ELYSIAN FIELDS
A/N:Hey guys, I was going to do a whole deconstruction about what happened in the last chapter, because there was a lot of questions, but I decided against it because you don't get that in real novels unless you buy the Cliffnotes version and then you cheated yourself out of a really good thing. Elysian Fields Chapter 4 They Called Me the Hyacinth Girl 10:50am(?) The fourth bell tolls on the holiday glebe. Soil hallowed, holy, solid with the shattering of seasons. The scattering of snow. Skin flakes, ash flakes revolving in a slow airborne tumble from his decent. The ground is dead. And now arid. And now crackling. And now stringy with blended lives. A thousand dead and a thousand more. Looms over him. Palm foot striking his shoulder like an electric prong. Willing life to current through every cell. Face remains stock. A crick in a slab in a stone. A crackle in the arid earth. The frayed finish of string untwisting from yanking at either end. Rivulets crook down the curve of her cheek. Under the shield of hissing bulrushes. Dip over mossy florets blanketing the fissures in her lips. Salty and clary. Straddles him. Thighs anchor, two palms thunder to his chest. The bell tolls. Again. Then again. A call for mass. Sunday mourning. Inside the church doors. Hallowed ground. Not really. No. A mosquito buzzes by her right arm. "Sam. Sam speak to me." Fingers undo gnarled metal teeth. Shucking corn. Ray of light splays the expanse of black over his chest. All black. A black vest. Except for two slugs. Demented with broken backs. Dissolved in a teaspoon of salt. Mirror the light. Gleam like diamonds. Runnels grow heated. Laughs like the sweet song of a newly freed caged bird. Hand cups his jaw; fingers spread and grow around his face like weeds. A faint beat flutters under her tips like a strummed cord. "Sam, you have to wake up okay?" Plows through redden hair. Follows the river bed forking around his ear. Over the dale a final bell. Church service. "Please Sam. For me, you need to wake up." Chest explodes. Horseys her in the air. One of the slugs clatters to the ground. Rolls in a slow semicircle. Crickets. His chest bouncing in a humid summer rhythm. Crickets. Lungs squeak out the same strained leg violin symphony. Heels scope and till the ground, ravenous like an animal struck by a car. Eyes wrinkle shut, like the delicate petals of a flower during twilight hour. Ribs xylophone plink with minor breathes. The well heats in the afternoon. Infertile environment evaporating her tears and leaving only salts. Smelling salts. Salts for him to smell. And he does. Smell them. Hand glides sightless through the air. White albatross with a wide wingspan. Lands at her hip and glissades to her thigh. Contains her thigh in the hearth of his palm. "Ugh." Salvia sprinkles from his mouth with a painful cough. Splatters on the floor and coaxes hyacinths out of the battered Earth. Plants in bulbs, buds and full bloomed flowers rainbowed in pastel Easters. Each individual blossom a lobe, a hanging bell jingling merrily in victory. Worms underneath her and the hearth heats her thigh in pressure. Chest angles, a slow process like the sun breaking over acres of valley. Acres of hyacinths. Many men going to mine the salt deposits of her own tears. Without thought to the damage slugs could've caused to his internal greenery, his broken xylophone keys, she cocoons him. Clutches on like there's a hole in the Earth between jingle bell flowers and scorched glebe and if she lets him go she'll topple in like dirt clods kicked from a boot. "You're okay." Sobs into the gash of red running ragged through his hair. Fingers thresh; feel the pebbles, the grit, grime, oil and life. Hand collapses over the cords of his neck like sopping clothing thrown on a line. "You're okay. You're okay." Head nestles at her breasts. Cheek to vest. The same likeness that saved him. Failed her. Vest to chest. Wonders if he's searching for the stressed heart jazz beat. If it's familiarity helps him stumble out old steps. Hot air from his nostrils slaps her bare arm, turns less obligated, more natural. "You don't get to do that again." Palms secure the equal sides of his face. Blue. Non-displaced blue. The only water in the well. The only thing to make hyacinths grow. Her own tears distilled. "Believe me." Voice smooshes like a grape. The tightness of her fingers on his jaw and cheeks. "I don't want to." Rams into his shoulder