Chapter 2: Chasing Shadows

(Deep Purple)

Weeks ago, Blaire Naphara selected another small hotel in another small town. This time somewhere in the Midwest. It was a seedy place that hasn’t seen a good year in ages. Half the street lights were out. Paint peeled off the buildings like nail polish chipped off a broken-down actress’ neglected nails. Pavements and streets were littered and scarred by years of misuse. She walked slowly, noting everything. She didn’t recognize any of the faces staring at her as she passed. They didn’t recognize her either, which bumped up the place on her list of places to be.

As she approached the hotel building on foot, she carefully marked any nooks or crannies where someone might hide. The main reason she decided on this particular place was that there was no building directly across from it, only a gas station. She wouldn’t have to worry about someone casing the place through a window in an opposite building. The other benefit was the one camera covering the entire street. Most towns these days, even small ones like this, had more camera coverage. This single camera was in front of one of the three bars, and she made a mental note to never visit or pass the establishment without a proper hat or headscarf and sunglasses.

The hotel is brown brick, with small beige trimmed windows. The name is right above the door in red and yellow, which doesn’t go with the aesthetic of the building itself, but fits perfectly with the signage of the bars, take-away diners and sex shop lining the rest of the street. She has visited all the establishments since she arrived, making her presence known to the employees and the clientele.

The town, although small, has been lucrative to her profession. This isn’t the reason she is still here, though. An important anniversary is looming closely, and its darkness hangs above her like an enormous avalanche ready to destroy her world. In her mind, she named the upcoming event Darkness Returns.

Ten fucking years. Tiredness extends to the depths of her soul. She eats sporadically, hardly tasting anything, no matter how delicious. Sometimes breathing seems too much effort, but her brain continues to signal chest muscles to move her lungs and heart. Her body betrays her constantly. Thus, they are in a love-hate relationship. She doesn’t feed it well; it denies her sleep. She longs for death; it keeps on living.

From the corner of her eye she sees a shadow moving. She turns to look at the place, but there is nothing. Nothing at all. Just a wall and a floor and an unmade bed stinking of sweat and mental torture.

Within the hotel room, the air is humid, despite the AC that has been grumbling steadily all day and night. Once, weeks ago -she can hardly remember how long she’s been here- she opened the window, hoping for a cool waft of air. All she got was diesel and gas fumes from the station, and the laughter and catcalling from whores and passers-by in the street.

The fumes she isn’t too mad about. A freak love for the smell is a quirk left over from childhood. The noise she can’t tolerate. If the sounds were music, it would be totally acceptable, but human voices irk her. Especially when the volume of conversation was too low for her to discern words and context. They might be plotting her death. Sure, she longs for death, but we all want it to be quick and painless, don’t we?

Furthermore, whispers or conversations that don’t include her is just another reminder of how isolated she became since she left home. Her only contact with humans now is work related or a quickie in a bar’s back alley or bathroom stall. Customers are looking for a quick and easy fix to the problems of their lives. Her potions and charms do the trick. They don’t stay long, five to ten minutes, if that. She snickers at the irony of being able to fix other people’s lives, but not her own. Everything got fucked up ten years ago, and life’s been a steady downhill whirlpool ever since.

Her room is right above the entrance, so when the night personnel arrive, red lights flicker on. The lights above the hotel’s sign board is loud and red. A rhythmic zing sound radiates all night long, reminding her of the blue light in Red King’s kitchen that zapped flies and mosquitos. That was blue light. Calm. Collected. Cool. This light is red. Red for blood. Blood for battle. Blaire’s mother picked this name because she wanted a tough daughter. A warrior. A fighter. Blaire the battlefield.

The first night she walked down the narrow stairs to complain at the reception desk. Insisted that she wanted another room. Right away. There weren’t any available with a window to the front of the building, as she requested when she arrived. By the third night, she assumed the light was just another punishment from the gods, and made a kind of peace. In some weirds way it fits her mood and name. Red, the colour of blood. The colour of fire. The colour of madness.

The room is cheap and without luxuries, as one would expect from a one star establishment. Walls covered in faded green wallpaper. The bedcovers, like the wallpaper, have a fern design in multi-layers stamped in a configuration she is yet to comprehend. To keep to the theme, some not-so-bright spark had placed a huge plastic fern in the corner left of the window. Its only purpose, as far as Blaire can discern, is to house two daddy-longlegs spiders and their toxic webs of victims. A small writing desk stood beneath the window, with a rickety chair she uses only while truly brave, or seriously drunk. Tonight is such an occasion, and to celebrate, she takes a deep swig from the seventh bottle of red wine for the day.

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Blaire Naphara is trying, unsuccessfully, to drown a ruthless case of heebie-jeebies. She has been expecting them for days, since she’s not slept four hours in three days. Heebie-jeebies is a sure sign of the return of her old friend, insomnia. Together, the two walk hand-in-hand, like a couple who no longer care what other people think of their public displays of affection. Insomnia, her old lover, comes and goes, and usually makes his pending return known in subtle ways. Jittery hands. Night sweats. A super highway running peak traffic of messages in her brain; a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings criss-crossing each other.

