I'm so scared of this pain that I'll be sending
Sometimes I just want to run away in fear

Because I just want to be lonely tonight
Just me and my maker in this cold moonlight
</center>

() Note:
Lonely Tonight Matt Wertz
This small storyline (and, indeed, the character of Oliver himself)is generally based on the works and characters of Charles de Lint, with a few very significant elaborations and deviations of my own. In particular, inspiration for this SL (to be continued) goes to his short story Ten for the Devil and Cam-mun's hellhounds. - N

<font color="#999999"><font size="1">[ May 27, 2005 03:25 PM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font></font>

<font color="#999999"><font size="1">[ May 30, 2005 04:11 PM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font></font>

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 26, 2005 04:05 AM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font>

[Oliver, march 13-30, 1 yr. ago]

He told Annie what she would want to hear; he was a fool to worry her as much as he had anyway... But that night he'd felt a responsibility for his mistake, and anything that might come of it. He had felt the need to confess it to somebody. Mores the fool. But she didn't need another just like it, crazier than the last. And what if he didn't come back? Then where would she be? Standing on the porch with another confused letter about shadow-beasts coming out of Doors-that-weren't haunting him. Best not to tell her.

It?d been following him for the past month. He could see it, sometimes, lurking in alleyways, running through trees, skulking out beyond the horizon when he was walking down some old country road. Other times he?d only hear it, a low snarl from behind him or that same yelping noise startling him out of sleep. It didn?t even let up on Sundays. It was wearing the bluesboy down; the guitar case was growing heavy as if he?d been carrying it for miles. After that night, he hadn?t played or sang for an entire week because he got chills every time he thought about that Door crackling open. Now, he was losing his temper. Or, he mused, just going stir crazy.

Either way, he put himself back on that same overgrown road, choked with swirling dust in the evening twilight. Take the bull by the horns, he figured. Hopefully he didn?t get gored. Marveling at his own foolhardiness, (and even more disturbing, his optimistic mood) Oliver had settled himself down in the shadow of the hill he?d sat on that night, his back against a rock that still felt sun-warmed. The black guitar case was lying nearby, open, Annie?s last couple of letters peeping through the lining on one side. Old brown boots stretched out before him, comfortable as you please, the bluesboy started purring out Bluebird from the gibson?s supple strings, improvising and amusing himself as he pleased.

For some reason he wasn?t surprised when the man materialized out of the rising darkness, standing just outside the little bit of firelight as the bluesboy started boiling up some instant coffee. He wasn?t a tall man, in fact he was built rather short and stocky. The man?s skin was ebony black and creased around the eyes and mouth, as if he?d been smiling so much his face just made it permanent. Green eyes gleamed friendly under heavy brows and he leaned nonchalantly on a black cane tipped in silver. He was dressed sharp for someone to be strolling the back roads: he wore a white suit after those traveling salesmen that plied their trade on young, easily-flattered housewives. A small carpet bag hung from his other hand, and he swept a small little bow at the playing guitarist. Right as he opened is mouth Oliver found himself taking something of a liking to him; he had a good speaking voice and the bass was rich and friendly. ?Mind if I take a load off, friend??

The bluesboy smiled that lopsided, lazy country smile, the one that made the women melt and the men narrow their eyes suspiciously at him. ?Be my guest.? His fingers never stopped moving: Mood Indigo sounded fine on the guitar even if it didn?t have the serenading sax behind it. He watched his visitor limp forward and awkwardly take a seat across the fire. His leg below his left knee seemed unusable; the white pant leg hid the reason for this, though a matching shiny brown loafer kept up with its mate. The black cane was propped in front of him, at a comfortable angle so he could rest his hands on it. Oliver watched his hands in the flickering firelight, unwillingly fascinated by their large, wide palms and thick stubby fingers, tipped with paler, carefully filed nails. There was a pause until the man made himself comfortable on a little rise in the ground, and then opened his mouth to say something just as the bluesboy commented, ?Was wonderin? when you?d b-be showing up.? Straight-forward, twinkling blue eyes watched the visitor across the fire, steady and unblinking as if he wasn't playing a complicated chord progression. He was still smiling.

A look of tormented frustration passed over the black man?s features, and the green eyes lost all their friendly humor as the hellhound peered intently over at the bluesboy. ?You?ve got some sauce.? In response, the bluesboy chuckled and the gibson played an amused minor chord.

?So Ma?s always t-tellin? me.? A pause, and he continued, "Then again, you're my g-guest, so I spose that makes me hospitable, if n-not as polite as you might like." A flash of white grin.

"You've got some idea of hospitality. Open the door to invite a man in and then slam it shut on his nose." The paw-like hand on his left knee twitched irritably. The hellhound's bass timbre spoke with an educated, finely-enunciated edge, like professional speaker. He made the bluesboy sound like a back-country hick; which, admittedly, he was. Then again, Oliver wasn't singing.

"Well now," came the reply, after a quiet progression of chords, "I didn't open that d-door for you, and I'm after thinkin' you took advantage of me." The gibson paused weightily, allowing the fire to crackle in the following silence. Leaning forward suddenly with a genial smile on his face, the hellhound coiled with restrained energy, like a spring tensing.

Suddenly the gibson sang out in a jubulant blues chord, harsh around the edges but smart and fine. With an almost audible thump, the man in white took his seat again. Now his expression was decidedly disgruntled. The bluesboy bore the following glare in good grace, smiling just as genially as the hellhound had before. "You did it again," he reminded him.

The rich bass lost much of its tone and quality, menacing in a brutal growling voice, "You'll regret playing games with me, boy."

"It is my g-game you're playing, friend. You're on this side of the door now." He paused to let that sink in, watching his guest carefully and waiting with fingers pressed to a ready, bellowing chord. If he was going to pull something unpredictable out of his sleeve, he'd do it now. But the hellhound only bared very white, white teeth in a speechless snarl, and said nothing. The coffee Oliver'd put near the fire began to boil over, making hissing noises as it sizzled over the can. Not daring to pause in his playing, he used the tip of his boot to scoot it out of the way, almost singeing his toe as he did so.

This seemed to put the hellhound in a better frame of mind, for the snarl turned into a nasty, amused smile. The affable aura the man had exuded was long gone, replaced by a predatory, wild thing, barely contained by the gibson's soft, even pitch. The blues boy fought off a shudder of revulsion. Keeping his expression friendly, he went for more information. "Tell me how c-come you ended up in there." A nod toward the nearby hill.

Trying to keep up his strength, he was playing slow, easy melodies that kept sound in the air between himself and the hellhound. He didn't yet feel the strain, or indeed tired at all, but he knew a couple hours from now he might. Oliver didn't know just what the hellhound would do to him if he left off the gibson, which seemed to be his only defense, but he knew it wasn't going to be pretty, judging from the look in the flourescent green eyes. Drag him off to hell? Rip him limb from limb? Worse? A note went slightly off pitch and the hellhound's smile grew wider, as if he was following the bluesboy's line of thought. Oliver raised casual eyebrows at him, stretched quick and fast, and began to vamp the chorus to a pretty country song about holes in heaven he'd learned couple years back.

The figure in white relaxed back from his tense position, hunching farther over his cane and stretching his feet a little farther toward the fire. With his torso in shadow and only his green eyes catching firelight in the wide creased black face, he looked more like a big black wolf than ever. "Just travelin' about, doing my job, some people take exception." The hunched shoulders shrugged with a suggestive wriggle of the heavy brows.

Oliver frowned at him. "If yer job includes what I think it does, I s'pose I can't be t-too surprised 'bout that."

For the first time the hellhound looked surprised, rocking back with both hands pressed against the lapels of his suit. Innocent. "I? Why I collect debts, young man. I don't make the deals, I don't take no excuses, and I do -- my-- job." Enunciating those last three words with that nasty smile again, and looking at him, Oliver felt his heart quicken. "I'm sure you understand."

Narrowing his eyes, Oliver said, "I d-don't make no deals either."

The hyena smile again. "Oh no?" The silver-tipped cane gleamed as the hellhound leaned just slightly forward, tilting his chin toward one shoulder and giving Oliver one eye to stare into. "You're living a lie, son, and surely you don't think it won't leave a mark?"

Unhinged, the bluesboy stared back. "What?" Just in time, he remembered he was playing, and moved into another song automatically. This time, the hellhound hadn't bothered to tense up, but Oliver could tell he'd been watching, because the edge of his mouth curved suggestively upward.