with her closed fist. Four perfectly lined knuckles might actually knock the air he's regained out. Might actually act as a third slug. "You don't get to do that again Sam, because I can't take it. I can't take it. I can't take it. I can't take it if—" "Okay. Okay. It's okay." Reclaims his original height. His original support. Towers like a solitary redwood. But coils around her. Arms, probably aching, lift hers, incapable, around his neck. They spiral together, two trees nurturing and growing together as one. Saltwater runnels and rivulets flow, cheek mashes his neck, his cheek, his temple. Water clears away newfound dust and ash. Injury and lingering doubt. Drops kisses onto his face like they're common notes to a lullaby. Like they're pulled petals from hyacinths falling to a pond. Fingers swat at the swinging end of her ponytail, the crawling ivy. Wiggles it. Sturdies it. Cements it in place. Then trickle down biceps, to her bare arms. "Where's your coat?" "It got stuck under the slab." Coat hangs in the cave. Hangs and drifts by a twisting arm. Slowly twists by the arm. Like a dead man from a tree. "How's your chest? Your head?" "My chest is a little tight. I might've bruised a rib or two. My head is—You're bleeding." "So are you." Ray oscillates between them. Sun spotting behind dangerous clouds. Violent clouds. Stripteasing between tree branches for seasons. Naked in the winter. "Your head is what?" "No. Your arm." Ray stops and centers. Hand clamps around her right bicep, tips swivel through the rivers of blood cascading down her arm like he's finger painting. "When did you hurt your arm?" "I don't know." Red. Fields of red. Red carnations. Red poppies. Not opulent enough to receive red roses. Not the type. Would rather have a plant. Still has the plant. "Maybe—Maybe when my coat got stuck it cut me?" "No, you got nicked." Fingers slice like knives. Slash at the sleeve. Flushes under soil. Under earth. Eroded fabric laps at her skin, mossy soft. "No. If—If I—" Incarnadine and crimson. Petals of a million. Scent is natural. Earthen. Dirt under nails. Perfumed floral and botanic. Hyacinths and poppies smothering her senses like an aromatic pillow. Bloom like the algae in her brain. Coax her breathes to few, to relax, to sleep. "I wood—would've—" "Hey. Hey. Jules." Puzzle pieces. Chin fits between his index and thumb. Tilts her then blossomed; now wilting head up. Direct rays. Red. Incarnadine and crimson under lids. Flutter fatigued like a touched butterfly. "No. No sleeping. I woke up for you." "I'm—I'm fine." Hyacinths and poppies picked dry. Barren dust toils in the stillness of her mind. "I didn't get shot. It was when you pushed me— " "I pushed you in there so you wouldn't get shot." Digs ditches for bodies in her arm. Prods and cultivates fire. The same fire that birthed ash. Buried on his face and in her hair. Crumbs and the slit of his nails rush over peaked skin. "And then you got shot twice and didn't move so I scrambled out—Ahh" Gates off her arm. Dams the river. Pale skin abstracts in contrasts. In reds. Silhouettes of kite tails. Inkblots of his prints in perfection. "Which defeats not only the purpose of me pushing you in there but of me getting—" "I'm not arguing with you, Sam." Bounces off of stalactites bone dry, sucked of marrow. Doesn't have the time. Proper cocktail dress and clutch time. Doesn't have the strength. Strength is measured in cups of poppy petals floating in brackish air. Freezes like sprigs caught in subzero rain. Like the holiday glebe. Like the naked trees who are left violated in winter. "Okay." Hearth beckons her to him. Warms the base of her head. Falls against him silent in a well with no one around to hear except a nagging voice in her ear. Two twisting arborescent forms relying on each other to keep from falling. "Okay." 10:45am (?) Fires a flare. But no one notices him. Starts a race. But nobody moves. No body. Pomegranate wrist reposes easily by his thigh. Left hand agitates in the air. Sick bird. Avian flu. Flew straight into a power line and poof. Smoke and feathers. Cloak and daggers. Not daggers. Not this time. First time. Last time. Stiff as a board light as a feather. There's just a beam of light. Well, a little more than that. Some concrete rocks. Some metal. The chittering of metal in his left hand. The uneven terrain under his feet. Sinks into the soles of his shoes like every child's first lost tooth. Residual fumes drooling