Tea Time

Left and then straight and past the abandoned car. I have two more blocks after that and the neglected people left to rot in the shadow of hollowed out concrete are the least of my worries. The shadows are long in the witching hour and they smell blood. I am leaving a painted trail directed right towards me. But I am calm. I will make it back. I have to make it back. There is still someone I have to see. Cold, I am cold, and I do not like being this type of cold, especially when the summer hint lingers this long into the night.

It is in me and refuses to leave. The coat cannot protect against the cold within, cannot contain what scant heat I can make to stave off the cold. I shiver. I shiver and stumble and find myself facing the concrete. The shadows are long and have malicious intent. I crawl. One block. Less than that. I see the store front and the mannequins that saw me off.

A hand comes to my back and I knock it away.

"Easy, easy, sweetie," says a voice that reeks of booze and sorrow, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Don't touch me," I hiss.

"Alright, alright. I won't. Just use this ok?"

Something slides along to sidewalk to rest at my fingertips. I scrape it under me, put the weight on and come to standing. It's a man, ragged and covered in stained clothes, yellowed beard and dark eyes shining with concern. And I am holding a shovel in my hand as if it's a cane. To be fair, it does a very nice job of being a cane. Now I am the one contemplating thievery for the benefits of a shovel.

"Thank you," I managed to say. The words are getting harder now. The meaning behind them is fading.

"We have a camp about 3 blocks over," he says, "There's a guy who used to be a vet. Not going to be a hospital, but it's free. Better than nothing."

"I'll be fine."

"No, you won't. I've seen bullet wounds that bleed less than whatever happened to you. Sweetie, c'mon. its right over there. At least sit down a bit."

"I said, I'll be fine. Thank you for the shovel."

I wobble a bit more and hand the shovel back to him with an unsteady grip. He takes it and the eyes grow sad. But he doesn't reach out again. A few steps away and then I turn. I can see the window. I can reach the window. I can touch the cool glass and be spirited away down into the comforting embrace of the bottomless sea.

I am in front of the tailor's with a shattered window and shuttered doors. I made it. I am safe. A hand goes out to the glass chilled by the night and I am safe from the shadows reaching long. I turn to the man and his kindly shovel with a lazy wink and a punch-drunk smile as the darkness beyond the shards grows long and comforting, snaking around my legs, my waist and dragging me down.

Weightless. Formless. Thoughtless. I drift the shattered glass in the ice-cold embrace. Soft, this one is soft and enveloping and careful, dragging me over smooth obsidian and black ice. I let it all go, all the structure and poise and knitted together will that kept me upright for the most of it. I am dragged along like a corpse over the endless pane. There is only black above me, below me, all around me.

I like this smothering dark and the cold that comes with it. The building, the one me seeping out with every heartbeat, those are the bad ones. This is the good one. So calm, so tiring, so embracing of the world, numbing out all the rough edges until nothing at all remains. I slip into it and let it do with me as it wishes.

I smile when I hear the music this darkness plays. It makes me take my legs and put them under my body once more. It gives me the structure, the power, to rise from the earth, the smooth black mirror that takes everything and leaves nothing behind. A soft, mournful song with no recollection of its name, no idea when it will end, no care in the world other than the sad melancholy of its existence enters my soul and fills my body with the will to rise once again.

I take a step and then another and then one more.

It's the Lady. It's always her, sitting on her ivory throne, harp leaning against her shoulder. There are no words for her, from her, just a delicate pluck of the strings to carry the cold will of her existence forth. It is cold and it lifts me up to keep walking down the lonely road to her. The floor rises in to clean edged steps. I rise. I rise to her.

I see her hair first, coiling on the floor in a long, long train, just as dark as the rest of the floor, hanging over the top step. A silver white head band keeps it from her eyes. But she is playing her silver harp, lost in the focus of the act, her entire being poured into her fingers. There is no world beyond her. I do not want there to be. She scores the word with a gentle hand, playing a song for every soul that feels that same melancholy of the night. It resonates within me and I lose control of my body.

On the third step from the top, I slip and fall, laying at her feet. The music stops and I want to die.

"Hello, Miss Anne. It is a pleasure to welcome you back," the Lady says, "Thank you for your hard work today."

