veil | W. Axl Rose

Ⅲ

𝟑𝟏.𝟎𝟓.𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓

There came a time that was to be engraved in Linda's mind forever. Zooming through the electric nightscape of Los Angeles in the back seat of a taxi. The city sprawled before her, a tableau of contrasts and revelations. The taxi maneuvered through the labyrinthine streets that buzzed with an energy foreign to the subdued rhythm of St. Petersburg.

As the taxi snaked its way, Linda watched from behind the window. The Sunset Strip emerged, a pulsating artery of the city with colossal billboards that glowed with an intensity unmatched by the dimly lit alleys of Russian metropolia. The billboards, full of color and light, advertising the latest glamor and lechery that Hollywood had to offer. The night sky blushed with the flashy colors while towering skyscrapers seemed to scrape the very heavens.

The people who populated the streets were dressed in flamboyant outfits that soaked up the neons' fluorescent lights and reflected them with even more intense glare, their hairstyles reaching celestial heights. Chains, safety pins and studs hung and clanked from leather jackets, dodgy guys tucked bundles of cash into dealers' pockets, several gross men were curb-crawling, looking for some comfort chicks. The air was infused with debauchery that seemed to surge from the very pavement, a city unabashedly flaunting its decadence. A city that reveled in its own audacity.

The people in Hollywood, with their extravagant attires and gravity-defying hairstyles, moved like vibrant spirits through the night. The juxtaposition between the stark, serious landscapes of St. Petersburg and the kaleidoscopic revelry of Hollywood was staggering. It was as if Linda had traversed dimensions, crossing the threshold into a realm where the boundaries of reality were bent and reshaped.

The scent of the night air carried a hint of exuberance, a heady mixture of perfumes, exhaust fumes, and the distant melodies of street performers and clubs. As the taxi pressed forward, Linda felt a surge of exhilaration mingled with trepidation. This was a world far removed from the cobbled streets and historic facades, a world that beckoned with promises of both ecstasy and menace.

The taxi driver navigated along the eccentric array of Melrose boutiques situated to the west of Santa Monica Boulevard, known for selling second-hand boots and adult novelties. Turning south onto a tranquil byway, the taxi entered an old neighborhood filled with stucco bungalows and full-growth linden trees with chalky white trunks and leaves resembling outstretched hands.

They parked in front of one, the driver got their bags from the car's trunk. Linda followed her mother to the door with her tarot cards, art supplies, clothes, and some books. A plaque beneath the doorbell proclaimed McKagan in eloquent script. Her mother rang the doorbell.

The doorway framed Linda's father, a man of striking handsomeness,who grabbed your attention with his impressive presence. His neatly trimmed brown hair reflected a practical style, just like his corduroy pants and suede jacket. His eyes showed a touch of tiredness, perhaps from all the filmmaking stuff that consumed his days as a director. As his gaze descended upon his daughter, a smile unfolded on his lips, a familiar playfulness that characterized him as a perpetual jokester.

-Here you go, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.-he chuckled. His attitude radiated a sense of ease, a buoyancy that appeared to move freely within him.-Good evening, Sofiya.-he aptly turned to Linda's mother. The warmth of his greeting, however, encountered a frosty terrain as he turned to Sofiya. A kiss upon her cheek drew a subtle huff from her, a lingering chill that defined the space between them. In that quick interaction, there was an obvious tension hanging in the air. Their pasts came together and collided, leaving behind hints of a connection that used to exist, now veiled in cool detachment, bound only by formality.