from barrels like in black and white private eye flicks. The ruby red apple of an eye. A third eye, almost center stage. Wasn't aiming for—it just sort of—he's right handed and had to shoot with his left hand. He had to shoot with his left hand. He had to shoot. He had to. Shot the birds. Shot the cat. Shot the guy in the SUV. Stole the car and drove to Boca Rotan for the swinging singles scene. No scene. Crime scene. What has been seen can't be unseen. Seen. Saw. Sees two licks of tomato sauce breaking over his nose. Dripping syrup style onto his timbered arm. Gun still swaddled, still coughing wisps of smoke. Eyes open, rolled upwards at an outside sky he'll never see. Saw. Seen. "Michelangelo. Julianna. You answer me now." Sorry Dad. We were just playing cops and cops in the stairwell and didn't hear you calling. No honest, we didn't know you were outside and needed our help. We forgot you were out there. A bomb upstairs? And Ed is screwing around with it? I must've for—shut the fuck up. Ruby red and poisonous. Thick droplets staining his coat. His bicep smolders. Laughing end of newspaper devouring itself, orange diffusing to rotten black. Black mackling his skin in tiger stripes. Finger ghosts over the trigger full stress. Tiger skinned, apple-eyed, wear your best red dr— "Spike?" Soles roil up the pebbles; fling them into a mock tornado as he pivots. Right arm unraveled like a fire hose, slapping on the ground behind him. Left arm plumb in all eccentricities. Stops his revolution and his sidearm chatters, debases him with high school locker giggles. Sam springs forward. His fingers stitch into a strap on Jules' vest. With little strength he directs her behind him. Her shoes precarious and wheeling over debris. Concrete clatters. The gun in his hand clatters. Tiger camouflage injures off the savannah. No one wants to stride through the concrete jungle like a big, orange, furry freak. She dissolves, but there's a solid thump. Assumes she whacks Sam in the back because her voice is his borrowed growl. "Why do you keep—" "Because your head is where my heart is and my heart is covered by a vest." Sam too is redder than usual. Galaxies of reds and brown swirling across his face. Plagues of Egypt. Two out of ten. "Spike, what are you doing?" "I just—I didn't—" And it's not right. He doesn't understand because he wasn't meant for this. Wasn't meant to shoot a blind friend in the caved in stairwell of a preppy high school. Wasn't meant to be trained to ride unicycles on a stage show in Vegas. Reprimand. Dog bites a kid and gets put down. Stage tiger mauls a handler and gets put down. Circus elephant rampages and gets put down. It's nature through adaptation. Someone was shooting at him, hot coins of metal whizzing by his ear like jet fighters, and he bit. He mauled. He rampaged. Can't not feel emotions adapted and inherent to him. Can't just bob up and down, enameled like a depiction of a dog, or tiger, or elephant on a calliope-tuned carousel. "Spike?" Dulcet chirrup disposes Sam's vilifying nature. Airy like the first notes of a nightingale in the predawn. Just one on the wire. Just a solitary bird willing to keep him company. Doesn't notice Sam's scowl while flitting by. Notices Raf's corpse. Apple-eyed, tomato cheeked. Fingers fly to her mouth but her hand occludes. "Oh Spike, I'm so sorry." "I didn't mean to." First tears. Soupy. Chunky. Abnormal in a mixing bowl of dust and his perspiration. "I know. " Tweets and twirls out of Sam's open pawed swipe to retain her. A cage within a cage. Concern for concern. Frightened little bird with the saddest brown eyes he's ever seen. "He re-escalated. He was in pain. He was scared. I think he wanted to die, but I don't think he could do it himself." "I aimed for his arm because I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I don't want anyone to get hurt." Shot a piece of metal directly into someone's brain and claims he didn't want anyone to get hurt. Raf acted on instinct. On adaptation. Raf bit. Mauled. Rampaged. In the form of open firing on his friends. His team. Wonders if he wanted to be put down. "It's not your fault Spike. You did what Sam, or I would have done. What we're trained to do." Within reach now. All brown and red spackled in ancient war markings. The same brown and red as Sam. As Raf. He's the only one who got pomegranate. Grape. Wine. He's the only one worthy enough of having ambrosia from the God's soldered under