Her eyes are pure ivory white, full of starlight and fresh fallen snow. They look to me and I look back, lost in the endless white void of her. She tilts her head at me, onyx hair falling down her shoulders in a waterfall of midnight.

"Are you well?"

"Never better," I grunt as I haul myself up to a seat, "Easy job. Always an easy job. Got invited to a tea party this time."

She does not smile. She just tilts her head the other way, considering me with the scuffed shoes and broken skin in a mild confusion.

"You're hurt again, aren't you?" she says, voice even. Every word is the same crystal hand bell being rung with a golden clapper. It is beautiful, simply beautiful. The wind, the wind of still nights howls in my ears as she looks to me. Gems in a river being iced over and thawed, back and forth, back and forth, forever and ever.

"Little bit. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. I'm fine."

"You are missing a hand."

To my surprise, I am. I don't even feel it. I suppose I wouldn't. There is nothing there to feel. I have a stump, oozing and bleeding and my stomach turns at the raw flesh open and weeping. I collapse further into the floor. I can't give her the respect she deserves.

"You need both, correct? How else are you to fight?" she whispers in the soft breeze caressing my cheek.

"I do need both. I would appreciate it."

She gets up and my vision swims. There is one of her. There are two of her. There is a myriad legion of the Lady swimming in my sight, in the same place. I can't breathe. I breathe too much. My chest hurts and I can't think. Too many sensations, too many things to touch and feel and full in my soul, but I can't make anything rational. My hand goes out to her.

"Please stand," she says. And I do. It is unsteady and wavering and I am pale, lips blue and frozen and numb. I am taller than her. It always surprises me. I should not be, but I am.

"You need my assistance," she says and I nod. The Lady needs to know that I do.

"I think I do," I manage to stammer through the pain.

"I agree. Well then, we shall begin. Come along."

She gets up from her stool and the harp sinks down into the stone. The seat goes with it and I scramble to get some strength in me. I am not something so lowly. I have ascension within my power, an inch, two, a foot to come to something like sitting so I can properly receive the blessing.

She kneels to me. Skin so white and clean and smooth, just as the rock is beneath us. There is no place for me to rise. I fall again and press my cheek down. It's something. It's numbing and cool and I feel more and more and more of me slip away.

Her hand comes to the other one and the cold shock opens my eyes again. Not here. Not like this. That would be uncouth for her domicile. I am not allowed to transgress in such a way. I have a moment to close my eyes and then I must rise. I still can't. I am still on the floor.

"You are very hurt," she says. There is no tell in the voice, no quaver or shift. A simple statement of fact that I cannot refute. The world cannot refute. I am here in the space she has carved out, bleeding out on the floor.

"I will carry you then," she continues.

I want to protest. I am fine. I can move. She doesn't need to do such a thing. But she does, in a way. The floor moves and I move with it. Or the room does and we stay still. I am not sure anymore. Her hand is gone and the clarity with it. I am swimming in a dark rush up and staying still. Her hair trails along the movement, waving in the still air like a banner for gravestones. Back and forth, like a serpent's tail, a flag, a streaking cloud before a storm. Her dress carries the motion as well, creeping up her legs. All of her is pale and smooth, so perfectly articulated. Every motion is pure and precise and calculated, not an excess in anything.

We come to a stop or the room does or there is just a pool here now. The ground is gone and I am floating in the water. But it's not quite water. It's pale like moonlight, just like her, and warm, so very warm. It almost feels like melted wax, the way it clings to me and my clothes. It's heavy and soothing.

The Lady starts humming, absentmindedly, forlorn for something forgotten. Or maybe with no intent at all. She is. She just is. And now that being beyond existence takes to the act of humming. There is no song to it, but it is relaxing all the same. I close my eyes for a moment, just a moment, under the glow wax tide creeping up my body. It's slipping under my jacket, touching every part of me with the soothing warmth.

"Do you remember the last time you had my gift?" she hums in singsong.

"No. I'm sorry," I sigh. I mean it. Something so beautiful should not be forgotten, whatever it is.

"You have no need to be. It wasn't all that memorable. Bruises and cuts, but everything was where it should be and in the right number. It wasn't that special. This isn't either."

