Her Red City (WattyAwards2013 entry- new version)

Her Red City-Chapter Two, 'Many Souls'. Part 1

It took time, but eventually I found I’d had enough of crying. There was a thick feeling behind my eyes and in my throat that I remembered from the other time I’d broken down; after the death of...ah. No. I couldn’t even think about my family. I could feel again, and that was a terrible kind of relief; I needed to continue, into that vast collage of buildings, probably pasted together by some architect on acid. The woman by me held my hand and dabbed at my face with a tissue. She inhaled, and with the sound of her voice came a feeling of surfacing from dark waters.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, nodding up at the ceiling. The mirror reflected masses of black curls set above a narrow face, stitches across a pale chest and forehead, and a bare expanse of skin, under which could faintly be seen the flow of dark red blood. My breathing was shallow. Misinterpreting my silence, she said,

‘Don’t worry, you can change the vein thing if you like. It reflects your mood.’

‘It?’ my voice cracked on the one word. My first word.  She ignored it. 

‘Come on. Let’s get you up and dressed.’ She released my hand and stood, smoothing out her uniform, and looked at me expectantly. With surprising ease, I lifted my torso from the table and swung around long legs, dropping lightly from it with the support of long arms. There was a steel bin filled with roughly hewn chunks of flesh and discarded bones, and as she tossed the used tissue into it  I looked away. I’d begun to feel self conscious. I took a few hesitant steps, and she nodded after appraising my motor skills, offered a curt ‘this way’, and led me through a white door.

We’d walked into a labyrinthine hall I imagined a movie star should frequent; thousands of costumes and outfits set on large shelves like books, and a ladder by the door.

‘So, what kind of look do you go for?’ she asked, rocking back and forth on her heels. I was still taking in the scene before me, but managed to mutter,

‘I dunno. Casual?’

‘English casual? American? Japanese?’ she looked like she had a list memorised so I quickly interjected.

‘American casual, please.’

‘Ah, aisle 72.’ She set off through the maze and I followed close behind, with only my arms to protect my modesty. I grabbed a large piece of orange Indian weave fabric from a nearby shelf and wrapped the swathes of cloth around myself. She was a little ahead so I sped up, though I could easily have found her by following the sound of her formal heels against the waxed wooden floor.

‘Your choice surprises me,’ she said, ‘I had you down for more of a Victorian-romantic type. You know, with all that hair?’ I reached up to touch my scalp, and found a mane instead.

‘Oh?’ was all I could say in response. There was a silence which stretched on for a little too long. I focused on my feet, and then on making my steps as silent as possible. Soon after I thought I’d perfected it, we came to a stop in front of a reasonably bland display of jeans, hoodies, small tops and trainers.

‘Go ahead and pick’, she said, smiling encouragingly. I couldn’t suss her; her mannerisms were in constant flux. Turning to the wall, I decided that everything looked the same, so after a moment of detached rifling I pulled out a dark green sweater, some blue jeans and a pair of plain sneakers. She looked at them sceptically, and walked over to a nearby shelf; I blushed lightly as she returned with a pair of socks and a set of underwear and placed it on the pile of clothes in my arms.  She turned around, and I quickly slipped into the outfit. I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned, and we began the journey back to the room where I'd lost the only body I'd ever known.

Before I left to return to the surface, the lady gave me a slip of paper, which looked like a train ticket, and a handshake, before we exchanged farewells.

 'Good luck, majesty.' She said, offering a mock curtsy and a wink. I raised a sceptical eyebrow.

'Uh...thanks. Call me Kat.'