Reverie and That Song She Sings

Part 6


Blue Sky Rain

Hours before, the video had streamed across my room and lit up my walls, glaring light on the slick pictures strewn across my sheets and floor. I didn't care for their order any more. The way they had been originally simply ceased to occur to me. A thousand faces stared at me from the past. I could find no depth beyond the image. They provided nothing. They were as flat as they appeared to be in the first place.

The room was dark now.

I had seen myself as I stood veiled in past along the ocean's edge, standing on rocks in a sweatshirt that fell softly over uniform skirt, but I could never remember what I had seen with my own eyes. I could follow the patterns of what the camera had captured, but that wasn't remembering. I could call up a fabrication, but that wasn't remembering either. I had nothing to link together the charges in my brain and complete a long-forgotten cycle.

Edward could help me. She remembered the place I could not. She would show it to me. He hid it away to keep me here.


His eyes… his words curses as I tried to fight them off. I wasn't real. How long could I live inside some violet shelled utopia of a fantasy? My mind was already halfway withered with the lack of recognition in faces and places. I couldn't truly remember the moustache on my father, or the way I had always known that I had my mother's hair. Perhaps this was a worse fate than staring at a man you know you cannot love.

Would you let him if he did?

Nevertheless, that wasn't the point. I had to get away. I had to get out of here. It would be better than the constant reminder of a kiss during the night and misread roses.

That's why I had changed the course on the computer. Here, on this ship, I was clinging to a dying rope. Jet never understood. I was just a young thing to him, a woman, unfathomable in all ways. Ed was just a girl, a child. She wouldn't understand for a few years why I was really leaving. Spike.


He would understand. He knew. A white-washed figure danced behind my eyes as I filled my bag with the few things that belonged to me. It mocked me in its steps and trance, in its fake sterility of paint. It had not been stained when I was. It had not been struck and broken when I was. It just stayed there, swaying to some hidden rhythm and song while staring at me with dead black eyes. That's why it held no wounds. It was dead. We were all dead here. I had died a long time ago, but the doll was sewn back up and stuffed again with a pulse and blood to keep those glass eyes blinking with the repetitive cry for a mother.

My mothersomething lost.

I was a doll. I knew this, for why else would they try to bring me to their arms with that name, to take me up in their sweated embraces? Desire for a doll. They longed for this piece of porcelain flesh like starved hounds. What did I do when they called me? I smiled, then I took all they possessed. I robbed them of their money, and sometimes their lives. I was a laughing monster. Had I pushed Grendel from my own womb when I died the first time? Or had I been reborn as Grendel himself, and fitted with the face and breasts of a woman, given a womb to bear even more wretchedness?

I had no answers to that.

Somehow, I felt the shame in packing my bags and turning tail to run. This ship had been my home. This place I shared with my family. I couldn't throw in the thousand things that I loved here.

What was the point in staying here when all I could find was misery?

Damnitwhy did he do that?

Why did he have to kiss me?

I shoved a shirt into the bag hard.

The hangar was dark and quiet, the perfect time for a getaway from this place, from his face. I slid away the bars that held the gate into place and then opened it. It whined out protests until I shut it again. My eyes were already arm in arm with the darkness. I saw the form of my ship along the edge of the hangar. It seemed like a chariot, but where would it take me?

I pulled on the latch. The door opened softly, with barely a whisper of movement from the mechanics that let it open.

"Well, it's certainly an early hour to go out for a stroll, isn't it?"

The voice startled me, and as the shadow that contained the rough tone in its throat came out of the place behind the stairs, I frowned.

He had no shirt, and his chest was bare. The navy-toned pants were held to him with a red tie string at his hips. There were no scars, and it caught my attention, caught my breath, my awe. His skin was light, like age-stained ivory, but even white scars should have been apparent. There was no pucker of flesh, no slices or traces of laceration.

I scowled at him. I scowled at his perfection as well as his presence.

"You're up early too, Fro-boy."

The name was childish. They always were. That's why he didn't care that they were said.

"You didn't answer my question."

My face tightened. The abrupt curve to dodge had missed its target and went for the outfield, caught by no one. I would be scrambling to make it to first base, that refuge beyond his face, his words, he as an entity and person. His flesh, what little of it was aware to my eyes, seemed to breathe my capture already, even before I ran.

"What do you care what I'm doing?"

