Satan reincarnate: You're my Poetry

Strangers Again

"Wakey Wakey," I heard through the unconscious fog of my dreams.

It took a few more words, and a few more soft shakes before I realized they weren't in my head. I opened my dry eyes, my face pressed against a rotted wall. I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, and I heard the shuffle of her feet behind me. It wasn't a voice I recognized, so I wasn't immediately afraid. However, I was still cautious.  I didn't feel comfortable having my back facing someone I didn't know or trust since it was such a vulnerable part of me. I whipped my body over so my limbs were protecting my torso, and I was facing her.

"Holy shit, I know you" She said when I looked at her.

I was so confused, who was she and how fucking long had I been there for?

"You're that one bloody author, aren't you?" She murmured, her accent potent in her words.

"Yeah.. who're you?" I murmured, forgetting I was famous for a second. It felt self absorbed and cocky to say, but I guess I had the pass 'cause my face was all over magazines and my name was said everywhere, all over the streets.

"I'm Mykie." She smiled, her snakebites twisting up with her sweet expression. She patted her hand against my back, her rings hitting my bone with a thud. "Fuck, sorry." She quickly brought her hand to her side.

"No, you're fine." I mumbled as I rubbed my eyes, and brushed some stray hairs I felt behind my ears. "What're you doing here?"

"Well shit I was gonna ask you the same thing." She giggled a bit, twiddling one of her many necklaces between her black, chipped fingernails.

Her wickedless hazel eyes were surrounded with heavy eyeliner that started from the inner corner of her eyes to her temples, and the rest of her face was decorated with intricate piercings to match her anatomy. Her hair was dark and a bright contrast of color compared to the set of rotting stairs surrounding us, giving me something pleasant and colorful to look at. She wore a thick shirt with the face of a skeleton cut and stretched into the torso with ripped fishnets guiding down the length of her gratified arms. Under them were dozens of smeared drawings extending down to her fingers, and they varied from anarchism symbols- to just improvised swirls looping down her forearms. Her jeans were worn and dirty with hols in them, stitched shut with patches of thick black faux fur. The bright shades in her hair curled over one of her eyes, the rest scattered around her face. Her hair was much curlier than mine, and so shiny. I almost wanted to reach out and touch it. She must've noticed me looking, i'm not very subtle with the way I stare.

She smiled, speaking again to break my attention from her attire. It was nothing I judged- in fact I loved it. She reminded me much of my older sister.

"What's someone as famous as you doing under here anyway? It's bloody disgusting." She grumbled, reaching over to flick a dead leaf from my shoulder. "And whys your face all swollen? is that blood? Holy shit, your arm..?"

What the fuck am I supposed to say? 'Oh nothing, I just escaped a captive situation. The man who I love.. and evidently loves me just kidnapped me. Again.' Hell no. I just brushed it off with a shrug, and a stereotypical lie.

"I'm just as confused as you are. Last night I was dancing on tables with shots in my hand, now I'm here." I sniff, maybe trying to hint at the cocaine in my nose. Though.. there was none.

"Right right.. That makes sense. I mean, you're a celebrity and all, you know all the big famous people and what-not." She said.

I scooted out from next to her, brushing myself off and staggering a bit. Everything hurt, and my head was pounding. I didn't even realize I fell asleep. I offered her my good hand to help her up from off the ground, not taking any offense to her insult. Her considering me famous was weird anyway- it had been all these years.

"Do you need a bandage, or a water? Or something?" She asked, drawing my attention back down to her.

I looked down to her, smiling softly at her affection. "If you have any I'm not complaining."

She nodded, and took me by the elbow as she began to lead me out the door.

"Where're we going?" I asked as the rays of light pointing at me from beyond the door began to burn my sensitive eyes.

"My motorbike, I have a few plasters and a bit of water to spare." She said, lifting up the tarp that covered the rotted, collapsing door.

"What brings you here anyway?" I repeated my unanswered question from earlier.

"Well," She started, squeezing through the gap behind me. "This is my smoke spot."

I nodded with a slight shrug, that was a reasonable answer.

"I had no idea you were under there 'till morning, your hair gave it away."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I furrowed my eyebrows as I followed her around the corner of the periphery, my fingers snagging some of my dead ends to pull them up to my eyes, inspecting it.

"You're blonde, obviously."

"Oh yeah." I murmured, dropping it back down past my shoulder.

I hated my dead ends, but I hadn't gotten a haircut in years, and I hadn't any desire too either. Because hair holds memories, and I didn't really want to let the memories of his presence go.

"Anyway, give me your arms." She grabbed them before I could comply, and lifted up the seat of her bike.

I crumpled my nose in uncomfort as she swabbed my wounds with rubbing alcohol, and used some of the bottled water to get the dirt from my face.

"I'd offer you a hairbrush but I think that'd just make it worse."

I laughed, nobody got it when I said I couldn't brush my hair because of the texture, but she did.

"You probably don't even have one on you."

"I don't even have a comb." Her accent was so strong that even her laugh sounded British.

"Where're you from?" I asked, taking the water she held out to me.

"Right so like I'm from cornwall, but I just dont have the accent all."

"You sound like you're from Birmingham or something sometimes." I said between sips.

"I get that lots, I've begun to hear it too. It's too weird." She mumbled, focused as she put the bandages on wherever I was originally bleeding.

"How long have you been in California?" She asked, glancing up at me. "I've been here about a year."

"I moved here mid 2009, not too long ago." I murmured, hating that question. It reminded me too much of things I wanted to forget, but still wanted to remember subconsciously. It was confusing, and unexplainable.

She nodded, and then we sat in silence. Just silence, like we both ran out of things to say. But it wasn't awkward silence, it was just quiet. It was too peaceful, and too painless. I wasn't.. scared right then. The heavy feeling in my lower stomach remained, but I wasn't worried about it. She was still a stranger, but she made me feel like maybe not everyone was out to get me. But, maybe I was also too much of a trusting person.

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