My blood is mixing with the molten wax, muddying it, dirtying it. I will it back into my body, but it doesn't listen. I am staining the world with my presence. It should not be. The lake of wax is pure and clean and good. I leech out into it, skittering on its surface until it finally sinks through.

She is with me, waist deep. The wax doesn't stick to her. It just glides around her in a singular ripple frozen in time. A hand comes to my cheek and she is cold, so cold and sparking through me. My mind goes numb.

I pull away a bit when she comes to my shoulders and moves my jacket. That was a gift. It should stay on. A tut of her tongue and a soft shake of her head and I am still, letting her remove it all from me. I don't see where it goes. Off to some forgotten shore of smooth sand, down to the deepest part of the lake, up to the heavens, never to come down. I do not know. But her hands are on me and I can't really think of anything else.

Everywhere she touches turns to sparks and cold, only to be filled in with the vacant hollow by the wax. Heat and cold, heat and cold. The knife cuts and the balm fills. My breath hitches and stops, catching in my throat for a long, long moment.

I moan under her care.

The noise brings my attention back to myself and I stop. I stop. She has to focus and everything I do breaks the focus. She is singing and I should be silent. The touch traces down my arm and I can't help another little noise from the back of my throat jumping out and shattering her world.

My eyes are apologetic and hers are mirror smooth. They do not mind the noise I make as I do. But I tamp it down as she comes to where my hand used to be. It is still bleeding, swirling on her skin as she regards the raw flesh. To my horror, she leans down and plants a delicate kiss right above the wound.

It hurts. It hurts in the best way as the cold reverberates back up to my shoulder before echoing down. I feel the wax. I feel all the wax, miles and miles and miles of it stretching out into shores of the damned and forlorn. So much, so much of the essence and it's all collecting over me, a vast web of veins and nets until it comes back to me. It's all in my nerves, my soul, the warm flow of wax.

A collection of nerves harden back into bone and I chance a look down. It's just a lump, indistinct and without form other than a lump. But I can feel it. I can feel the warmth seep through it, the touch of her hand on mine. Her skin is smooth, so smooth and clean and warmth. The initial shock of the dead nerves slowly breaks through and I feel the harsh warmth come through and give me back the senses I need. It hurts. It is all new and harsh and unmuted. Every movement is new, breaking in through bones that were not meant to bend and crack. The bones snap and I have it back. I moan and keep the noise back in the deepest remains in my throat.

Her hands encircle mine in the soft wake. I feel the pressure. It's just her gentle will made through the sea. She lifts it up and cracks the seal. My hand is there, just as whole and new and smooth. I flex my fingers and the joints crack with the first motion they will ever know. I sigh. The nerves settle. I can still feel the newness of it all, but it's fading.

The Lady considers her work, interlocking her fingers in mine, spreading the fingers and bending them, making sure everything is it all slips through her grasp. She rolls my wrist and it pops.

She takes it to her cheek, gazing at me without a flicker of any thought in her mind.

"Does it suit you?" she asks.

"Yes. Yes, it does. Thank you."

She takes another moment of stillness before pressing her lips to the back of my hand. Everything I am is lost to the sudden sharp spike of chilled necrosis racing through me. The wax is there to soothe it all away.

I move. I have my hand back and we are done. I cannot stay. I have muddied the waters and they can only be clean if I leave. The tide comes and makes it impossible for me to stand up. Fingers of liquid wax, restraints and bonds, so many shackles keep me still.

"We are not done," the Lady whispers, "You are not healed. Stay still. You will enjoy this."

Her hands come to my shoulders again and I stare into the vast expanse of her eyes. So smooth, so clear, gazing into the night sky from every point in time. I am lost in them. They freeze me. I do not move. I cannot move. That would be against her wishes. Her hands move to my cheeks, with a soft caress. The nerves light in cold shock before fading down to the dull warmth of no sensation. Her fingers trace down my neck, my collar bone. Mt reflexes make me tense up as she hovers over my chest, poking the rise and fall, letting the softness I have fill her palm.

She is having the closest thing to fun with my body, rolling my chest through my shirt. Her hands are warming up. They give the same swelling numb from the wax. I close my eyes and keep the noises within. She is working. She is playing she is exploring me in the solemn duty. I will not interfere.

