Rating: PG13, if that. Bad language.
Notes: Bits of this are completely stolen from the lyrics of Metric's "Rock me Now" which has been demanding I do something Domino with it for a long long time.
The Town Where She Was Born
by ALC Punk!
She wants to believe it's a real memory.
Her mother works a blackjack table at the Circus Circus Circus casino (and she knows there's no place called that, it's too Hollywood glitz).
It's late at night, waiting for her mother (why was she in a parking lot?). Mother gets off late, she needs the money she makes, otherwise there's no life for the both of them. The parking lot echoes with sound, suddenly. Loud, obnoxious, and even at seven she knows it's a sound that doesn't belong in nature.
Seven. Why was she always seven?
The man who had been walking towards her falls, brain and blood spilling into the earth (why can't she see any color?). Grey bone, white light from the overheads, and the gunshot still shatters the night air as she crouches behind a car and waits.
Heart beating so fast (they could have heard me, they could have seen me).
Mother finally arrives, beaten and tired, care-worn around the edges, black robes swishing.
The body doesn't surprise her (the bodies never surprise her, she knows everything, something all mothers are supposed to do).
"We're the only people in Las Vegas." Mother is a faceless woman, all stark white with shadows for hair. "Even him. The others just arrive and eat complimentary shrimp cocktails and leave."
It always ends, there.
She wakes in a cold sweat, the streetlights shining in. And wonders if out there, in the glamor, is the woman in her dreams. Or if there are a hundred thousand of her, surviving and eking out an existence that she will never have to face.
Horns blare on the strip, and she moves from the window, restless.
Her hands pleat the sheet, making half-origami shapes in the low light, her mind elsewhere, her amethyst eyes vacant as she tries to remember.
A past that doesn't exist.
Laz gave her that, in a way. And she knows he didn't mean to hurt her.
She wishes he hadn't had to die.
Not that she can prove he did. She only has guesses. The monks were sad when they told her he'd disappeared. And she knows who did it. Knows because, as flawed as her perceptions are, the woman she could call mother (what a laugh) is determined to see her plan through. And she also knows that, leaving him where her mother left her (as symbolically twisted and right as it was) made it so much easier for him to be found.
The glass of the scotch bottle is sticky, and she guesses she spilled some the last time she had a drink. There's too little to do enough anymore. Her tolerance was too high, and she considers going to get more.
Drinking herself to sleep has become a habit.
She doesn't like to analyze the memory (dream), but knows it's unavoidable without a great deal of alcohol.
The parking lot, of course, she recognizes. And the man. The child in the dream, she isn't so sure about, but she doesn't remember there being a kid there that day. Kids were never something she tangled with. Kills were always clean and calculated.
With a snarl at the past, Domino throws the bottle against the wall and grabs up her discarded boots.
Time to go get her complimentary cocktail and get the fuck out of Vegas.