Taking this apparent defeat of his immediate purpose with ease, the man in white raised one eyebrow. Slow, significant, as if lifting the heavy brow required great effort. "You start weaving yourself a convenient little lie." A heavy hand lifted to cut off the immediate defense. "Of course, for good reason, better for everyone, et cetera, et cetera." His tone went slightly mocking and scornful there at the end, as if this action was distasteful. Shifting on his seat (Oliver hoped he was on a sharp rock), the hellhound bent over and poured himself a cup of the instant coffee and blew gently on the surface of the liquid. Tilting his head as if listening to the gibson for a moment, he continued, "but it's still a lie, and you live something long enough and it starts to be true. You make it true. The people around you make it true. All those people back in your little town, thinking you're a murderer, wondering when Annie's going to snap just like you did..."

"Shut up." The change in the bluesboy was unmistakable. His back went ramrod straight, the awkward ease with which he usually held his limbs melted away, and the blue eyes went hard, little chips of ice set into features rigid with tension. The gibson flickered down the blues scale with the rapidity of a racehorse in full stride, ending with a dominate chord that echoed with warning.

"You know it's true too. You know it when there's no moon out, you know it when you write home, you know it." Leaning the cane into the crook of one elbow, the hellhound spread his hands in welcoming peace. "That why you called me out?"

"I t-told you before, I didn't c-call you."

"Oh? My mistake."

Pause.

"It wasn't a mistake."

"Well, no, I suppose you're right, my boy, but then, can you blame me?"

Pause.

"No, I s'pose I can't again, 'cause it's your n-nature."

The gibson subsided into a soft melancholy tune.

"How understanding of you."

No answer.

"So, what is it that you're expecting to do? Send me back? Play that thing all night and bore me into oblivion? ...You seem unsure. Something else? Ah!" The hellhound brightened, the green eyes gleaming joyously once more, "A deal, maybe?"

"You said you didn't m-make the deals." Accusingly.

"That I did, that I did, but I'm a good servant, am I not? I take messages and all sorts of helpful little tasks."

"I'm very impressed."

That was ignored. "So what is it I can do for you, young man? Fame? Fortune? Forgiveness? Fidelity?"

Amusement. "I don't n-need any of that."

"Ah, you don't now. But day might come when you wouldn't mind some forgiveness."

"That a threat?"

Laughter, barking and bass. "Oh, my poor young fellow, you haven't lived life long enough to know everybody needs forgiveness for something from someone. Eventually." Shark-grin.

"All the same," finally, "you aren't someone I'd be wantin' t-to owe anythin' to."

"Picky, picky. You'll regret it."

"You said that before."

"So I did. It's still true."

Lengthy pause, in which the gibson picked up into something else, a tune with a heavy ache in it. An ache, a desire for something that can't be had. It didn't have the frustration of a denied lover, or the resentment of a prisoner, but instead the air of a viewer from afar, ever reaching and never quite managing to grasp. It was homesickness, and it was Oliver's, thought not his words and not his tune. But the way he sang it, from heart and from soul; the bluesboy had a voice intense and each note offered a pitch true until it shook with emotion.

<center>The tar in the street starts to melt from the heat
And the sweats runnin' down from my hair
I walked 20 miles and I'm dragging my feet
And I'll walk 20 more I don't care

And I'll wander this world, wander this world
Wander this world, wander this world all alone</center>
The hellhound sat back, compelled into watching, feeling his jaws as if they were cemented shut. It wasn't the bluesboy's doing, and yet it was, for something like he was singing could not bear to be interrupted.

<center>
I'm like a ghost some people can't see
Others drive by and stare
A shadow that drifts by the side of the road
It's like I'm not even there

And I'll wander this world, wander this world
Wander this world, wander this world all alone</center>
The music spiraled upward toward the twinkling sky, and hushed into a softer refrain that made the night lean in closer to hear.

<center>Well I've never been part of the game
The life that I live is my own
All that I know is that I was born
To wander this world all alone, all alone</center>
Resigned, accepting, heavy with loss and such lonliness, the song hearkened back to a time when all wasn't so dark, when family and pack pressed in close. Support, comfort, the promise to catch if you fell... home. Evening breeze rippled through the hills, the grass sighing as it became a desolate landscape of lost potential.

<center>Some people are born with their lives all laid out
And all their success is assured
Some people work hard all their lives for nothin'
They take it and don't say a word
They don't say a word</center>

Over the hill, the Door crackled open on a downbeat, the static sound drowned and incorporated into the lush emotion of the bluesboy's song. Now the gibson was playing on alone under the skillful fingers, almost hidden under the shadow of its player's face, bent forward over the strings, eyes closed. After a couple of bars, he began again, the accepting tone of the song transforming into a resentment. Whether the bluesboy felt the resentment or the hound did... anybody's guess.


<center>Sometimes it's like I don't even exist
Even God has lost track of my soul
Why else would he leave me out here like this
To wander this world all alone</center>

The hellhound was hunched protectively over, becoming more and more only a shadow across the way, staring out over the distant hill. The canine eyes were remembering a time when all had been light and welcome, before they Fell. Before they were falling and falling into darkness and bitterness, before the pack was sent out, single and silent, each with missions of their own, snarling and snapping at each other in their own twisted homesickness. A homesickness of star-speckled expanses of nothing... a nothing that had all the comfort of a warm womb, the tumbling, squirming nearness of siblings, and an overpowering sense of right, of belonging. The boy was forgotten, the taste for freedom forgotten, everything was gone but the starry expanse and the beckoning gold-edged door over the hill.

<center>And I'll wander this world, wander this world...</center>

Oliver raised his eyes to watch the silhouette of a great black wolfhound gallop into a thin slit of darker blackness and dissapear. Alone again. He smiled unevenly, looking out over the field and listening to the Door close and last vestige of the song die on the strings. Half-hearted whisper following.

<center>Wander this world, wander this world all alone.</center>

( )Note:
Wander This World Jonny Lang

<font color="#999999"><font size="1">[ June 26, 2005 04:08 AM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font></font>

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 26, 2005 04:10 AM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font>

[Plain white paper with bent edges, black ink: may 27, present]

A -

Safe. Have news. Status of everyone, and safe to contact again?

O

--

[Scratch notebook paper, red ink: may 30, present]

You stirred up a nest of hornets. Good going. Annie's at her wits end, of course, she don't like lyin' to people but she does what she has to do. Your Ma is as fine as she ever is gonna be. I'm pissed that you didn't tell me you were coming or that you were here, I think you owe me more than that, boy. Your sister's the most forgiving woman I know, you don't deserve her. Everyone would be better off if you'd just told the truth. But we've been over this before. Yeah, it's safe to write, they're not watching me, just Annie, but that'll probably wear down by fall. Here's her letter. You better have good news.

A

--
[Lined legal pad paper, blue ballpoint: may 30, present]

Dear Oliver,

Thank God you're safe! I just hope they won't find you, wherever you are... but you seemed confident when you were here that they wouldn't find you where ever it is you are going and so I guess I'll just have to trust you, even though I hate being in the dark like this, I just hate it, Oliver. Ma's okay, though she actually seemed coherent enough during the last week or so that even the police coming in and out didn't notice anything other than that she was pretty drowsy and distracted, which after I told them she was on sedatives they just shrugged and ignored it. I always feel like my face is on fire whenever I'm lying, you and Ma could always tell when I was doing it, but I guess it gets easier with practice and that's probably a bad thing, even if it's necessary and all of that like we discussed.

It was so good to have you here, even for a little while and even with the mess and I miss you somethin terrible almost worse than I did before but I guess there's no help for it. I almost thought I'd lose my job with the diner since I was gone for a week and all the chaos stirring everything up again but I haven't and they just let me go back to what I was doing before like nothing happened.

What kind of news do you have? Did you see the woman you were telling me about when you were here? If you haven't yet, grow a spine and get over there because there's no use moping around like I've seen you do when you know you gotta do something and don't like it. Even if she doesn't forgive you (which I'm sure she will, she sounded like someone I'd like), then at least you'd have it done with and out of the way, so you can stop moping. Don't glare at the letter, Oliver, I know you're doing it.

Write back, write back, I'm dying of curiousity.

Love, your sister,
Annie

--
[Plain white paper, bent edges, black ink: june 1]

Annie,

I'm back here, trust me, they won't ever find me, the place is huge and I'm sure everybody's broken at least twenty laws twice over. Yes, you were right about Camilla, at the risk of making you smug as a cat with cream-- and no, we're not more than friends right now. I think she's already got a boyfriend, but I'm not exactly sure. Anyway--

My news is that I've got a place to stay, a couple jobs, and it looks like I might have a music gig lined up, too. I actually got an advance of sorts on my first paycheck... well, more like a loan from a friend, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. Here's half of it, and for God's sake, don't put it in the bank or use it all at once, they're going to wonder where you got it. Just use it to pay for little things at a time. Don't worry yourself; I didn't hire myself out as an assassin (a poor one I'd make) or get involved with the mob (like they'd want me)... you watch too many movies. I'll pay my friend back, eventually, even if I have to hide it in one of his cars or something. Yeah, one of his cars. He didn't even blink twice when he gave me all that money, Anniegirl. He's the one that's putting me up in a spare apartment for awhile, too. We're blessed in our friends, sister.

