“I can’t explain myself,” said Alice, “because I am not myself, you see.”
Is he standing? Sitting? He feels so lost, he has no body awareness at all. Instead it feels as if he’s just drifting in space. A universe drenched in vermillion. Floating. Floating in soothing white noise.
Tap.
There is a shadow of a touch, right between his shoulder blades, anchoring him. Light. Cool. Tiny. The size of the tip of a finger perhaps. It barely touches his bare skin. For a moment he wonders if he is just imagining it, a last hallucination while his brain is dying from lack of oxygen.
Tap.
Goosebumps spread like an avalanche down his back, leaving icy numbness in their wake. Vegas waits… and there it comes again.
Tap.
He exhales painfully. There is something he is supposed to remember but he draws a blank. Something important. Something he is not supposed to forget and yet here he is, scrambling after his skipping thoughts, chasing through the white noise after the ripples to remember.
Tap.
The finger comes to rest against his skin and stays in place. Vegas shivers. Breathing once again becomes secondary. The pressure between his shoulder blades increases ever so slightly, bringing a hint of pain with it. Like a sharp fingernail digging steadily into his already overly sensitive skin. Pressing down down down only to withdraw without breaking contact. Resting in place, unmoving, a blunt icicle poised to stab him, impaling him like a butterfly pinned to a board in the natural history museum.
“It’s called a Papilio memnon, Vegas. Lovely, isn’t it? Only the males are ink black like this. You can look, but don’t touch, all right? Never touch a butterfly’s wings. They are very fragile.”
This time the pressure is more pronounced when the fingernail once again digs into his back. Right between his black wings. Black wings that are black no more, they are drenched in blood, so very red….
“Cymothoe sangaris, Vegas. They are not native. They do not belong here.” Just like me.
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…and the pressure becomes so unpleasant that it snaps him right back into his oxygen-deprived nightmare. He tenses automatically, instinctively leaning forward and away from the contact, only to freeze just a second later as he remembers that he mustn’t move. He cannot remember why, but a growing sense of distress brings with it the realisation that he messed up. He should not have moved. And so he leans back until he once again feels the fingertip making contact with his sweat-drenched skin—and then some more, impaling himself on that fingernail until he can feel it slicing through his skin, sinking into his flesh. Making up for his mistake.
“Are you listening?! Are. You. Listening?! Such a fucking disappointment, just like your mother!”
Vegas’ breath hitches. His heart stutters and then picks up at an even faster pace. It shouldn’t be humanly possible— surely sooner rather than later something has got to give, and everything (his heart) will come to a screeching halt.
The pressure withdraws, the fingertip coming to rest gently against his skin. Something trickles down his spine. Sweat? Blood? He is starting to feel seriously dizzy, the sound of his racing heartbeat even invading the safety of the white noise with its persistent frantic throbbing.
And then the pressure increases once more, the edge of the fingernail finding the open wound it previously left behind without fail, it's grinding into his flesh, deeper this time, and the pain it brings cuts through the dizziness and carries him straight into….
“Begin by slowly exhaling all of your air out. Then, gently inhale through your nose to a slow count of 4. Hold at the top of the breath for a count of 4. Then gently exhale through your mouth for a count of 4. At the bottom of the breath, pause and hold for a count of 4. You can do that, right? Detective, I know you think this is ridiculous but please, let’s give it a try. Just once, okay?”
He remembers! The relief is so immense that he almost accidentally sways forward again, but he catches himself at the last second and just freezes in place. Like the pinned, bloody butterfly he is. He remembers. And despite his racing heart, despite being on the very edge of passing out because he is hyperventilating like hell, some of the tension drains from his body. It must have been noticeable because the fingernail stops drilling into his muscles and retreats to its resting position.
The white noise fades into the background for a moment, as soft-spoken words slide to the forefront of his consciousness, whispered by a voice that feels like liquid silk. “Give me a colour, Vegas.” Mahogany. Cadmium Red. Carmine. Cinnabar.
Vegas feels an increase of heat at his bare back and it makes the hairs on his nape stand up. He waits. Soon enough, hot breath is feathering along the damp back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. The heat intensifies and a whiff of air tickles his left ear.
“Vegas…?” The voice wraps itself around him like a caress. There is an unspoken question in this word. A question he cannot pretend not to understand. A question he cannot ignore. Must not ignore.
God.
Damn.
Fucking.
Scarlet.
“Green.”