The Tragedy of Cordelia Martin, Part III

Amnesia tossed the sheets haphazardly off of her body. Alabaster skin, the color of white marble welcomed the sunlight differently than Cordelia's had. Small shadows appeared over hairline scars, raised only slightly, art like henna from her neck, to her feet. Early on, she added a new design every time she knew Cordelia. It began with the neck, and gradually crept down her back, chest, shoulders, arms, and eventually, her entire body, except for her face. Cordelia made her promise to stop at her face.

Though the designs were nearly invisible, in just the right lighting, she was a living statue, and a work of art in her own right.

Amnesia wandered to her door, and began locking, chaining, and bolting her door back into place. She was only safe with Cordelia. Alone, she was just that.

Alone.

… 

Cordelia waited in the hallway until she heard the last bolt lock in place, nodded a single nod, and continued down the main hall. For all of the locks, and bolts, and chains, such "security" - if you could call it that - was as much to keep Amnesia locked in, as it was to keep potential bad guys locked out. 

Steel door frame, steel door. 

Cordelia, on many occasions, explained the danger of that kind of security.

The hallway, a tattered mess; the Berber carpet was dirty, and dusty.

It smelled like an old attic. 

No. 

An old attic smelled like dry, musky dust, and grime. This was worse. This was moist, damp mold, and rotting wood. It was termites, and roaches. Peeling paint, and splintering apartment doors lined the hallway as she continued out. She could hear barely muffled arguments, crying, a television as she passed one door, and breaking glass as she passed another. It was any given day. 

Every given day

The building barely passed inspection - barely - each time. It should have been condemned... but then what would Amnesia do? Agoraphobia wasn't something you just stamped out like a small flame.

Amnesia.

Not just a stage name for a common street hooker, or moderately priced call girl. Amnesia was the real deal. She was the courtesan. Business had been slow - nonexistent - since Cordelia's arrival though.

Amnesia chose that life. It's not like she had to stay in that shitty apartment. The type of revenue she earned before Cordelia ever appeared was unreal. Men, and women alike, flocked to her. They begged for her time, and offered her the world, and she accepted payment in every form. Gems, expensive jewelry, real estate, and cars. Cash, of course. No credit, no refunds, and no guarantee getting your rocks off.

Most people didn't care.

There was a preternatural presence to the pale angel, and her marble complexion.
It was in her liquid movements, her unnatural grace, yet, she was just some person, like any person.

Talented yes, but still just another person.

As Cordelia came out of the hallway through the gated door and broke into daylight, the warmth of the sun greeted her with a pleasant comfort that was not present with the atmosphere of the neighborhood around her.

Trash littered streets, rife with condemned buildings, empty lots, and plenty of skeletal cars, and trucks. Tall, dry weeds had grown, and died between cracked pavement, and concrete that had fallen into disrepair.

The noise pollution for every individual blasting their music created a greasy hum of base that was continual, rather than individual broken beats. Malt liquor, notes of vomit, and methamphetamine lingered in the air. The neighborhood stank of despair... and something else.

It was faint, at first, and then stronger, wafting in on the breeze like sea air. Instead of sand, and salt, she smelled the subtle sweet scents of fresh rain, rush grass, and rice straw.

The world fell into sudden silence, like a forest full of cicadas in the presence of a predator.

Cordelia was still.

The taint of pollution tinted the skies with a brown haze, but the day was clear of rain, and inclement weather.

Unarmed, but not helpless. She waited for the silver song of polished steel. It never came.

Cordelia closed her eyes, breathed deep, and exhaled. She opened her eyes. Across from her, the same shadow figure from before - from long before. How long ago had she come home to find a village of corpses burned to the ground?

The shadow figure stood silently, as still as she.

He - or she - wore the smallest shadows like the thickest, largest cloak. Face, obstructed, an androgynous presence threatening under the veil of mystery.

Like before, the figure disappeared, melting into the environment as though it were made of smoke, or water.

Then, sound returned. Cordelia felt the weight of eyes on her. Amnesia was watching from her window, she knew, without even turning to look behind.

Cordelia felt gooseflesh trail down the center of her back. Just the memory of Amnesia's hot breathe was enough to reduce her to a fit of pleasant shivers. Her bra and clothes felt suddenly heavy to her. Like they ought to be in small messy piles on her lover's bedroom floor.

Better not to get lost in the fantasy.

            When she felt the threat pass, Cordelia began her way home.