Take care of yourself and Ma for me.

Oliver

[Separately.]

A-

I was going to get Annie to bring you over while I was there, but Ma was having fits at the time-- that's why I came. Besides, I was trying to stay out of sight. You'd better sit down before you read on because... I agree with you. You and Annie wouldn't need to be going through all this if it wasn't for me. But you can't argue that Ma'd be worse off in one of those hospital places they'd have shoved her in for the criminally insane. I've come into some money (legally, safely, before you start bitching at me about it), so we can take a breather for now. Thanks for everything, as always.

Oliver

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 03, 2005 10:56 PM: Message edited by: Oliver McHale ]</font>

[Camilla St. John & Oliver, june 25, present]

( June 24th : ?Nightmares? )

This is why she hated sleeping. On that plateau, anything that wanted to happen... could. Even if the dreams/nightmares didn't have anything to do with her burbling black sleep-buddy, she'd almost swear she could hear him laughing in the background. The beginning hadn't been that scary-- some guy in tight pants, dancing with her. A familiar guy, but flesh and bone ( somewhat ). Seeing a scorpion crawl over the Death card while a Cajun mamba muttered in the background; that was something to write home about. Ink and paper were substituted by vocal cords, and she shocked herself partially awake with the first scream. Sheets were tangled around her legs, giving the impression that someone was trying to hold her down. Can you say.. frantic? No? Now as good a time to try as any.


Oliver didn't dream often. Most times, he closed his eyes and it was restful darkness until he opened them back up again. There were exceptions, but they were very, very rare. Judging from what most people told him, he was missing quite a lot. Sometimes he wondered what'd be like to dream those mad dreams some people told him about, the ones where they became super heroes or saved the world. But he knew about the bad ones, too. Ma's 'sickness' taught him more than he had ever wanted to know. He woke just before Cam really started tossing, stealing the sheets in a random twisted torment it took him awhile to identify. He'd reached across her to gently but firmly grip her farthest shoulder, worried she'd hurt herself. He was just about to shake her awake with the whisper of her name, when the scream froze him in place. And in the half dark, a bare-chested figure leaning over her probably wasn't the best way for her to wake.


If you asked the bird, she'd tell you that dreaming was highly overrated. Oliver was lucky; this was actually one of the milder nightmares. On multiple occasions, she'd bolted awake only to find blood on her hands and face. These were dealt with privately of course; Oliver was the first to ever witness the immediate aftermath. Not Des-- not even Jace had seen this before. Kicking wildly at whatever was pinning her legs down, another choked scream broke free, and a fist shot out erratically to hit at whatever -- whoever -- was touching her. Eyes opened at the exact moment the solid contact waded through the cotton of her mind, and she sat up and twisted away from him fast enough to thump right over the edge of the bed. It'd actually be funny if she wasn't scrambling backwards, away from him. "Don't touch me!" yelled his way, palms going flat on the floor; chin dropping down to her chest. Coherency? Not really a strong point right now. Recognition? It'd take a minute. Breath was short in coming, and it felt like her heart had migrated up towards the vicinity of her throat. She seriously needed to think about investing in tranquilizers. Nice, safe, empty drug induced sleep.


Predictable result. He thought it right as she threw a wild punch at him, which caught him in the cheek since he'd been leaning over her (brilliant). But it wasn't as if he'd never been hit before, and as punches go, it wasn't the anvil a grown man's punch can be to a child, but it'd been relatively unexpected. He let out a very normal, human quick exhale as he recoiled backward, grip on her immediately relinquished. He didn't spend a year caring for his mother without learning how to calm somebody down, though. Oliver didn't make the same mistake twice, instead, he sat back as she fell (even as automatic impulse to help her up kicked in). Bare feet kicking slowly sideways over the bed and he leaned forward on his knees away from her, only looking back. See? Not coming for you? The lamp was too far to go for without startling her again, so he didn't try to turn it on, and the room stayed in shadow. But if anything would help with the recognition, it'd be his voice, the easy even-toned bluesboy sound that assumed nothing and judged no one. Nothing better suited to soothe a soul. All he said was, "Okay."

There'd be an apology later for the clock to his cheek, even if it wasn't done at full strength. It was a little different coming out of those things and having someone right at your side. You weren't sure if it was real or simply another part of the nightmare gone haywire. Sometimes, things got.. out of control-- evidence being the faint scars in the shape of the Cross emblazoned on both palms. Taking a steady, deep breath to try to center herself, words were repeated quietly. "Credo in Deum Patrem omnipot?ntem, Creat?rem c?li et terr?..." Over and over again until the hitching gasps faded, and the fear had downshifted to a dull thrum in her skull. Tensing slightly when a noise came from the direction of the bed, eyes lifted just enough to catch a glimpse of those bare feet. Words were silences just that fast in the face of the 'Okay' and it took a moment -- or five -- before she looked up fully his way. Nothing more said, that blank star was kept on him until she slowly pushed up and rocked back on her heels. At least Camilla didn't look like she was about to stab him or something equally not cool.

The bluesboy didn't need an apology, or want an apology. It was better to have someone there; it's always better to have someone there. They say, remember me? this is reality now, it's a safe and better place than that nightmare-world. They lie, and they make it better. Except sometimes Oliver's blue eyes could make it seem like it wasn't a lie, like they believed it really was better, safer, simpler. Just as slow and careful, his torso turned to face her. He didn't make a move to stand and step over, the higher ground therefore hers, chin lifting to present the too-trustworthy blues at her from his relaxed seat on the edge of the bed. Concern. "C-cam, it's only me." Simple, a statement of fact to ground her in something, a pause to let it sink in, and then his expression offered the age-old, useless question: are you alright? He didn't say it. Behind the concern, yet another pesky thought flitted across his consciousness: let's hope it wasn't about me, or this will be harder. If you ask him, he'd advise against sedatives. Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they didn't. When they didn't, they made the nightmares worse.

As much as she'd like to, there just wasn't any way Cam'd allow herself to be dependent on sedatives. She's seen what those things did to people; how they made them act even when there wasn't any in their systems. One thing was for certain, she'd picked a hell of a time to quit smoking. God forbid if these things got worse; she'd hang herself in the closet with a belt. Reaching up to shift fingers back through slightly damp hair, eyes nervously darted around the room as if to make sure nothing was creeping out of the shadows. The canary was a little too old to believe in le Bukker-- the Boogie Man -- but damned if it didn't pay to be cautious. Focusing in on those familiar blues, even if it was a little hard to in the gloom, she forced herself to calm down. You could make pretend-- make yourself believe that everything was Jim-dandy-fine here, but only the truly jaded knew otherwise. False pretenses did little in the way of sugar coating, but she'd attempt it. Flicker of a very watered down smile fought for appearance, but it only stuck for a nanosecond. Was she alright. $64,000 question. She'd live-- it was easier to say ( or show ) than 'I'm alright.' "I know," was replied after a few more terse seconds, letting him know she was there, and the shaky move was made to get to her feet.

Oliver smiled, an automatic gesture undoubtedly lost in the semidarkness, but it was a small fleeting thing as he moved up and over to help her up. There's no curiosity in his expression, no demands like what the hell is your problem, or what'd you hit me for. Oliver doesn't ask questions he already knows the answers to, even if they're worth $64,000. The musician's hands are careful, unassuming, offered and easily brushed aside. As always, the bluesboy seems a pillar of support and optimistic care, with the kind of concern in his eyes that comes from sincerity that didn't need to be constructed. He'll help her into a sitting position on the bed before leaning over to click the beside lamp on. The simple solution of an embrace might fix the shaking, supportive. "Rough night." It wasn't a question, but it was sympathetic.

For once in her pitiful excuse for a life, the offer of help wasn't brushed away. It was pointless to seem unaffected by something when someone had just seen you lose complete control, even if from a bad dream. Pride goeth before the fall, and she had already fallen. Right onto the floor. Gripping his arms thankfully, it was a quick upsie daisy to her feet and to the bed. The light clicking on prompted eyes narrowing and squinting until it was accustomed to, fingers going up to gently brush over the weakly abused skin of his cheek. There wasn't any flinching, but a shuddering breath wracked through her form. Mais oui... hope I didn't wake ya," returned with vague undercurrents of amusement and a heavy accent -- pretend it was nothing -- as she tucked in against his side. Support was more than appreciated, even if she couldn't outright say so.

