A stale white room, antiseptic invading the air. Dust particles float through the sunlight streaming through the white blinds, landing on pearlescent floors. Golden light livens the suffocating room in ochre colors, contrasting the black hair laid across the flattened pillows.
Blunt black bangs stick to her forehead.
His shoes are old, he’s almost outgrown them. Old and dirty and beat up old black converse. His socks look like pee, at least from the lighting they do. The red stripes across the top of them look too dark to be red.
His knee still has a plaster on it from who knows how long ago. The blood is still there, peeking beneath. It matches his shorts. His yellow shirt matches the sunlight. And the wilting flowers he picked, now standing at her bedside.
The walls are too tall, the door looks too big. It has a weird rectangle window, with small metal lines in it. Why do the handles on all the doors look like that? Why aren’t they round, like back home? They’re gray, they should be that bronzy brown.
They should be the same color as the cushion he’s sitting on. The wooden legs made it hard to sit on, and the height is too high. The rest of the bench is empty on both sides, the air is too big around him.
The sink in the corner is weird, the metal sounds like the beeping is bouncing off of it. The beeping won’t stop with its constant high notes. It’s the same sound as when his violin string broke. The high note string, he doesn’t remember the name for it.
The water is barely noticeable in the sink, the heat is unbearable. His shirt may as well be yellow from his sweat. The air conditioning does barely anything to stave off the heat on his skin. It’s loud, the air conditioning, and there aren’t even any ceiling fans.
People keep walking past the door window. Most of them are in black, or at least it’s the only color he can see beside the doctors is blue and doctors in white. The sunlight doesn’t change the color of the door, he thinks it's a wood door.
“Matthew?” The woman in the bed immediately goes into a coughing fit, pale skin slowly turning flushed and red as her coughing becomes harsher. Her hair covers her face as she tries to cover her mouth.
He’s holding out a cup of water to her, it's in a paper plastic cup with light green and purple decals. It’s faded and hard to see.
She takes it, her glassy bluish green eyes meet his as she pats his head. She quickly retreats her shaking hand.
“How was your day at school sweetie?” She asks, she’s cradling the cup in her hands.
He doesn’t know if she drank it, but there was a pause. Her hands don’t look like they’re shaking, but it might just be because they're resting on her abdomen. The calluses on the pads of her fingers stand out.
“Matthew, honey?” She asks, she sounds worried.
“It was fine.”
The nightgown she’s wearing looks too thin, he should bring her her pink one from home. Maybe she’s shaking because she’s cold, he should bring her a blanket too. The one with the sunflower sewed into the corner.
“Matthew, come on,” She leans over to him, picking him up and setting him on the bed with her.
“I-,” He doesn’t know what she wants him to say. The same beeping is louder up here.
“I’m sorry honey. The room doesn’t feel that nice does it?”
“It’s big. And it’s empty. It’s not nice.”
Her head tilts, he can tell from her hair shifting down on the left, or is it her right?
“It’s not nice, I’m sorry,” she says, her hands coming to clasp his, “Look at me, baby.”
Her eyes aren’t glassy. Her eyebrows are furrowed, hidden by blunt cut bangs. Sally has the same haircut at school. His mom has eyebags, setting her apart from the bright stale room. She looks lived in, and tired.
“Everything’s going to be okay, okay?” She says, trying to get him to meet her eyes, “We’ll be home before you know it.”
“How long?”
She hesitates for a moment, the red lines in her eyes made prominent from them looking off to the side, “I don’t know honey, but soon,” Her eyes meet his again, the same glassy as before.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry,” She cries, trying to keep her composure.
She’s crying, tears streaming down her face as she repeats the words. Her head bows in front of him, still repeating the words and blubbering. The beeping is faster now, erratic.
She pulls him closer to her, hugging him tight to her chest. She buries her face into his hair as she smoothes it down. She doesn’t smell like her purple flower perfume.
He hugs back, his arms aren’t long enough to wrap around her.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” She keeps repeating, now resting her head on his.
Her chin rests against the top of his head, the muscles in her neck are taught against his forehead as she pleads, “Please, God, please.”
“Just let me be selfish, just let me be selfish for a little bit longer.”
His eyes snap open, flush against his comforter.
