CHRISTINE IN BLUE --PROLOGUE

By Succubus

Walking through the night alone can hold a certain comfort. No need for fake smiles, no need for a mask; a man could be himself in the darkness.

Afternoon rain had turned the streets to muck and the air to soup. Reflected in the puddles were the city lights: somehow cleaner, a fairy tale version of Philadelphia gleamed up from the steaming streets, taunting the man. His heavy boot splashed into one puddle, shattering the image. Overheated sewage was the aroma that floated up from the shimmering blacktop.

That's what happens in this city, he thought: clean pure rain arrives, and by nightfall it's turned to poison. Is that what happened to Christine? But then again, some come here just for the filth, finding that it's ugliness strikes a chord of truth inside of them.

"Or perhaps you're just drunk again," he mumbled to himself. No perhaps about it, he most definitely was, but the sound of his own voice startled him back to silence.

He'd walked for a while now. His shirt clung to him, soaked with his sweat. Smashing another puddle, watching the city turn to little waves, thinking of it washing the city clean, he pulled a bottle of scotch from the pocket of his pants. Staring at the city around him, he drank deeply.

Fatigue washed over him; the weight of all the scotch, the day, the week, half a lifetime--all of it--seemed to settle down upon the man. Sighing heavily, he stumbled toward a doorway. As he sat, resting his head against stained and crumbling brick, he felt amazed. Amazed he'd made it this far, down the streets and to this stoop. He certainly couldn't have gone another step.

Frustration tore at his mind, pushing him to drink more. Enough scotch was bound to wash away anything, wasn't it? He believed it, he had to: he'd lost his ability to believe in anything else.

He wanted to lash out, to hit and scream and punch his way through the pain, but the only enemy he could see was the city herself.

Staring at the lights, facing his demons and himself, he saw it all through the haze of her face. The lights both real and reflected blurred. Touching his eyes with one finger, he was surprised to find them wet--he was crying.

With nothing left to clearly see but her, he gave in, letting her eyes take him over, watching her lips curl into a smile. A sob tore out of the man. Were it not for the safety of the night, even that small sound, proof of his hurt, would never have been uttered.

But in the darkness, he weakened, letting himself be pulled down into a flood of memories, drowning in scotch and the scent of Christine's perfume.