Eh, he's fine. Look, not even a wince. That cheek can take a lot more than that. He's tough, she can even punch him again, and he'd only wince a little bit. ...Okay, maybe more than a little bit, but hey. The point was he's tough. Crooked grin down at her once he let her go from a squeeze of a hug that was firm without taking what breath she'd regained. They were pretending this wasn't a serious situation, and both of them were speaking like civilized folk, right? Oh good. He settled himself a little farther back on the bed so they weren't teetering on the edge, straightening out the knotted sheets some before putting an arm back around her. "N-naw. I had this g-great dream that I fell asleep next to this beautiful woman, so I spent th' last few hours tryin' ta wake up."

Yeah, not a great thing for her to punch him again and she's fully aware. Last time she clocked somebody intentionally, it had taken Cianan twenty minutes to get his jaw out of his eye sockets. The canary was short, but she was a scrapper. But yes, he was take a lickin' and keep on tickin' tough, which was a very good thing. You never knew what you could get into just by being around her. As for speaking like civilized folk, we wouldn't go that far, but she was going to pretend -- really really hard -- that none of that actually happened. Gleam. Major question for the moment-- when in the hell had she put on his shirt? One of the great mysteries of the world. "Yeah? Which way did she go?" Brow arch-- when his arm went around her, Cam one upped it and nudged him completely back so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

Oliver doesn't really have piss Cam off on his list of things to do, so no worries there. If the worst he got out of his relationship with Cam was a couple sucker punches, he'd count himself lucky. Just being around her was like a doozy of a sucker punch, anyway. Made you see the chirping canaries flying around in a circle. Cymbal crash. Bad joke. Her head fit much too well between chin and shoulder, and the scent of her hair definitely worked just as good as the punch. She looked better in his shirt than he did. He answered quietly into her hair, the joke turning into something more serious but just as helpful: "Dunno. You t-tell me."

She didn't like pissing people off either-- bad karma. Didn't really believe in the whole reincarnation thing, but it'd suck to come back as a fly or.. crabgrass if it was true. Serious Brownie points deducted for that pun! Playing off the joke, "We're on the third floor. If she jumped, 'm guessin' she's still on the pavement." Gaze tilting up, her own semblance of seriousness bled in as fingers ghosted over the line of his jaw. "Glad you were here," murmured just as quietly before her head dropped back to his shoulder. Lethargy was creeping back in, and it was decided here.. was a good place to go back to sleep. Things didn't seem as bad with his arms around her.

He held her for a couple breaths, in out, in out. And then he said, "Maybe I'll g-go look in the mornin'," like it wasn't all the important. Eyes went half-closed as he looked down into her face, exhausted and haunted. Small smile, just for her. "Me too." He moved to lean back on the pillows with her on his chest and his arms protectively around her. As they drifted off, he wondered if he'd ever know what lurked in the darkness of her dreams.

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 27, 2005 12:40 AM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]</font>

[Oliver, june 26, present]

The night was oddly quiet given that it was a weekend. Most of the bars and clubs around here had an early curfew on Saturday nights. Not because of the law ? law in Rhydin was a laughable thought ? but because of the supernatural creepy crawlies that liked lurking around and preying on the intoxicated or the unaware. To find yourself in a dark alley, or making your merry way up an abandoned sidewalk, what happened to you was entirely your doing. In their roundabout way, the business owners had given their warnings. The settle of summer had fallen hazily over the city; muggy temperatures holding fast even after the sun set, leaving the concrete and asphalt as stationary ovens. They were from the Big Easy, a place where heat and humidity were as common as bayous and gators. They could withstand it all in black suits, stylish hats, and polished shoes while never looking wilted or overheated. For that fact... they were waiting just a ways up the street, inconspicuously hidden under the awning of an all night cafe.


Laws. It was law and law-enforcement that kept Oliver nervy. It is here, in laughable lawless Rhydin, that he finds a sense of security. True, it is a foolish security, a false security, one he should have snapped right out of at the sight of things like a dragon the size of a small skyscraper or some knived-thing slicing at his legs, but he clung to it because he needed to. Security is the studio Max is letting him borrow until he can pay rent, security is Cam's unthinking smile, security is... oblivious. And that's what he is, just at the moment. It'd been a rather long day, the kind that made you want to flop on the couch and stare at nothing for the thirty seconds before you fell asleep. The guitar case is not in evidence since he's on his way back from work, and both hands are tucked into scruffy jean pockets. Mildly humming a random snatch of this song and then that, thinking encompassed by a blissful kind of nothing interspersed with a pleasant thought of Cam or a vague future plan about this job or that. The sticky summer didn't bother him a whit, and though it was a bit more humid than he found comfortable, somehow he managed to ignore it. His mind is on point B, not the path between back there and up here, and he passes the cafe just like he passed the last couple cafes and shops, easy stride not faltering. Even if there's a murder of polished black crows watching him go by.


Sometimes the only law there was.. was taken by force. Not enforced by a few men that got lucky enough to get that privilege and not by some high seated judge passing out sentences as if having to meet a quota for that month. Their law was absolute and their judge was also the jury and executioner. It was almost ridiculous that one person could hold that kind of power. The sort that was meant for the Divine and not the mortal. In their world, vendettas were the Constitution-- their Glocks the Amendments. Bullets were a symbol of finality or fear. Machiavelli said `It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.` One emotion worked as well as the other, and when someone felt that their lines had been breached ? even unknowingly ? they needed to learn their place. Then again, Poe said `I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.` Never think yourself on a pedestal-- the fall is greater. When the blonde man moved past the cafe, that very same murder ? poetic irony ? didn't even spare him a glance. Only when he had moved far enough away to be completely out of earshot did they turn. Three men, six eyes, one purpose. Exchanging glances, the trio immediately dispersed. One following after Oliver, and the other two cutting through one of the alleys that would eventually lead out near the apartment.


Unknowing would probably be the word. There was nothing poetic or ironic about it; the bluesboy had a place he thought was just fine, mostly because it didn't seem to bother anyone else. That he was about to learn differently never darkened even his most dire thoughts. By nature, the man was about as inoffensive as you could get, and Oliver had no reason to be overly cautious or wary. It wasn't that he'd been unconcerned about Cam's mysterious, violent problems that had 'solved themselves' in the months he'd been gone; in fact, it was all he could do not to press her for details. One of these days he'd just ask her, too honest for his own good, and if she didn't want to talk about it, then she wouldn't. All this was brewing somewhere in the back of his mind behind stray melodies and memories... right now there was no pedestal and no law, and he was content. He took the stairs up to the studio, filling the echoes of his steps on the concrete with Howlin' Wolf.


Sometimes all it took was a well placed question to receive all the answers you thought you needed. The one thing you had to take into consideration; could you handle the truth? ( no Jack Nicholson pun intended ) Hearing what had happened, detail after detail, of ? not one, not two, not even three ? people's demises? Most things were best kept quiet with a smile. Then again, whatever helped you sleep at night. Once he moved in through the front entryway of the apartment building, and started heading up the stairs, he might get the sensation that someone was directly behind him. The figure wasn't imposing by most thug standards, standing at a solid six-foot-two, but the thick, black gun concealed by the palm of his hand and the side of his jacket might prompt other thought. With movement that would do a wraith justice, the snub barrel was pressed directly against Oliver's spine. ?Gonna invite me in?? asked rhetorically, the voice low-- a husky baritone laden with the bayou and altered by excess. Too much bourbon gin, too many cigarettes, and too much bloodshed. ?Y'make one wrong move, and dey gonna find yer spleen in d'keyhole.? So much for pleasantries. From downstairs, the sound of the main door opening and then clicking shut drifted up faintly.


Oliver'd seen some pretty messed up shit. The truth was all relative, significant only in a non-consensual reality where there were absolutes: truths, lies, right, wrong-- even male, female. Here, there were no absolutes, the truth to one: a lie to another. The bluesboy doesn't think in terms of himself, consequences of this action or that upon his own life... instead, the odd impulse is to think of those dear to him. Perhaps this is a kind of selfishness. Perhaps not. Either way, for Oliver, the question is not whether he could handle being told the truth, but whether Cam could handle telling him. Whatever her behavior and exterior might suggest, he had no illusions as to what Cam might be capable of. Or her so-loyal friend, Des. What thoughts zoom across your mind when somebody presses a gun to your back? Where's Wylie's 'yipe' sign? Maybe this is a joke? Nobody's laughing. He stood up straighter, the key in the door, his hand on the knob. If anyone-- anyone had been inside, there'd be no way in hell. He'd turn the key the other way and chuck it out the window and end up very dead. But no one is, or will be, and death (he thinks) could be worse. His first (purely mental) objections are, why me, and what for? But all he does is open the door and allow himself to get shoved into familiar territory, hands held innocently out to the side. Please don't shoot me.