Looking up, the plaster white walls look gray from the ambient light. It’s barely a contrast against the white blankets and it makes his mind swirl to even try to differentiate.
With a groan he sits himself up, sitting in the middle of his bed and facing the great big window. The sunlight is bright and white against the sprawling city scape, bouncing off the adjacent tall towers windows. Stars against the black windows are also causing his head to begin to pound.
He’s starting to think he just has a headache. Or a migraine.
Flopping back on the bed, the apartment is incredibly silent. He doesn’t know if that bodes well or not. Looking to the right of him, his pillows and bedside table are turned sideways, and the clock is impossible to read from this view.
Turning over to read it, the green numbers saying 11:17 am. It’s later than he would like, but at least he got more rest than he has in the last week. Pulling himself out of the bed, he flops to the ground.
The loud bang from the upper floor catches Ninum’s attention, before she goes back to lounging on the couch. Her Demonia sandals are kicked up on the couch arm as she sorts through the cards in her hand. The box is lying on the cracked glass table, reading; ‘The Rider Tarot Deck.’
She’s using the magnifying glass to look at all the small details on every card, trying to find anything new she hasn’t seen before. Coming across the Ten of Cups, she goes over it before stopping on the bottom left corner. There’s a dick tree above the river, two technically.
The sounds of footsteps coming down the stairs draws her away from her amusement, she leans up to take a look at Matthew reaching the floor. He’s still wearing yesterday's clothes.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” The words stop him in his tracks, unfortunately not the same for the smell. The rancid smell sends her reeling, the same one from the bag has clung to his clothes, maybe him as well.
“What?” He genuinely doesn’t notice the smell, having slept in it likely dulled his senses.
“Bro, go take a shower! Or change! You smell like shit,” She waves a hand in front of her face, pointing at the stairs. Her eyes feel like they are watering, glad that at least the trash was tied into a bow.
He hasn’t gotten around to picking up his dirty clothes, so he’s in short supply, “What else am I supposed to wear?”
“The fu- you know what, here,” She throws some clothes at him, having quickly summoned them, barely thinking about what she called out. She doesn’t even want to turn her head in his direction, “Change!”
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His headache only seems to get worse the more she talks, so he relinquishes himself to changing, heading back up the stairs. The way up the stairs, the up and down of it, worsens his headache. He’ll relish the more time away from her if he does take a shower. He needs to take the laundry out of there anyways.
Ninum goes back to her deck, trying to shuffle them without gagging. She doesn’t think that smell will ever leave her nose. It was horrible, musty and dead like, probably the spilt blood having gotten on him. Serves him right, maybe his attitude will fix itself along with the smell.
Bending over the table, her Vivienne Westwood belt slightly digs into her stomach over her Deftones black tank top. She goes back to setting the cards out, three cards. Flipping them over, and without much regard to what is pictured on the cards, she summons flames above them. With a flick of her wrist, the air alights with small candlestick flames above the cards. Each card to a flame.
Above the first, Three of Wands titled towards reversed, a man of yellow flame takes form from the fire with longer golden flames dancing around his head. Slowly spreading out, the man dances as three flames lower towards his level of dancing in the air. They orbit around him as he spins, each of them at different heights, lower and higher than the others and constantly shifting position as they shift slowly to blinding white and back.
The second, The Hanged Man directly on its side, an upside down man of blue flame with a folded leg and hands tied behind his back. A thin rope, entangling itself around the foot is upward bound, the white flame dies out around two feet above him. Well, two feet as in his magnitude of two feet. He slowly rotates, held up only by his roped foot, while completely stationary as he is consumed by multicolored fire.
Lastly, Death upright, slowly has flames circle above the card. Four balls of white flames slowly elongate into strong legs, then erupting into a larger midsection, the horse's head coming along right after. A skeletal man makes himself known, bones forming out of the back of the flaming horse. First the vertebrae, then the skull. The ribcage forms rapidly as the arms and legs, femurs and radiuses, metacarpals and metatarsals, form with it. Armor, metal of flaming yellows, shatters across the bones and body, decorating the white horse in blue flames, the same as the feathered plume of the golden helmet made on the skull. A long staff forms in the hand of the skeleton, blue flame creating a flag from the golden stick made of focused flame. The horse gallops around in a circle, the armored skeleton parading the flag.
