|Magdelene Defoe (i_wasblind) wrote in we_coexist,|
@ 2014-01-20 07:43:00
|Entry tags:||baba yaga, magdelene defoe, zz:status complete|
The night seemed calmer than usual to her, but perhaps here it was always serene. Not a gale blew, no wind or rain or sunshine. It was only her and the moon. Where such a feeling stemmed from she wasn't sure because she had never experienced anything quite like it before.
Except for a few times back before she had burden. Before she could see.
There was something special about complete darkness, being enshrouded away from the world and unable to imagine or fathom the things within the distance of a simple touch of the fingers or hands. It was something else to never behold true color, to never see outline or detail or shape. At that time she couldn't attempt to think of definition, depth, or even what the most simple object could be. But she could touch them and try. And she did.
At least until her luck changed for the better and for the worst.
The fact that Mag had left her dressing room for her final performance and had ended up in a City Commons struck her as unusual. She was used to Sanitarium Square, and this was nothing like that. There were no tents or booths set up that offered illicit surgery or cosmetic alteration. No, this one was bare of life, void of existence save for the rustle of a few nearby strays looking for dinner.
In the sky there was nothing. No floating billboards with her picture nor did she see any of her posters plastered on any of the buildings. It was a Heaven and a Hell both at the same time. It confused her. But if she was frightened then she didn't show it. She knew enough to keep her wits about her when something strange happened, she had been deflecting strange for a very long time. And yet was she, herself, not the epitome of strange? Take for example her eyes.
Once brown, her eyes held a glow of their own. They had held youth and innocence, dreams and hopes. Now they sparkled, lit up and shimmered, danced and swirled with a much different kind of glow. Rotti's glow. GeneCo's glow. The glow of a star, the most famous Soprano in all of the world and despite how young she did look Mag was tired of it all. She had been ready to give it all up, the glowing optics included because those were a symbol of her slavery. Her binding contracted signed in blood by a foolish girl a very long time ago.
She had been willing to sing her final aria, Chromaggia, with whom she shared so much in common.
But it had to wait and part of her was glad. She was still in full costume , the presence of the stage never fully having left her despite the obvious change in surrounding. The heels of her boots clicked against the pavement as she walked, but she didn't cease movement. She couldn't until she had figured out exactly where she was, and why she had come. She had to get to the bottom of this and she would in good time.