We split and I go to my room. There’s only half an hour before I need to go see Big Bang, so I really don’t have the time or opportunity to decide on any course of action in any direction. There’s no point in even thinking about it now, in fact … so I zero in upon you, Angel, all by yourself in the bedroom. You have a new addiction, to add to alcohol, cigarettes, sex and female hormones: it is looking at this bewitching full-length wax self, which you’ve lovingly seated against the wall by your side of the wide double-bed. Lucan’s real fury that he has been anonymously provoked in public on a third occasion has now transmuted, here at home, into a subtly amused promise to not to abuse the waxen provocation itself. This you are most glad of, for your initial shock upon being shown the model by a grimly bemused Damian has become an adoration that you’re careful to conceal from Lucan, lest he grow jealous. (Such jealousy I myself could understand, incidentally, since it’s with some pique that I observe this wax self-adoration has already surpassed the adoration I implanted in you for Alaia and me—which survives in you now at only half-strength and upon a basis of memories that I sheepishly observe are still oddly confusing to you.)
Coiled on the floor beneath the open turret window in the corner of the bedroom, you watch the distant white waves hiss and suck the sand, which you can see through a gap between two other pointed roofs, and you wonder why these things are happening to you. Catching a glimpse of yourself from above, you see a dark elf curled up inside a turret, with the shadow of a dagger clutched tightly in your left hand, the shadow of another dagger stuck into your chest—and your right hand diving to your chest right now, to flap in horror at the surface of your bright red T-shirt, feeling for this unfamiliar dagger in your chest that you’ve just seen. But your hand finds only your little silver cross, while your left hand clenches the handle of its shadow-dagger harder, harder, harder now than ever; and the sea sighs on, and a clump of old leaves rustle brittly in the gutter just beneath you.
What’s with those shadow-daggers, Angel? Are they part of that luscious fierce anguished little body you’re imprisoned in? Your red fingernails are like spray-painted petals broken sharp through your finger flesh. Did you ever feel as average people feel, or were you gorgeously twisted from the start? Tell me, do. You turn as if to camera (though I know you cannot see me), mouth “You’ll never know” and turn away. What went so wrong with you?—or went so right, perhaps.
Under the dictatorship of Lucan you inhabit a delirium of the senses, yet at the same time you’ve always felt somehow that you were buried alive. The black sky inside your head oppresses, claustrophobically immense; and rest assured, you will stay buried there, alive inside your poisoned night of dagger-skewered self, until you die… And yet there’s one problem, Angel, I’m afraid: you see, you can’t die.
Oh I see you, Angel Deon—I see every twist inside you.
Curled in your turret there, your system in overdrive, you glance at the bedroom clock, as very well you might: after all, as a lifelong fan of ours, you mustn’t miss Big Bang!
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