Dahlia - The Velvet Witch and Her Dark Spirit

PART 14 - THE DARK WING

Henderson's Gallery is gothic and medieval-looking. It's an urban castle that stands out at this end of town where everything is industrial and sleek. Its designers and the city councilman bore much grief over its construction. Yet here it stands, a brilliant beacon to the arts shining like a star.

The day is bright as the sun makes a rare appearance. Though it looks to be short-lived as heavy black clouds gather in an almost perfect ring around the gallery. Inside, the sunlight is replaced by dim lighting that seems to come from nowhere. Strange shadows of dead black are cast against the walls.

"Can I help you, Sir?" comes a voice from behind the welcome desk.

When I get close, a hermit of a man, sitting in a swivel chair, comes into view. He looks up at me with an empty smile, waiting for my response.

I'm not sure why I'm here at all. Smart money says to call that argument a breakup and move on to saner pastures. But like a song that gets stuck in your head, so does Dahlia saying I love you.

Plus, I need to know why she destroyed that painting. Or if it was the Dark Spirit, why he's after me now? Or maybe the two are in cahoots. I mean, I've only ever heard her side of the story. I'm just not comfortable moving forward until I know what the fuck is going on.

"For the opening," I croak at the guard.

"Yes, sir, The Dark Wing. The grand opening is today by invite only. I'll check if your name's on the list?"

"Oh, I doubt it will—"

"Just the name, Sir?"

"Levi."

"No, sorry. It's not on the list."

"I'll just stand quietly at the back."

"Well, yes. I'd assume you'd be quiet if you were any kind of a gentleman, but rules are rules, and my job is to keep them."

"Can you—"

"Sir, if you aren't on the list, then I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

I walk off in a huff. The universe seems to be hinting at me to quit, but I'm doubly angry now and even more determined for round two with Dahlia.

I carry on into the belly of the beast. The deeper I get, the quieter it becomes until all that's left is a strange ambient sound like somebody sucking air in fright.

The sound of applause comes from the end of a long hall where the aesthetics of the gallery change dramatically. Plus, I can hear Dahlia humming in my head, so I must be getting close.

When I arrive at the crowd, I realise how underdressed I am in three-day-old jeans, a tatty shirt of my favourite hipster gallery and a beanie holding down my long scruffy hair. A distinguished gentleman is standing at the podium. Behind him is Dahlia, standing boldly in black jeans, a white top and a denim jacket with sleeves up and tats proudly on display. She's smiling as though she doesn't have a care in the world.

"And that's why I'm so proud to be on the board of the Henderson," says the gentlemen.

Dahlia's focused so intently that she doesn't notice me slide into the crowd.

"And now onto the reason we're all here and why I'm sporting so many new grey hairs. The latest addition to The Henderson, The Dark Wing."

There's a brief silence amongst the crowd as the words trigger frightening memories in every mind in the room. But as quickly as they come, they're gone again, and the audience breaks into applause. Even the M.C. steps back from the microphone to clap. He turns through the room, nodding and bowing at certain people until he gets to Dahlia. They step in and embrace before he returns to the podium.