There was only the absolute of yourself. You never knew what you could handle until you were thrust into that situation, and in some cases.. you were ashamed of it. That was the main reason she was so tight lipped about what had happened. Attitude problems were easier to deal with ? and live with ? than someone branding you sociopathic. Just as oh-so loyal Des didn't like showing his `dark` side, she didn't like showing that white static. It all depended on how, and if, push came to shove. Reaching up to adjust the Panama tilted low over his eyes, the thug quirked a chipped tooth smile once Oliver moved inside. ?We're only gonna say dis once, Junior...? Words began once his two counterparts came up behind, and then fanned out at his sides. The one to the immediate left walked forward and jerked something around Oliver's throat-- a taunt length of piano wire stretched and wrapped around both gloved hands. Taking that as his cue, the one to the immediate right moved forward as well and began patting Oliver down. Just because the guy looked unassuming didn't mean anything. As the search came up clean, a sharp punch to the guitarist's kidneys prompted him to sink on down to the floor. The spokesgoon continued. ?You done pissed somebody off, boy.? Garrote pressure never slackened, and even if Oliver fell to his knees, he'd still find himself pressed harshly backwards by little more than wire and elbow grease..


It's true. You never really knew until it happened. Like now: Oliver surprised himself. He surprised himself with the sudden, basic desire to survive. He, who was almost exactly as he seemed, unarmed and unassuming, had absolutely no idea who they were talking about, and he suspected not even they knew exactly why they were here for. (Distantly: Not the police, not Annie. Relief. )The illusions didn't shatter so much as melt away, leaving behind only instincts. There was no reason to believe he was supposed to survive this encounter. In fact, he was certain he was dead as soon as two more walked in and the door clicked distantly shut. That they didn't shoot him right away meant absolutely nothing. Do it quiet. Make more of a scene for whomever was supposed to find him. (Distantly, again: Oh, Cam.) He had thought himself resigned to an eventual inevitable, and found it wasn't so. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't think, but he didn't have to. Problem: The punch had him down, the wire pulled him back. Solution: Get back up. And, with more energy than he should have been able to muster, he recovered from the punch and tried to push to his feet, fast as possible, simple, backward into the man that held the wire. The slack had him taking a breath as he jerked his head back, hopefully with in range of a nose or mouth. The natural impulse to grab the man's wrists and pull with all the energy panic supplied. Survival: try until it was impossible to try anymore.


Survival was base. Instinct was pure-- always go with what your gut's telling you, even if just around the corner ? at your back ? there was the signal of 'Warning, warning, we have much pain.' Watching the scene play out quietly, ( we'll call him Goon One ) stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Goon Two ( or Mr. Garrote ) bit off a guttural curse as the back of Oliver's head met his nose, and the wire was dropped to the floor as hands rushed up to the free fall of blood. Goon Three ( Punchy ) glanced back to One as if awaiting instruction, only to find the man shrugging off his coat. With a flick of his wrist, the other two were silently instructed to step back while Oliver floundered for his balance and survival. ?Y'wanna scrap, Sport?? The condescending tone was enough to make anyone want to beat his brains in. Shirt sleeves rolled up just past his elbows, both fists were raised in a boxer's pose. Mocking Oliver now. Stamping a hard soled shoe onto the floor suddenly, his right fist feinted out towards Oliver's face ? distracting ? while the other ( quicker than a flash ) darted out to connect with his midsection. They knew why they were here; their instructions had been clear. ?Say, maybe y'kin help me with somethin'. Feel up to it?? snidely. Conversation carried on in the midst of violence, and yes, he honestly expected a reply..


This was all happening at a pace that was at once lightning and molasses. Emotions came, blended in a confusing swirl, and went again. Satisfaction at Garrote's cry of pain, for instance. Relief as the wire hit the floor and he could breathe again. Dismay his stomach still bothered him. It took a moment for the words to sink in. He gasped for breath and just looked at him, no answer offering itself up for communication. He didn't want to scrap. He rarely did, unless something made him angry. But there wasn't anger, only confusion. Not enough to keep him from guarding his face when he saw a punch coming on, and not enough to smother the automatic bend low to protect his stomach... but enough to keep him from a more graceful defense. Survival didn't help him avoid ending up on the floor again. The amusement they were getting out of this situation didn't enrage him. It didn't even bother him. There was that distance again. He heard an answer that must have been his: "What's that?" it was more of a strangled gasp than a proper answer as he sought vertical through vertigo again. He felt mild regret that this was so.


Garrote was too busy tilting his head back and trying to stop the flow of blood, to be amused by any of this. Rest assured, when G1 was finished, there was going to be even more pain. If Punchy was getting any amusement out of this, you wouldn't be able to tell. His face was stoic and set in rigid lines-- could've been a dime storefront Indian for all the emotion he projected. The elder of the three, he'd seen much of this. Too much...this wasn't exactly the sort of lifestyle you just quit though. The consequences were dire; they made this look like a cakewalk. When Oliver hit the floor, G1 took the incentive to stand just beside his fallen form, dispassionate eyes settling on the gasping features. ?Well, dere's dis bird. 'Bout yea high,? his hand going up to just below his collarbone. ?Nice legs, bitchy attitude. Gotta real bad habit of pissin' people off.? Gee. The statements were rounded off with a stiff kick to Oliver's ribs. ?Know who 'm talkin' 'bout, Tiger? 'Course y'do.? Answering his own question, head nodding along with the self-affirmation. Another kick; sounded like something might've cracked with that one. ?Do me a favor and let'er know it ain't gonna be much longer.? The order ? yes, order ? was punctuated by the heel of his shoe smashed down onto Oliver's left arm while he reached down to grab the wrist; giving a sharp yank up and then back towards the far wall. Arms weren't made to twist that way. Heel grind. Garrote had regained his composure enough by now to step forward and aim his own kick at Oliver's temple. Maybe... this was a really bad time to have birdies tweeting around your head..


Okay-- that made him look up. It forced him into semi-coherent thought, even through the extra pressure gravity had somehow managed to produce. This semi-coherent thought somehow connected "bird" with "Cam." And he caught the implication that if he was to tell her, that meant that the goon wasn't going to "tell" her right away with his gun or his fist. This offered a vague sense of relief, right until his torso threatened to cave in, that is. The last kick had him turned onto his back, and he didn't even have time to curl protectively up when his arm was targeted. And yet, instincts remained. Those, and that one semi-coherent thought that was going to get him through this, and a slow anger that started somewhere deep down the kicks couldn't reach. "Fuck you." Who knows how he managed that, because he only just avoided being kicked in the head by trying to roll over and away, for an illusory sense of protection over ribs and arm-- which, by the way, hurt so much he couldn't think of anything worse, just at the moment-- (He'd probably regret that thought.). Unfortunately, all this meant was that he got kicked in the jaw, instead. And serious Brownie points are lost for the birdie comment. Not that's that much consolation.


She was such a popular dame. The only article of clothing she really needed these days was a white shirt with a huge ass red target on the back. Make things easier on herself. The off-aim kick, coupled with his watering eyes and fucked up sense of perception caused Garrote to stumble forward and nearly fall to his own knees. G1 found a bit of humor in that, and another grin appeared on his gruff features. The `fuck you` even caused a chuckle. ?I think y'been gettin' enough of dat.? Punchy, by this point, had seen quite enough of those two asses showboating, and he made his presence known quite explicitly. Untucking something from the inside of his jacket, the other two guys were pushed out of the way. A blackjack ? handle firmly wrapped with electrical tape for grip ? was used to crash against Oliver's side again. And again. And then one more time for good measure. If he even thought about getting up, the gnarled ? but strong ? fingers crushing around his windpipe might've prompted otherwise. Sometime between the faux boxing and the message delivering, a cigarette had been lit; the acrid smoke curling around his form like horror movie mist in a cemetery, and the ashes dropped onto Oliver's face. ?Do what he said, boy, and keep your goddamn mouth shut.? His voice was a little different from the others; more cultured. Square plucked from between his lips, the cherry was ground out on Oliver's collarbone moments before the blackjack was used to push the pain deeper. The cracking sounds were enough to make a weaker person ill. He went about the beating methodically, alternating hits with the weapon and his fists, aiming anywhere from Oliver's face, down to his already severely abused ribs.


All thoughts, semi-coherent and otherwise, drifted off to wherever they went to when they weren't being thought. Hopefully they would come back. It didn't seem like it would be so. The world narrowed in a blurring tapestry of too-bright color interspersed with bursts of deep dark blackness-- or was it the other way around? Feeling narrowed down to aching pain and sharp pain. The cigarette, though mild compared to what his ribs felt like, was a different pain, a pain of surprise and irony. All this, and now a cigarette? Ludicrous. Survival became action and reaction, whether it be wince, cringe or gasp; and he found most of these didn't come easily. He was aware enough, somehow, to know the difference between the three present. In his mind they became Voice, Bastard and Thick. Thick because the man was strong, indifferent, his armor complete and without crack. He had something to do: he did it, through the thick armor with thick, immobile form. Then they were reduced to just figures. A man who isn't haunted by nightmares can't hope he lives one, can't wish he'll wake up. Instead he can only endure.