The hem of my shirt shifts and her hands are on my bare skin. I can't keep quiet. Cuts and bruises, so many little knicks and cuts and marks from the whirring machine. A hand passes over them and they are gone, spread over with the wave and then flake away.

"Arms up," she burbles in the sea of wax and I obey.

My shirt is off and her hands take off the bra easily. Skin, raw bloodied skin slowly sinking in a sea of wax. It's in me, the touch of the waves, her hands poking and spreading over the tight muscle. Her hands linger on my stomach, tracing the faint definition there. She made me this way and she is admiring her work. It is good work and I am eternally grateful. Her hands come to my breasts again and I think she is enjoying herself in earnest.

Her figure has always been slight. Mine less so, but not by much. Differences and novelty, that's all this is. A different form to play with and see how it feels. And it feels good, so good to be moved and bent and folded under her hands. Shaped and sculpted wax, adrift in a sea of her, formed into a bright burning candle aflame forevermore. I can't stop making noise. I can't stop bleeding out. But she can make me stop.

Her hands stop in their gentle play and go back down to my stomach, tracing the lines once more.

"So hurt," the Lady murmurs, "So much pain."

No sympathy, no care, a simple statement of what is. I do not disagree. I do not fight as she undoes the button and zipper, discarding the last vestige of my decency. My entire body now sinks into the endless wax with no protection, no safety net other than the will of a star eyed entity beyond my control.

Hands to leg, rubbing down, sparks and numb and loosened knots. I gasp and squirm and try to escape the sensation just as much as lean into it. There is so much to feel, so much to dive into with her hands.

They play at the muscle fibers like lines on a harp. And I sing a stuttering song that I can't control. There is no temp to it anymore. She knows it. She accepts it. She just keeps playing it in the hopes that the final movement will be something grand.

I tense once more when she starts to play on my inner thighs. I am excited. I will always have that same thrill when she is near. But still, it is something to fight against, to tamper down. I have had more than enough and I cannot ask for more. A wayward thought carries the tide to open me for her. I should not have resisted.

Her hands trace the lines. The folds, the lines, the little nooks and crannies of my warm core, she touches me softly, caressing me and holding me and a hand goes back to my chest. I complete the circuit and everything in my spin lights up with wild abandon. I spasm and shudder and I can't help but tense everything in erratic thrashing. The wax helps keep me still. Every inch of my being is lost. I have no control over anything anymore. I am the sensation across a wild frontier of undulations.

The Lady is methodical and slow in her healing. No effort wasted, no effort given, it is an act practiced and honed through some eldritch knowledge. She knows my body from the shape in the seas. She knows the body she made, forged in the same tide of thick essence. It hardens against the cool air of the surface, only to crack in thick lines and flake away, giving new skin the kiss of chilled obsidian sky. I see black, only black, my eyes shut tight and open wide. There is no difference between them.

Her hands, a slender finger, go inside of me and I can't feel anything anymore. I shudder and snap and all the world can't quite get me to stay still. The wax tries. The hand tries. She is working in me, touching soft things and hard things, teasing out knots and hardness in my muscles, my soul. I am clay, a thread, a song on sheet music in her hands. I can't be quiet. I can't keep still for her. Her hand goes to the back of my head, stroking my hair, digging int my scalp.

It all envelopes as she touches me, she hits me, she touches the rawest part of me, the slightest touch sends every single part into white dull numbness. It's all gone. All gone to the end of the world, the final night, the final cutting word of everything that can ever be.

Her hand goes to my chest again, flicking the soft excited back and forth, trailing small dots of the sea after her. Heat and then cool and then a soft flacking crack as it is wiped away. First one, then the other. Gooseflesh on my skin, despite the heat, everything is under her care, her touch and my spine arches as I cry out. Her lips are on me and it is the same cool candle wax playing against everything soft and comforting. Fluttering kisses and gentle play of gentle teeth. Her tongue is dry and scraping, still warm, still soft, still teasing and playful. She kisses my sternum and rubs her cheeks against me. Lips of wax, cheeks of wax, everything soft and scouring, cracks filled and slipped and noted, before I am made anew.