Flicker
by MissSnark
The sound of the horses' hooves on the paved street is
soothing, hypnotic. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, until he starts to think his
heart is beating to the same rhythm. His eyelids slide shut of their own
accord; he's tired, so tired, and it's such a peaceful sound, reminding him of
better times and restful sleep with no nightmares. Clip-clop, clip-clop, and he
can dimly remember that there is a reason why he should wake up now. But the
sound is so soothing, the coach is so comfortable, and he is so, so exhausted.
When the horses stop he is jerked forward, saved from a
crash to the floor by a hand suddenly holding onto his arm, and he is instantly
awake again, safe from the nightmares once more. His arm gets patted and he
hears a soft voice asking, "Are you alright?"
He quietly settles back in the seat, murmuring a quiet
apology and a more heartfelt "thank you" to the person sitting to his
left, who gives his arm a last pat before letting go. He can make out the
silhouette of a woman, no details as the light inside the coach is faint, but
when the door opens to admit another traveler he can make out her dark hair and
green eyes with the additional light. She's looking straight ahead and he
wonders what she's looking at, or if she's simply staring off into space and
thinking, the way he often does.
It occurs to him that conversation will prevent him from
slipping away again.
"Thank you for saving me from a spectacular fall just
now. If you hadn't seen me slip in time, my head would have probably met one of
the trunks."
He hears her soft chuckle, sees her grin and feels
compelled to laugh along, until she turns to him and says, "I didn't see
you, but I felt you slip," and then, "I'm blind, you see," and
the words cause his desire to laugh to shrivel up and die. He doesn't know what
to say for a moment, whether to stammer out apologies or continue talking. What
is the proper answer in a situation like this anyway, and which one is least
likely to get him slapped? But she takes all the confusion away when her
chuckle turns into a laugh ringing through the coach. "You're thinking so
hard I can almost hear it," she teases, and he suddenly finds himself
relaxing, smiling back at her even though she couldn't see.
"It keeps my neighbors awake at night," he
quips, and she shakes her head at him. He extends his right hand to grab hold
of hers, raises it to his lips. "Since we'll be stuck next to each other
for a while, introductions seem in order? I'm Sabin Duvert, at your service." There is a short pause, and Sabin lifts his head to glance at her. But then the fingers
tighten around his, and she tells him, "Christine Denis. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
He makes the mistake of calling her
"mademoiselle" and spends a good five minutes flustered after she is
done laughing at him. Once she has calmed down, she tells him that from the
sound of him, she is old enough to be his mother and thus not suitable flirting
material. This causes his face to flush, but he presses on to ask, What he should call her then?
"Coaches are really not the best place to be
formal." She smiles. "Just call me Christine."
Her attitude reminds him a little of the women back home;
sensible, wise and always kind. He wonders suddenly where she's from and asks
her, and she tells him about her village, a small place called Châtillon that sounds just as quiet and lackluster as St.
Laurent du Pont and, as it turns out, isn't even that
far away. He tries to remember if he passed by it on his way out, if he
might've run into her on the streets and whether it was fated that they were
sitting here, in this coach, together. When he asks her however, she tells him
she's lived in
They pass by an old hostel, and Christine tells him that
people believe the hostel is inhabited by the ghosts of prostitutes that died
there. It had once been very busy, she says, but then one day a customer came
running down the stairs shrieking at the top of his lungs, claiming a spirit
had tried to choke him in his sleep. He hadn't been believed at first, but more
people started to see these mysterious beings, and slowly the hostel began to
empty. The owner had put it on the market six years ago but no one had bought
it, and when Sabin peeks through the small window
inside the coach he could see that people circle around it, always staying at a
one meter distance at least.
When the coach rides alongside the river, Sabin tells her the story of how he almost drowned in his
village while inspecting a river monster that was supposed to reside there. He
explains that he'd tied himself to a tree trunk with a long rope that went
around his belt, and had dived in, armed with more rope and a knife he'd
smuggled from the kitchen table. He'd seen no monster, but he had lost his
knife when he stabbed it at a frog, and at this Christine hides her face in her
hands and laughs as quietly as she could. It makes him grin, how easy it is to
talk to her, to entertain her, and when the coach stops at Rue de Lyon he is
honestly disappointed that he has to get off.
But the feeling quickly fades when she stands up and grabs
her bag, and he reaches out to take the bag from her before she gets a chance
to explain. "Seems like we're still going in the same
direction." Her smile seems just as pleased as his, but it became
more when he offers to see her home. "After all," he jokingly adds,
"it is dangerous for beautiful young ladies to walk alone this late at
night." That gains him a very unladylike snort, but she nonetheless takes
his hand and lets her help her out of the coach, then guide her to the small
street she said she lived in, all the way up to her door.
"Say, Sabin?"
"Yes?"
"Would you let me feel your face? I would very much
like to know what you look like."
He doesn't even have to consider it. "Of
course. It only seems fair."
Her hands are surprisingly soft, gentle, as her fingertips
trail over his face, starting from his chin and slowly trailing upwards. He
stands perfectly still, letting her do as she would, touched
by the request and how intimate it felt. She touches his long hair and asks him
what colour it is, a little shocked when he tells her
its color is white. He pauses, and tells her he was born different. She lets it
go at that, and he represses a sigh. Her hands drift from ears to eyes and he
closes them, and her fingertips ghost over them as he
tells her they are grey. She nods, and her fingers slowly spread, sliding up
and down his face. And then, she stops.
Underneath her fingers, two pairs of red eyes spring to
life while the grey ones subtly change color. She shudders and pulls her hands
away, mouth opening to scream, but a dark hand with long nails quickly clamp
over it. The other claw goes for her neck, probing, squeezing, jabbing, and
then finally spilling her red blood with one sharp nail. Her heart stops, pulse
gone, and the Anju lets the
cold body fall to the ground. Then it easily slips away into the shadows.
It is ironic, how only the blind could see the darkness
within.
===