Cherry || b.barnes

12 || Inquietude

It is late evening when I'm back in New York City on Saturday. After the night shift yesterday and the little incident with Sam, I had laid bright awake in bed, not getting my eyes closed for hours. I wondered whether my actiom was right, how else I would have gotten out of the situation. I was mad at myself for being unable to keep my guard up when confronted with something so very close to the truth, like Ikaris flying too close to the sun and burning, because he hadn't paid enough attention about his direction. The following disaster brought me to sleep late, smuggle myself into a flight and then a vehicle to Delacroix. I know very well that Sam has meant good, that he wanted to help me and that I'm an absolute bitch for blackmailing him like that, but there was no other way. I can't risk him or anyone to go back to fight settings and collect traces of my blood, much less can I risk him to go straight to America's Golden Boy and tell him about our little encounter.

So, I paid his lovely sister and children a visit. Brought cake with me, told them that I was Cherry, a friend of her brother's and Riley's - Sam's prior partner in his job with some special airforce, who tragically died - that was around and should deliver an apology for Sam's longer absences. I helped a little with the boat of theirs and fishing, even, as much as I could do, and stayed over for lunch. Sarah – how ironically that her first name is my second; how many people in America are called Sarah? It's so common, so boring – had leftovers, Tuna Tatare and fries and salad, and invited me. I chitchatted with her, covering much of my origin and history, but not all. At some point, I realized I hadn't really disguised in anything else; at least, not in terms of my true reactions. I laughed about her jokes, told her one or the other story from my childhood when it hadn't been bloody yet, and we actually had a nice midday.

Which is the exact reason for me sitting up here, on the rooftop of Stark's Tower, feet dangling down on the glassy backside of the complex. It's relatively cold, a fresh breeze then and now whirling my hair back and forth, but other than that, the night is clear. The stars blink down at me like they were watching me, observing my every step showing no sign whether they will grant the next, or they won't. People are like ants down there; for a night on the weekend, surprisingly many of them walk around in suits with metallic suitcases, seemingly coming from work. Then, from up here, I can make out a farer street with girls dressed in tiny pieces of clothes, as much fabric covering their body as I used to cover the holes in my jeans. I can also overwatch the district where the main base of the Crimson Club has been; in the West, most lights are turned off, but I won't let that lie float into the belief-zone of my brain. This district becomes alive in the shadows, almost like vampires scared of the light of the sun, scared of being seen when and where they shouldn't.
Up here, me sitting in yet another hoodie, baby-blue this time and black leggings, I barely hear the roar of the city. Countless streets flow beneath me like veins, lights flickering inside the houses as if they would wink me, on the streets in neon as if they were attention-seeking, inside this very tower, declaring the absence from one or the other worker. The cars and busses and taxis are way too far away for me to hear them; within this height, the air is thin, robbed of the space it usually inhabits for such noises. It's not utterly quiet, not peaceful; I do hear something, vehicles indistinctly chatting to one another, or, if I decide to push my concentration into a certain direction, I'd hear couples fighting in the upper flats around us, dogs barking away cats in narrow streets, children crying because they sleep with a monster beneath their bed. They should be thankful for having one.

No, what drove me up this night was the exceptional nice day I had. It reminded me too much of what could have been. Of how things could have come out. If my mother had had the guts to get away from Artemisa, it would at least have delayed their arrival. If my mother hadn't chosen to fall in love and get a child, she would still be alive. She could still follow her dream, help people like she always wanted, even if I didn't exist. If she only chose to shut her mouth at the right place, she could have the life she deserved.