The moment all fight left Oliver, the attack stopped. What needed to be done was finished, and there was only one piece of business left to attend to. Thick, as it were, pushed up to his feet and tucked the blackjack away, only to produce a slim cell phone. A button pressed, and the device was held to his ear. The moment the other end was picked up, two simple words completed the whole scene. ?It's done.? Without waiting for a reply, the call was ended, and he motioned for the other two to follow him out. G1 leaned down to pat Oliver's cheek with another chuckle, Mr. Nose Bleeder bringing up the rear as a quick exit was made. Sometime within the next hour or so, another call would be made, but that was between the Boss and the bird. Their part was over.

( June 27 : Finding )

<font color="#999999" size="1">[ June 27, 2005 01:51 AM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]</font>

<center>"One trembles to think of that mysterious thing in the soul,

which seems to acknowledge no human jurisdiction, but in spite of the individual's own innocent self,

will still dream horid dreams, and mutter unmentionable thoughts." -- Melville </center>


[Oliver, aug. 5, present]

The bluesboy's day hadn't exactly been long, since he'd enjoyed a sinful twelve hours asleep next to the equally sinful but infinately more satisfying Cam, but it'd been exhausting nonetheless. Mid-day he had a job helping the Lees move their Chinese place to a new location down town, and then Mrs. Lee fried him up some noodles for dinner. After that, he'd stopped by the hospital to placate the doctor who pasted him up like a bad clay figure, and they had some inanely cheery guy direct him through a series of exercises for his shoulder and arm. That hadn't exactly been pleasant, worse than waking up the morning after their visit to Max's pool. And there was still a lurking suspicion the guy had been hitting on him after the doctor left. Definately not pleasant. The day had drained him enough that instead of traveling farther to Cam's apartment, he instead found himself back at the studio, stubbornly ignoring the creeping chill that still had him half-expecting a heavy goon with the end of a cigarette in his hand. The place needed a good dusting, but he ignored that in favor of the couch, on which he collapsed... went to sleep... and dreamed. For most, the dreamscape isn't so surprising a thing. In fact, when you're in it, it doesn't seem like a dreamscape at all-- because otherwise the bluesboy would have been frowning in surprise and puzzlement, instead of tilting a chin up and soaking in sunlight and dust-choked air from the road nearby, the one that led deeper into town. The sound of the train rattled down harsh tracks in the distance, and the peeling boards of his father's hardware store felt good and grainy on his back. Familiar as a friend, the gibson leaned on the chair next to him, and Oliver stretched his boots out toward the treeline a few yards away.


It's been said that dreams are gateways, and that was the God's honest truth. Or, someone else's truth entirely. The thin line that separated consciousness and unconsciousness was easily swept to the side; even moreso now. It's playground had broadened-- stretched to every thinkable ( and unthinkable ) place in imagination: reality or otherwise. The sound of the train chugging along dimmed to an almost inaudible buzz, making way for the heavy thump of boots to be heard inside of the building Oliver was currently leaning against. Dirt devils appeared on either side of the road nearby, twisting and tangling with each other like playful kittens over a ball of yarn. Thump. Thump. Thum-- before the next bootfall could land, the door was swinging open with enough force to cause it to clatter against the far wall. No warning for the meaningful kick placed to the drowsing boy's ankles; the shadow cast from the man's form blocking out that warm sunlight. ?Ain't got nothin' better to do but sit there?? Voice caustic and sarcastically laced with unseen humor, a hand swept past Oliver to grasp the neck of the Gibson. ?Whatcha think you're gonna do with this?? A gift, it may have been, but even here at the sun soaked building, a nightmare could find its way to sneak in and pull a few strings the Fates' wanted left alone.


With an almost determined concentration, the bluesboy watched the dirtdevils whirl and twist, comforted by their meaninglessness. A twitch as the door banged open, but he seemed resolved not to show more unease. Blue eyes lifted to the shadow that blocked that comfort away, eyes much younger, less careworn than the Oliver that he'd left sleeping back on the couch. Deeper than a piece of the sky above, and yet shallow with an all-too-apparent vulnerability. "T-t-takin' a break, Pa. Had a long day. You should too." Oliver gave the nearby chair a nudge with his abused foot, but unconsciously straightened in his own, defensively. Behind them, the old boards' old paint peeled worse than ever, small bits of whitewash picked up by the dust-laden breeze and driven into eyes and skin. Something heavy and unseen held him down, like a lead coat, as he watched his father carelessly drag a heavy thumb down the strings. They buzzed harshly, painfully. "P-play it. I kin play it p-p-p... pretty good, Pa. I'll t-take care of it." He lifted a hand to get it back, and found it wouldn't move, held back and up by a thick cast-- but there wasn't a cast there. The man laughed, and used a forearm to tilt up his hat and spit into the swirling dust next to the opened case at their feet. The ground recoiled from it and then sucked inward, taking up the moisture and swallowing it away like it had never been. Only the swirling dust remained. "Like yer takin' care of the family? 'Pretty good' my auntie's ass. I wouldn't trust you to take care of a dead dog, much less this."


The pointless, small dirt devils vanished under their own accord, leaving no reason for the wind to be as harsh as it was. The sky was clear and beautiful; bright like a summer's day ought to be, even if the heat felt like it suddenly spiked. One might call it a sensory illusion, seeing as there was no logical explanation for it, but here on the other side of the glass, all you had to do was move down to a new cup. No time to waste on logic. ?I k-k-kin play it p-p-purdy good, P-P-Pa.? An exact mimicry of Oliver's voice -- stutter exaggerated -- could suddenly be heard, almost at his ear, though if he took the time to look, he'd be confronted with nothing out of the ordinary. As Pa McHale's thumb brushed over the strings, one.. two.. three of those strings popped; their wiry *twang* almost a roar in the afternoon's muted chaos. The arm that was positioned-as-cast had another weight on it, a shadowed figure of what one would assume was a man. Elbow propped on the angle extended, slick fingers flicked upwards in the air, as if musing to itself. ?Yeah, Oliver. Doin' a piss poor job of takin' care of the family.? The voice was now amused; a burbling echo of his father's, and a thumb jerked back towards the older man, of whom seemed clueless of its presence. ?Wouldn't you trust you with a dead dog?? Tsking sound followed.

The child's blue eyes only flicked a frightened glance at the hissing devil at his ear before presenting themselves back up toward the oblivious man. His voice, so simple and affectionate when it addressed friends and family, took on an entirely different harshness. "Stop it, Pa." A hand, his good hand, was weighed down by plaster too, but he managed, somehow, to free it enough to bat uselessly at the shadow-man, as one would a gnat. Staggering under a weight not there, Oliver stood, pushing the chair away. He reached for the guitar while the old man smiled at him as he would a very stupid child, and promptly backhanded him. The small boy landed flat on his back on the linoleum, and slid backward into the legs of his younger sister, who looked up, frozen. He too looked up, at his sister, who had a shadow-man whispering in her ear, and then to the side. His mother, cast in a saintly yellowish glow, put a steak knife in his small palm, smiled, and patted his head tenderly. "There you go, boy. You can do it, now. Easy-like." The last screaming twang of the last helpless guitar string hummed through the air, and before the boy knew what was happening, his mother was heaving him up by the armpits and casually tipping him, stumbling, at the tall man across the kitchen. There was no sound when the knife went in; no sound at all, even when McHale's lips moved, and he knocked a chair over as he fell. Even the boy's shocked sobs were silenced. The station had been put on mute, all except for the amused tsk tsk tsk of the shadow-man, who patted the devastated little Annie on the back and smiled a shark grin.


The events unfolding directly in front of his -- Oliver's -- eyes were being flipped through like cards in a deck. A quick shuffle and with a snap, the sound was sucked out like air in vaccuum sealed room. A home movie with the volume turned completely down, the shadow stroked a hand down the length of Annie's hair, almost comfortingly. The metronome of tsk'ing was almost deafening in its own right, until it was cut off like a light switch. The dead body of Pa McHale disappeared like a fade out in a film noir movie, as did Ma McHale and little Annie, leaving Oliver alone in a pitch black room without only a single light shining down on him. ?And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.? Words rebounding around like an echo over a cliff, the feel of someone standing right behind him could be sensed in the next moment. ?The blood of the worthy, staining the hands of the innocent. Tears wept in tribulation and revelation.. Can you tell me how you feel?? A sharp hiss of breath followed the words, followed by a push against Oliver's back. If he tried to speak, there would be no sound. If he fell, there would be no impact. ?How she felt? How HE felt?? Movement evolving to a tiger's pace filled the void in front of him, the stark light sweeping over a living embodiment of shadow and sin; helplessness and weariness, and above all else... fear and guilt. Thin split of lips of something that might've been a smile was oozed towards Oliver.