The forms mirror in her eyes, the yellows and blues bathing her face in light. Her eyes, large and orange, the flames having a lack of black mirror from the small of the pupil. Eyes taking in their flickering, dancing in tandem with the flames.
Then putting the cards back in the deck. The flames dying abruptly, the light leaving.
Reshuffling, setting them out, flipping, dancing people of fire, and returning.
Reshuffling, setting out, flipping, dancing flames, returning.
Reshuffling, setting, flipping, dancing, returning.
Reshuffling, setting, flipping, dancing, returning.
Shuff-
Steps pound down the stairs, rushing down after having taken a quick shower. Again snapping Ninum out of her groove, this time not with an insulting presence and smell. Matthew looks better and smells better, the rancid odor of dead bird no longer clinging to him.
Dressed in the clothes she picked out, he’s wearing a tight off-white collared t-shirt and wide leg jeans over white socks. The lack of belt makes the look a bit too simple, but it’ll have to do. Looking spiffy, Ninum thinks. He could do with more accessories, maybe a necklace.
Ignoring her ogling, and rather than wasting any time talking, he makes a beeline for the fridge. Pulling open the stainless steel, the door hides his actions from the woman's place on the couch. A bit annoyed from the complete disregard, she takes after him into the kitchen, the cards left next to the magnifying glass.
“So,” She starts, jumping into the kitchen and taking in the blandness of the monochrome, “What’s for breakfast?” The kitchen luckily has deep green cabinets, but they border on black, so the monochrome only makes itself more known with the marble countertops.
Pulling out of the fridge, holding a single yogurt, “You need to eat?” He hadn’t thought it was necessary for a demon to eat, he was just minding his manners before.
Ninum takes a moment before she responds, not quite sure how she got stuck with an idiot of a contractor, “It’s for pleasure,” the dullness of her voice only proves her disappointment.
Matthew isn’t entirely surprised by the revelation, the likelihood of her gaining sustenance out of sucking the life out of people sounds fairly probable. Choosing to be nice for the moment, minding his manners, “Did you want something?”
“Yes, actually, I did. Have anything you’d recommend off the menu?” She attempts to mind her manners as well, finding it a bit too early to start squabbling. No doubt Matthew would be grateful that they were on the same page.
Something tugs at the back of Matthews mind, as if he was forgetting something. Not having any foods he can think of come to the forefront of his mind, and not wanting to share his other two yogurts, he starts turning the small convenience bowl around in his hand. Looking down, the purple lid has vanilla on it, and turning it over, the black lettering on the bottom
—
Matthew picks up the trash bag from its place before the hallway, “Please don’t burn down the kitchen and the pancake should be flipped when there are bubbles on the edges,” Looking back at Ninum in the kitchen, “Please.”
With a role of her eyes, hidden from Matthew due to her back turned, “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Take that thing out already, please.”
The idea of leaving her in the kitchen leaves a bad taste in Matthews mouth, but at this point he isn’t sure as to whether it's about her or the smell of the trash. Walking down the short hallway, the large gray wall shrouds whatever it may be that Ninum is doing in the kitchen, leading him to the doorway. Luckily the walk to the trash chute isn’t that far from the apartment door, only about a door down.
Opening the door, two trash bags in hand, the shadow falls over him before he realizes it. Walking out the door, Matthew crashes into Sandie. Somehow he keeps a grip on the trash as Sandie catches and steadies him.
“Oh, wow, hey. You alright?” Sandie eyes bounce around at what Matthew is wearing, and what he’s carrying.
“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” Matthew responds. His throat has that crawling feeling back in it from before, just slightly different in a way he can’t pinpoint. Things just have a penchant for becoming awkward whenever Sandie is involved, Matthew would rather not spend any longer than necessary talking.
Sandie has yet to say anything in response, so the silence is deafening for the both of them. The long hallways seem to echo the sound of nothing. Except for the sound of faint chewing. From Bernadette. Hair freshly cut short.
Sandie looks back at her for a moment, realizing that it almost slipped his mind, “Oh, yeah. So, um. Would you mind?” He says pointing back at his little sister with an impish smile, “My mom called, said she needed me to, uh, help with moving.”