And memories. They haunt her. A million memories flashing through her mind. If she closes her eyes, trying to shut them out, they appear on the inside of her lids. Family pictures and movies of people she hasn’t seen or talked to in ten long, lonely years. They are with her still, caught in her mind, inscribed on her brain. She hasn’t been able to outrun them yet. Maybe she never will.

This is what she deserves, anyway. She doesn’t deserve peace or joy. Not her. Not after what she did.

In the corner of her left eye, a shadow appears in front of the fern. It’s a fleeting darkness. The shape of it was vaguely familiar. Her head whips left immediately, but it dissipates before both eyes reach the specter. Her heart beats heavily in her tight chest. She leans back on the unstable chair, and up-ends the bottle into her gaping mouth. The wine splurges into her face, down her neck and t-shirt.

On the shirt, Alice Cooper clung to a mic stand, his head tossed back while unheard lyrics shot out of his wide open mouth. Or maybe he is drinking the wine she spills. She giggles at the notion that she’s sharing something with another human being. The idea is ludicrous, of course. She has no friends and hasn’t seen or talked to her family since… well, what feels like forever.

She is lonely, but not completely cut off from people. Some nights she drinks at bars with people. Old people and young people. Business people and sweaty laborers. Rich folk and poor. She listens to people’s stories. Some with happy endings, but most without. She dances to a band or her favorite song, but is always alone in the crowd. She never invites anyone home, or goes home with anyone, even if invited. Everything about her life is superficial.

Blaire never stays in one place for too long. It is dangerous. People want to know your story. Where you come from. What you’ve done. Where you’re going. And her story is not something shareable. It is nasty, dirty, and perilous. Telling it can get her killed. She’s done that, in the beginning, when she was new to living on the run. She thought if she was careful with what she revealed, nothing would happen.

Something happened, and she barely made it out alive. If she had not been from the Snake Clan, if her grandfather wasn’t Red King, she would have died in that back alley. For sure, that knife would have struck her heart. But her name is Blaire, and instinct moved in swiftly. All her years of training under Red King’s direction kicked in and she slithered past the two men with only a shallow cut on the upper arm. Her life was intact, but her ego was forever scarred. True rest has forsaken her since. It wasn’t the only attack. She still wears the scars from the last encounter on her cheek.

Blaire drops the empty bottle on the threadbare carpet. It makes a soft thud noise and then rolls towards the right, where the bathroom door awaits her next visit. Maybe she’ll go there later. Not yet, though. She doesn’t have the courage to see herself in the mirror under the sharp light. She reaches for the hotel’s phone, lifts the receiver and dials one for reception. A woman answers immediately.

“Can you send me a bottle of hard liquor?” she says, trying not to sound like death warmed up. “With a clean class and a bucket of ice.”

“Sure we can,” the bright voice chimes down the line. “What would you like?”

“Hmmm,” she hums, pondering. “Something yellow. Or gold. Or amber. I’m mourning. Yellow goes with mourning moods.”

“Yellow?” The brightness has left the receptionist’s voice.

“Yes, yellow,” Blaire repeats, this time not even trying to hide the dark mood that has been with her for days. “Not gin. Whiskey.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The speaker sounded unsure about the command.

“Send the best you have. Something that goes down smooth. The cheap shit burns all the way down and out.”

A soft giggle at this, but it’s clearly forced. “I’ll tell the barman, ma’am. Don’t you want something to eat with that?”

A memory from the past slips in. Long tables loaded with food in a hall. Somber faces. Men in dark suits, whispering. Women in black dresses moving between the kitchen, the tables, and the men. Soft voices speaking, retelling familiar stories. It could have been any of the funerals she’d been at, but she knows it is Red King’s. He insisted that a live band play to drown out the sorrow. Of course, the music didn’t cover their weeping. In fact, it only exaggerated the sobs, accentuated it.

“Momma always insisted on egg salad sandwiches at funerals. Can I have that?”

On the other side of the line, a sound of paper moving as the woman flips through the menu. Blaire imagines her lips drawn in a thin line of annoyance. “It’s not on our menu, but I’m sure the kitchen can make it.”

“That would be just great,” Blaire answers, this time forcing some kindness into the lie. “Thank you.”

She moves towards the window with a sudden uneasiness. This time of the afternoon, the sun shone directly at the front of the hotel, making the panes reflective as mirrors. No-one will see her watching the street below. The alcohol fog dissipates swiftly. With acute senses, she scrutinizes the scene below, eyes darting towards the shadows first, the light later.

She should have left sooner. This is the longest she’s been in one place for years. Sloppy. Negligent. Playing with sure death. Or maybe she is just tired of running. Ready to face the consequences of her actions. Ready to drink deep from the well of sorrow. Step into Hades. Ready for worms to eat her flesh, and fire to burn her soul. Forever and ever, amen.

If the Bull Tribe found her right now, she won’t even fight back. These ten years sure as fuck stripped her of any reason to live.