Fully-grown Oliver stared, bewitched, at the knife at his hands for a long moment under the pale light. And then with a ragged yell, threw it from him as hard as he could. It landed at his feet as if he'd only dropped it, soundless at its impact. Unnerved and uncertain, he turned his head quickly from side to side, listening to the voice. "I.. I don't understand..." His ignorance pressed in around him, and the last name of Death echoed in as if it was Cam's voice in latin, as foreign as it could be. Suddenly, the voice was so close, and an automatic blow that went through nothing to the side, his fist flying useless into the air. Helpless... again. Looking down at sudden seeping pain in his hands as the blood on them started to burn and smoke. "Stop! Leave m-me alone!" He stumbled forward as he was ruthelessly shoved, and regained his balance only to recoil from the thing in front of him. "What are you?"


?You don't understand?? The words repeated back to Oliver as if it didn't understand. A coy smirk was hidden behind the bluesboy's shoulder; thick, sluggish, fingers going up to press against nonexistant lips. ?Why should I leave you alone? Don't you want me here?? The voice changed again, and right before Oliver's eyes, its appearance changed as well. In the span of a second, it had morphed into Annie, how she had looked when Oliver last saw her, and hands went to her hips. ?Movin' 'round, roamin' like a drifter that ain't got no purpose. I thought better of y'than that, Ol.? Disapproval and remorse welled up in her eyes, and they dropped away from him, as if she couldn't bear the sight. ?Left me here t'take care of Ma, alone...? Wherever Oliver's hands touched the nightmare-shadow, blisters would be forming, as if he had just touched Hell itself. Scissoring to grab up the knife at his feet, when it straightened to face him again, a familiar pair of blue-violets were staring at him directly. ?Don't you mean who?? asked in that smoky alto right before the blade was shoved -- hilt deep -- into his throat. Leaning in, lips were pressed to his ear, as if murmuring comfort. ?See you soon.?


All the pain, pain from the paralyzing confusion from the death in the kitchen, from the blood-turned-acid smeared over his hands and from the angry burning blisters from his useless anger at the shadow-man: it all receeded into nothing as he stared down at Annie, too thin, frail blonde waif with the blue eyes he used to have. All that he had time to say was, "Oh, Annie--" and even that was lost in his tightening gasp of surprise at the appearance of Cam and then he was tasting blood, choking. The bluesboy woke up to white stars behind his eyelids as he fell off the couch and into the coffee table, yelling. It took him a full minute to simply get enough air to breathe properly and get the shaking under control. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be... He was stumbling to his feet now, still in his boots and feeling as if he was tearing through stifling cotton wrapped around his mind. ...thy name... A dream. A nightmare. But, he never had dreams, never had nightmares... and then he realized his hands still hurt, still burned. So slowly he turned his head to look at his poor red palms, finger joints marred with painful blisters. Quick inhale through his teeth, and he ran for the door, ignoring the sharp sting as he wrenched the locks and doorknob open. Camilla.

<center>http://i11.photobucket.com/albums/a1...ores/thing.jpg</center>

[Oliver, present.]

The bluesboy leaned back into the studio couch, a ballpoint threaded between the fingers of one hand. The water blue eyes were slanted aside, considering his feet and the pad of paper he'd scrounged up out of one of the drawers. For some reason, he hadn't bothered to start working the other boot off, and it amused him in a far off way that the gray sock made the old durango look downright tattered. Max's excellent sound system added the keen of Ray Charles singing about hard times to the back-mind buzz, and Oliver let his eyes run with the paper's lines. Annie, he'd written. That was all, so far. He considered. There was always this decision, before he really wrote anything to his sister. How much to tell?

There was always the question about how much each would make her worry, balanced by his natural honesty. If there was one thing the bluesboy could never do well, it was lie. Even on paper. Usually the best he could do was be selective about his truths. Even then...

This time, though, the decision was made harder by the added complication that he needed her advice. Though he'd always think of her of that scab-kneed, tangle-blonde kid he'd grown up with, Annie was a woman. She had also given in to their mother's strong protestant influence far more than Oliver had; she didn't preach, but her faith in herself was only eclipsed by her faith in God. Maybe she could offer him some help, and if she couldn't, at least she would appreciate his confidence in her.

It was impossible to think about Annie without feeling the slight twinge of guilt about her situation... the situation he had put her in. He marveled that she hadn't washed her hands of him altogether. But she hadn't, and even Oliver had to thank God for that. He'd be the first to admit his confidence in himself was severely lacking. Annie was one of those rare people that held others together with the glue of her presence and her smile.

The bluesboy took a breath, and set pen to paper again.

[lined pad-paper, blue ballpoint, dated sept. 1, present.]


Annie,

I know the little notes I been sendin with the money the past coupla months ain't been much, but I promise ya I been reading your letters as close as you could wish. I knew that Frank would start makin google-eyes at you again, I just knew it, and now I can say, 'I toldya so, Annie-girl, so there," and you can splash dishwater at me. But he better be treatin ya nice, or I'll come and pound him, arrest-warrant or no. It'd be worth it, cause I could take him in six grade and I can take him now. Ya hear that? You can tell him. "M'brother the convict'll show up an pound ya into the ground like a tent peg if ya don't treat me good," and he will. I'm serious!

Things around here have been keepin me in a real spin. That friend I told you about earlier, the one that gave us the loan... he's starting a club up. Both me and Camilla are supposedly going to be part owners. Yeah, I wouldn'ta thunk it either. Little while back Cam and I got all fancy for a birthday costume ball. You probably wouldn'ta recognized me. I know I didn't. Suits make me uncomfortable, but Cam liked it. You shoulda seen her outfit, it was killer... and you would've liked gettin pretty for it, I know. One of the girls there kinda reminded me of you.

Anyway... well, there was somethin I was meaning to ask you about.

Lately I-- well, I think Cam's been havin' 'em too, we been havin' these dreams. Nightmare kinda dreams.They're ... Well, it feels like yer in hell, Annie. It takes who ya know and what ya done and where ya been and it sets 'em on fire and burns 'em into the back of your eyes. It ain't just somethin', it's something. He's like... I can't describe him. If you've been havin' any bad dreams, any, I want you to write, now. Just... stop readin', and write CAROLINE on the back of an envelope and just send it to the place you always do, and a girl's gonna call you up soon as she gets it, and give you a number, and you're gonna call me. Don't ask her nothin', just get the number, and call me, okay?

I hope you thought a sec before you're readin, and then you shook yer head nope, and kept goin'. Okay, good. Whatever this thing was-- well, it musta scared Cam pretty good. She [inkblot] took off a little while ago. Turns out she went to New Orleans-- sorta home to her, I guess. It scared the hell outta me, Annie. I had that dream -- you know I never dream, I never dream-- and it wasn't... it wasn't natural. It didn't sound right, at all. It didn't have the rhythm normal... well, never mind. It's hard to explain. I had the dream and I knew it weren't right, and I knew Cam, she had bad dreams a lot-- we were stayin' together, Annie, y'might as well know, so I knew she had these real bad dreams, and if it got so bad that I was havin' em, well, it must be just's bad or worse for her, so, I went lookin' for 'er, and she was gone. So I waited in her place for the rest of the day. It was quiet there, but it wasn't the right kind of quiet. Quiet has a rhythm too. Then, when it wasn't lookin like she was comin back, I got scared worse cuz she's havin some problems with some guy... I guess I dunno too much 'bout that either, but I know enough to make me plenty mad already. And I thought maybe he mighta done somethin... but I had the sense ta hit redial on her phone. She called some club in New Orleans...

She's back now. I guess she's okay. I can't tell. You'd think I should be able to but [line scribbled out, unreadable]. Anyway-- I'll ask her, well... I dunno if I should ask, her anything maybe it would make it worse. I know I <s>don't wanna talk about</s> There's a lotta mistakes in this, sorry. What I'm sayin is, maybe it wouldn't be smart to make her go over it again. But she didn't come to me when she got scared, I don't know if she'll run again, I don't know if she'll close up on me more if I ask her. Maybe I should give her space, and eventually she'll tell me, maybe-- I don't know. Around here, it's sorta become pretty obvious I'm not the best at fending for meself. Can't much blame her. I know you don't know her, Annie. But maybe you can tell me-- What should I do?

Things might get bad, here. If that guy that keeps botherin her shows up, or if he touches her-- he's not a nice person. But you know me. Takes a lot to get me riled up. This guy is a lot. You know how I get. I know you're gonna tell me to be careful and to keep my temper and all the things ya always say. Believe me, I hear ya already.

