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Late Autumn, November 2033
Colorado Mountain Plaza
Gloomily drenched in a taste of oily slate oozing out against melancholia, within this foreboding backroom of the pharmacy, it seemed to be forever tunneling above her head. Fortress shimmering shields of lethal-silver, flickering with faded heat, but inside, within the permacrete walls of a mall, the mutilated essence of dead culture, the light burned in the veins of two figurines. An inferno of stride and grit compatible for archangel elite. Pale sunlight filtering through the perished glass window from the tiny perseverance of sol, spilling across the creamy-decked walls and abandoned shelves like the dried-up ichor of slain hope. Chips of crystallized shards on the bleak floor welcome the duo like a doormat.
And somehow the desolate halls were illuminated. Everything haloed in a winter wonderland of jugulars; slashed, bleeding, draining.
Her heart is a wall of stormclouds, thunder plundering against her rib-cage. There remains an echo of the past in her soul. A crooking and curling artery, foretold to be warmer and golden beams, scalding presently into smoke-poisoned loss. Unfurling over a bittersweet undercurrent. It reminds her of the stale air before lightning strikes, hair-raising far-off crackling muffled by the pounding of a pulse. She sets out with intentions, a calling resonating within her; and thought she knew the way to go but as her mind wanders blind the winds of change did blow. Combative gales seized her like a feature, filthy and doused with heavy streaks of mud. Here, she just wanted to lay her head down, upon the blissful embrace of springtime and peace, and yet her skull felt like lead.
A man dying quietly, like silk, and slept under a killer's knee. Those men . . .
Her trembling white fingers formed fists, pressing to her chest like she wanted to claw out her own heart. The hummingbird trapped in her carmine-soaked belly and beating to be freed, such a living weight. Such a wild, screaming weight, grappling inside, and dancing a wine-dark sequence.
"Fuck . . ." Her tone was listless, so monstrously exhausted it was a wonder she was standing at all. Remember to breathe, Addie.
And Addison moved, feather-sticks for legs, with a remorse shipwreck of unseeing fog clouding her cranium, only to slump and cascade down upon a nearby chair. The dead linen cushion underneath her riddled without life. Rooted, a stem undone by its midrib, motionless, like marionette's strings being ruthlessly cut from her joints. Leaning forward and cradling her curled fists against the soft icy breeze. Some kind of sharp truth buried itself in her ribs, razor-pointed within her throat, exiting past her lips under winter's misty breath, ripped from the premonition of questions scorching her conscious. What if. . .Her heart blistering at the mere indication. Our efforts fell like Icarus?