his skin. He took the shot. "But now you have to put the gun down, okay?" Mangled piece of metal. Does the Charleston in his left hand. Owes Sam a beer, because down the sight is her head. "Oh God." Spooks him better than any Halloween movie horror story. Discharges the gun from his hand faster than it fires bullets. Like the scorching aftermath of friction finally singed his hands. She flutters into his arms, breezily embracing him. Smells of earth and flowers, but not typical garden herbs and flora. Curious blossoms. Over her radiant hair, Sam finally lowers his weapon. Prowls on the banks. "Jules? What's your status?" The embrace shatters. Mirror dropped from a mountain. Left to rot overtime and morphs to concrete. To stone. Dust spurts from her heels as she flutters back. Tags along, back in reigns, to the center of the stage. "Sarge we got Spike." "Spike?" "Here Boss." "You had me worried. What about Raf?" "Raf's gone." "Gone? Jules what do y—" "Greg, I have fifteen minutes on this bomb." Bombs. Bombs. He knows bombs. Bombs he can deal with. Bombs are simple schematics and math. Simple proven formulas. Numbers crumbled into a ball and then chucked at a blackboard for sorting. He can do bombs. "Can you remove it?" Jules cradles the microphone. Snuffs out the sound. Eyes on the ceiling, masked above them in darkness. Searching listless for sky. "He can't. The way the ceiling caved in buried it. He only has limited access to the wires." "There's just one more wire to cut based on the schematics I got from the—" "Whoa, Ed. If you cut the wrong wire you'll blow yourself to bits, not to mention bury us alive." Lungs have already become a terrarium for the dirt and bacteria he's been breathing in for the last half an hour. Doesn't want a matching bracelet. Doesn't' want to end up a victim of a fashion show. "Spike," A harsh exhale, the crack of surf chomping at the side of a bluff. "It's a single wire coming directly from the fuse. I sent pictures to everyone's PDAs. Do you guys have one yet?" "You can use mine." Jules' hands hummingbird over her body. Hover at pockets and crevices in search for the device. Missing jacket overlooked. Pants pockets burrowed into. He and Sam exchange a brief glance. Sad, brown, birdy eyes greet his once again. Head tilts with just the slightest hint of confusion. Of understanding within misunderstanding. Of pure innocence. "I don't know where I put it." Vocal cords vibrate to answer her. But Sam lunges. Forces a black phone with a slivered screen into his left hand. Arm wraps around the small of her back, consumed in a bulky vest. Pecks her temple, hand curls like a kitten at the base of her skull, fingers flicking to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I think you left it in the rig." "Yeah." Head preens against his chest. Tucks away her expression with her insecurities. "Yeah, I think you're right." Sam glares at him. Impales him with two spears from five feet away. Daring him to correct him. Expose the truth. Tell her how—but he won't, because she is his single bird. Free caged bird who sang to him anyways. Doesn't want her song to be tarnished by this. Start screen flickers dimly through the spider web impact. Loads and he's left to traverse through a monitor smaller than a piece of cheese and fragmented into twenty pieces. "Ed, I'm trying to use Sam's PDA. Don't do anything before I get a chance to look at the schematics." "By then it'll be too late. I'm just going to have to cut the wire either way, Spike." "Ed." Gestures to the back wall. To Raf's final resting place. The only wall with interior structures behind it which might survive another disaster. The wall will. They won't. But for some reason they meander towards the monolith anyway. "It could be a dummy wire that trips the bomb. You don't—" "Get back against the entrance because I'm cutting it." "Eddy, maybe give him a second to look at the plans." "Greg, I think I know wha—"
However, as always, my offer still stands that if you have any questions you'd like answered (pertaining to anything) please PM me and I'll see to them privately.
This chapter should clear up some of the mishmash though.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, alerted, and read. I know that depending on who the character is (like when it's not Greg or Ed) it gets tricky to understand. Thanks for staying around through the sticky bits.
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