Don't worry. If I lose my temper, it'll be because someone deserves it.

Send my love to Ma.

Love,

Oliver

[Oliver, present]

He ran his thumb down the edge of the paper, frowning down at his own uneven scrawl.
"All that's left," he told the dead air around him, "is t' mail it."
He didn't move.

<font color="#528442"><font size="1">[ September 09, 2005 06:24 PM: Message edited by: absent intent ]</font></font>

<font color="#528442" size="1">[ October 06, 2005 04:13 PM: Message edited by: absent intent ]</font>

<center>
The blues
is a low-down achin' heart disease
Like consumption killing me by degrees
I can study rain
oh, ohm drive, oh, oh, drive my blues
I been studyin' the rain and
I'm gon' drive my blues away
Goin' to the 'stil'ry stay out there all day
</center>


[ Oliver, present ]

This was not a good idea. The bluesboy was grimly aware of that. He had settled the issue in his mind, and pushed it away. Yet circumstances seemed to rebuke: the gibson, always eager for a tune, seemed subdued until it too was inescapably caught up in the elusive tune he sought. It was a fervent, almost unceasing search, as he discovered first a rhythm and then a set of notes, and couldn't drop them for fear that they might melt away like spring snow.

This song wasn't something you'd find written pretty in a music book, anyway. He doubted anyone could teach it, nor learn it, but only find their own way to it. According to some, plenty of bluesmen in the past had found it. Robert Johnson, according to Son House. Tommy Johnson. Hell, Tommy just flat out admitted it. Proud of it, even. Well, if Tommy's devil had been as nice a feller as the one Oliver had met, he could see how the bluesman didn't have a problem with it. In those days, the way to music was the way to sin, the way to easy money in a cheap bar with cheap women. It didn't stop at Delta blues, but dressed up for Storyville jazz and then for Chicago, a rotton fruit too sweet to resist. But they could play, couldn't they? He could remember the hellhound's voice, so rich, even, a real speaker's voice. Deeper and muddier than thick Mississippi water, hiding danger beneath like the glowing green eyes: But day might come when you wouldn't mind some forgiveness.

Well, ain't life a bitch. But Oliver McHale wasn't the kind of man who would buy forgiveness, no matter how much he wanted it. It wasn't forgiveness he was looking for.

Though maybe he should have been.

The problem was favors. I scratch your back, you bite my arm off. The bluesboy well knew he wasn't the quickest, cleverest trickster anyone ever knew. Were he in Johnny's shoes down in Georgia, he'd give the devil a real polite tip of his hat, smile and tell him to shove that golden fiddle where the sun don't shine. You don't play with your soul like that. Y'got one. And one only. And when that's gone, well.

The bluesboy needed a favor. The strong kind of favor, the sort he could keep in his pocket until he needed it. It seemed to him that now was the perfect time to have a favor like that.

The catch, the burr in the boot, was this favor could literally tear him apart, inside out. The bluesboy reasoned that he already had a head start on that. The urge to get this done, to remember what he'd never forgotten and carve a twisted key-- that helped. It meant he didn't have to think about Cam... or what he had done to Cam, or Cam had done to him; he didn't know which, anymore. Oliver didn't know how he'd gotten so angry, but his anger was like a freezing, thoughtless burn. It still hadn't gone entirely away, though he'd never admit it. Sure, Cam, everything is fine, he thought, tasting the edge of that anger again. You've got more things taking you apart inside, bit by bit, and you'd rather I'd stand back and let you 'handle' it.

But Oliver didn't have to like it. Nor did he have to just stand by and let it happen. And even if Cam was skipping through sunshine and daisies, he wasn't. There'd been a phone call about two hours ago that meant this nightmare wasn't just a local cloudburst. Annie was fine, thank God, but Ma was getting worse. Annie said she was getting worse pretty much all the time, but in the past couple weeks... Hard to sleep with all the screaming, he surmised.

So how to call up this favor, what to give in return for it, and keep it from turning on him? Oliver was feeling pretty damn useless right now, but that didn't mean he was going to... oh, how had she put it, she was so eloquent with insults.... "take a long walk off a short pier." And effectively, playing this song without some guards in place was suicide, minus frills and lace.

Not that he was calling up Big Red himself. The arrogance of that would probably just get him fried in his boots. He smiled; the thought struck him as funny. No, something a little more genteel, something more like that hound in white-- though without the grudge against him. A hound-- not the mindless, slavering soul-eaters, the real hounds, slick as old oil-- was something that would be able to take down the nightmare.

And, once it did, he wouldn't be able to keep it off his throat by playing-- not even Oliver could play for days at a time. A night, maybe, 24 hours at most. So either there had to be a binding deal, or a permanent restraint. That'd be great. He could call up a hound, and it could hang around for awhile before just killing them all. Maybe I'm stupid, Olvier thought. But not that stupid.

Despite what he and that gibson could do, if they took a mind to it, the bluesboy was no magic-man. He couldn't read a helpful little spell out of a book. Des might be able to. But he wasn't going to ask Des.

The question became: What did he have a hellhound might want?


* * *


Oliver stood in the middle of his living room and took in the tornado around him. Cam's comment about the beer bottle collection hadn't been considered past the moment. He hadn't discarded any of the notes he'd taken, just in case he had to go back-- but it was unlikely he'd have been able to find anything even if he had needed to backtrack.

Guitar strings, broken and new, slithered their way through leaves of paper of all kinds, from advertisements to folded newspapers; crumpled notepaper and the backs of receits held miniscule notes. Not always musical notes, but sometimes short three or four line phrases to remind him of a thought, beat, or measure. Oliver didn't read music well, feeling through his music as he went instead of following a rigid five-bar.

Despite it all, the song itself was a kind of living thing, an animal with an unnatural heartbeat. It had evolved almost on its own, a bitter, sleeping sulpher until he'd finally found a way to scrape it on concrete. It lit, awoke, unfurled, and now it was burning a slow blue flame through him. He'd found it, not made it.

And it wouldn't go away. He felt the beat in his veins, heard the tune ringing in his ears, and felt it vibrate through his chest. It was a song that wouldn't be contained, and it would go on until it was sung properly. Oliver resisted. Or he had, until now. There was something to the music that had him feeling just like a match. It was only so long he could stand up to that blues flame and not become a charred skeleton.

A week ago, when he'd watched Camilla retreat through his door and listened to it click shut with the jarring finality of prison bars, the bluesboy was forced to consider what he had left. With family in pieces, shattered by death and madness and distance, neither his sister nor his mother was first in his thoughts. No. God help him, it was music.

Except for a brief, terrifying period of blankness, Oliver had always had music. Even before Pa handed the gibson off to him, there was always Ma's voice behind the gurgle of the faucet, the radio crackling on the porch, hymns colored by stain-glass windows. Later, it was Annie and her quiet, halting soprano. And after that, when it was just him and the gibson and a whole lot of empty road...

What did he have a hellhound might want? Music. Not just the gibson's music, not just notes and tunes and melodies; not just the blues. Calling music. The music he'd used to call up trouble and keep it from sinking teeth into his throat. That music didn't just call, it controlled. And nothing out of hell was ever interested in being controlled. Or so he figured.

It took him a while, standing there staring at nothing, to think about life without rhythm. It was conceivable only from that one past experience, before he'd come back to stumble upon a familiar canary sitting in a coffee shop corner. When nothing he played had life, when any music was just noise, and everything around him dimmed to an old, hazy monochrome. Jesus.

But he couldn't wait on this Thing. Sit there and wait for It to turn on an old slideprojector behind his eyes. The blood was always red and everything else was gray. There were memories and there were fears, there were fast forwarded clips of a glinting happiness, flying by only to add contrast to the rest. God only knew what Ma saw, in her own kind of reality where there were no lines between waking and dreaming. Cam, with her less than charmed old life... he didn't know how she could stand it. Rolling everything up in cobweb and storing it away, as if the pain never existed at all. But old pain always comes back, one way or another. Gavin had proved that. Oliver hadn't a doubt the bastard could embody that nasty little truth without even trying.

Gavin. Yet another little problem. But Gavin was only a man.

Oliver figured he wouldn't need music to deal with him, assuming he had to. Cam had more powerful friends than he. But if they were going to do anything permanent to the nightmare, they'd a done it by now.

The bluesboy walked the six steps to the couch, where the gibson leaned against the couch. He considered it for a long moment, eyes running along the strings and fingers remembering the chords.

Then, in one movement, he bent, picked it up, and walked out the door.


It was time to make a deal.

() Note:
Preachin' Blues Robert Johnson

<font color="#528442" size="1">[ October 26, 2005 03:55 AM: Message edited by: absent intent ]</font>