FicWad

Thank you for 4000 hits!

The rose was quickly disposed of but its memory lingered for many days afterwards. The bloody marks it left on the bed are more of a permanent reminder. No matter how often we change the sheets, no matter how often we wash them, a few, tiny pinpricks of blood seem to always stain the fabric. Even the darkest of black or red can't hide the marks; they always seem to make themselves known.

And so it came to pass that Slash and myself are sitting beside the bed, watching as yet another sheet is stained. It happens slowly, over a number of hours, but wanted to watch and make sure we're not going completely mad. Hunched over the bed, our eyes focus on the spot between the pillows, the spot between where we sleep. The spot between /us/. Achingly slow three tiny dots appear, easing into the crisp white sheet like oil. As the night draws on and the light burns over us, three faint, red lines join the tiny dots, the colour seeping into the fibres, bleeding like the rose. They ooze across the fabric, only just visible to the naked eye, melting together to form a small triangle. Three becoming one. A trio.

Or an A.

My heart sinks as I look at it and I reach for my cigarettes. Lighting one, my eyes flick up to the upturned box we use for a bedside table.

“What about if we get rid of the rings?” I quietly ask.

Fingers reach for my cigarettes, taking them from me before reaching for my lighter.

“No,” Slash replies, eyes still watching. “I dunno what's goin' on but it might make it worse, not stop it.”

Through a cloud of smoke, I look at him, cocking an eyebrow as I do. “What's that supposed to mean?”

I already know though. Over the last few weeks, a growing collection of books on voodoo and magic have been springing up around the room. Slash, it seems, has taken to avidly reading everything he can get his hands on. And whatever those books are saying, it's making sense somewhere in his brain.

“Restless spirit.” A cloud of smoke appeared from between Slash's pouting lips, joining mine in the air around us. “That's what he is. He was dragged from this world screaming and kicking -”

“No,” I butt in. “He was taken from this world, unconscious and in an ambulance.”

Dark eyes lock onto mine, dark eyes that are filled with a new knowledge that I'm not sure I want to know about. “We don't know that.” He flicks ash to the floor, eyes turning back to the bed. “We did a runner, remember, before we ever found out what truly happened. His body could be in a morgue somewhere or it could be rotting in the bottom of a dumpster. Or, like I said, the Devil could have come to claim his prize. Whatever happened, Axl's soul isn't completely in this world. Nor is it in the next.”

Placing my finished cigarette in a nearby bottle, I sigh and keep my attention trained on Slash. His attention is clearly elsewhere but I want all the information I can get from him.

“How do you mean?” I dare to ask.

Another plume of smoke, followed by the quiet sound of smoke being sucked back into lungs.

“He's trapped,” comes the quiet, husky reply. “Trapped between the world of the living and the worlds of the dead. Walking and watching. That thing you saw downstairs, that screaming monster.” I shudder as Slash even dares to mention it, closing my eyes and shaking my head to chase away the memory. “That was him. That was him dying, wherever he was, screaming to let you know. But his soul lives on. Here. In New Orleans.”

“Stalking us...” I whisper, voice trailing off as my eyes widen.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Slash nod.

“So what the fuck do we do, exactly?” I dare to ask.

Another rise and fall of the shoulders and another cloud of smoke. The air is acrid with stale smoke. Stale smoke and the smell of something else, a smell not dissimilar to sulphur.

“I don’t know what we do.” Slash drops his cigarette to the wooden floor and crushes it beneath his shoe. “Maybe… Maybe there’s someone who can get rid of it.”

“But who?” I light another smoke, eyes watching the smoke curl upwards. I don’t want to look at the bed any more. Don’t want to look at the bloody triangle that’s tattooed there.

“The phonebook. There’s people listed in the phonebook.”

I look to Slash and raise an eyebrow in question. Once more, he shrugs. “We’re in New Orleans, Izz. These people advertise freely here.”

~~~~

Leaning against the phone booth, I stare at the moon. It seems bigger tonight, heavier almost, as if the weight of the world if pulling it closer, as if peoples sorrows and worries are drawing it in, hoping that its gentle light will comfort them.

The phone rings and rings and I begin to get frustrated. My fingers tap along the metal of the phone, fingernails making a dull ringing sound. I’m about to hang up when someone answers.

“Yes?” a husky voice with just a hint of French, says.

“Oh, hi,” I quickly reply, straightening up as the frustration drains from me. “Is this Ms. Lucille?”

There’s the sound of the person sighing and they wearily reply, “It is. How can I help?”

While Slash feeds the phone with coins, I begin to explain our dilemma. The lady patiently listens, humm-ing and harr-ing from time to time. Finally, exhausted and with the story told, I ask, “Is there anything you can do?”

“There is. I shall be with you within the hour. Leave the bed as it is. Leave the rings on the pillows.”

Without another word, she hangs up and I find myself listening to the dialling tone.

“So?” Slash lights a cigarette, obviously worn out from feeding the hungry phone.

I slump against the phone, scratching the back of my neck. “She’s on her way.” I look back to Slash, trepidation in my heart. “Only she didn’t ask where we lived.”