Matthew’s mind starts to race with thoughts he doesn’t even know, not entirely sure what to do in this situation. As far as he’s aware, Sandie’s mom is out of town, last he knew, much less in contact with her son. Again, he isn’t entirely sure he wants to go digging back into Santiago’s life. Sandie, in the meanwhile, has barely moved from looking directly at Matthew, noticing how his hair is slightly wet.
Bernadette, dodging past Sandie and Matthew, advances into the apartment past both of their views. Matthew, now dealing with the anxiety of Bernadette being anywhere near a demon, now also has to attempt to shake off Sandie. And throw out the trash.
“Well, sure, I guess. Not much of a choice now? Sorry, I need to throw this away,” He says with a quick polite smile, brushing past him to the chute. Surely this won’t take him very long?
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” Sandie says, staying by the door and holding it open.
Ninum however, only now notices the kid with red headphones on her neck behind her on the other side of the kitchen island. Greeting her with a, “Yo.”
“You’re the prostitute,” The girl says, with a lack of tact. Her head tilts from the smell of something cooking, trying to see behind the demon at the stove.
“Wow. Thanks,” Ninum says, deadpan look on her face from the unfiltered words. Realizing the kid is trying to see what’s cooking, an amused smile spreads across her face, “Chocolate or strawberry?”
Bernadette’s surprised at the question, “Chocolate, why?” But she answers nonetheless, questioning what it is she’s asking about. Her questions are answered when Ninum turns around with a stack of chocolate chip pancakes.
Ninum sets the delicacy in the middle of the island, before turning around to get plates. The sound of the footsteps distract her, the sound of them squeaking, and peeking past her raised arm she sees Bernadette attempting to see over the lip of the counter. Quickly a thought comes to mind on how to rectify the situation. For the both of them, the faint chatter of the two guys is out of sight and out of mind.
Placing the plates on the counter, two of them, as well as the cutlery, Ninum makes her way to the side with the sink. Out of view from the child, Ninum picks up a stool and brings it around. The tall metal with clear orange glass making up the seat reminds Bernadette of chocolate orange sticks, or at least the filling.
As Bernadette climbs up and takes her seat, Ninum brings another one around for herself, “So, why are you here?”
“My brother said he needs Matthew to babysit me,” She says, pushing her light tan jacket up her arms and pulling three pancakes onto her plate. Returning the question with a raised eyebrow and raised fork, “Why are you here?”
Ninum tells the kid the truth, “He sold his soul and I’m here to drag him down to hell,” pulling over three pancakes herself. Only two pancakes are left on the main plate.
The kid barely even bats an eye at the words, digging into the chocolate chips as Sandie yells into the apartment, “Yo, La Llorona! Be nice for Matthew!”
“‘Kay!” She yells back, not looking up from picking up a whole pancake with her fork.
Ignoring the redheads yell, and the rushed footsteps coming into the apartment, “How old even are you, kid?” Ninum knows that Matthew is around twenty three, demon perks, but the new variable she has no idea about. If she needs babysitting, as well as that height, she can’t be older than fifteen.
“Twelve,” Bernadette continues trying to shove an entire pancake in her mouth as Matthew comes around the corner.
Matthew, first noticing the smell of burning, rushes past the two towards the stove. Quickly pulling out a lid from the bottom cupboard, he slams it on top of the round pan as he simultaneously turns the fire off with fumbling hands. The aroma of smoke only seems to cling around the stove top, likely why the two ignored it.
“You okay?” Bernadette asks while on her last pancake. Her hair is much shorter than the night before, now cut into a Betty Boop type of style. It makes her gold crucifix necklace more noticeable.
Matthew, reclining on the counter, hands in his hair, attempting to ignore the bubbling in his chest, “Yeah, I’m good.”
Ninum’s plate is entirely cleaned, and hopping down from her chair, thighs sticking to it for a moment from the shortness of her khaki booty shorts, she brushes past him. Gesturing to the plate behind her, “Help yourself, I’ll clean up.”
The last two pancakes bewilder him. How the hell did she make those, he wonders. He doesn’t even own any chocolate chips.