My tone fit into place with the knotting of eyebrows and a hand on my hip. I scowled at him. My entrapment would not go without a struggle.

He caught sight of my bag as it hung to my wrist and leaned against my thigh. He frowned.

"Where are you going?"

I scoffed. "Look, I'm not a kid. You're not my father. I can go anywhere I damn well please!"

"I know."

"Then why do you care!"

His face softened. He almost seemed sad, almost like a small dog after a hand struck its jaw. It was almost as if he were giving up.

"It's the pictures, isn't it?"

But my words did not. They continued on their march with heated feet and frown pressed lips.

"So what if it is! You don't care at all!"

My voice echoed back to me, and the vibrations of hurt came back to me and shook my ribs. It burned my eyes and pulled on my face until the tears came. I pushed the hands away.

But his caught my cheeks instead.

The original course of tears were broken with his hands.


He said my name, and I hated it. I hated how it had feelings blended in with two syllables. I hated how it casually came back to strike something into me once more after echoing on the ceiling above us.

I pushed his hands away. I didn't need them, and I had already stained them with tears. They had clung to me like warm mud, and I had scraped them from my face. And, while I was wiping away the remains of shed feelings, I heard something. He had chuckled. I looked through my damp hands to scowl at him.

He was tossing something up in the air. I followed its form with my eyes until I recognized its shape.

"Hey! Gimmie back my key damnit!" I fumbled at my try to grab it, and his hands pulled in another direction. It was as if our hands were bound to the same tense string, bound in permanent separation in a set distance. He dodged my attempts with chuckles until the frustration burned itself carefully ragged into my cheeks. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and glared at him. The sadness pulsed behind my aggravation momentarily.


He laughed softly at my choice of words. He put his arm around my waist and led me away from the ship's cool surface towards the opening of the doors.

A color peeked through the doors, a blazing orange. The blood of the sun stained and spread across the sky with careful fingers. Each tone of color blended carefully in clouds along the destroyed horizon that Earth so lovingly harbored. It was almost as if the chaos of clouds and this color were in perfect synchronization, and produced a gasp of awe and beauty on my lips.

I felt his arm tighten its circle on my waist and my shoulder fell into his chest. His skin was cool to mine, and smooth.

I didn't raise my own arm. I didn't want to be like some stupid high school romance that they show on television where I would just as quickly accept everything and return it just the same. I just wanted his skin to my skin. I wanted him to hold me, and that's all. If he wanted to talk, it was fine by me, but, for now, it was quiet.

His voice always broke that though, carefully with such a sandpaper voice and a hint of accent. The accent made me wonder where he had been raised. I knew he would never tell me, and I was fine with that for now, though I remembered the want for his complete history to be written out page by page.

He broke it.

"What's the bag for?"

I paused my breath for a moment before I spoke. "Depends. If I don't find what I'm looking for, then it won't be anything important. But if I find what I'm looking for then…" I stopped speaking. My words weren't needed to explain what I was doing, and silence was probably more appropriate. The connections were simple and were lacking only basic parts. Spike knew now.

"What are you looking for?"

My face crinkled with confusion. "Don't you already know?" I said.

"I want you to tell me."

His voice remained calm and serious. The tone never cracked or quivered, but I knew why he was holding onto my body so tightly. I looked at my feet, at my white Go-Go boots.

"I'm looking for…"

What am I looking for?

What do I wish to find?

What am I looking for?

"…for my past. I want somewhere to belong."

He sighed.

"Ya know… you don't need a past. You just need something that pushes you through the present into the future."

I frowned and suddenly his arm was a weight and a bother to me. "Is that right? Don't give advice to me if you're going to be a hypocrite," I said, on the verge of a snapping tone.

He looked at me and his seriousness bounded into me like the kicking feet of rabbits. His eyes softened a fraction and I felt his hand moving to tighten around my waist. My side blended with his skin and the warmth of his body fell through the fabric to my own skin. He sighed and a smile fell to one side of his face.

"Shut up, Faye. For once, just shut up."

Then his lips caught mine for the second time.

We lingered there, in happiness, in that utopia shell I had cursed only an hour before. His arms encircled me and it was warm in the fold, like sheets fresh from the dryer. It was another taste of heaven, another sampling of what I could have if I stayed here.

But I can't stay here

I slowly unfolded myself from it. He was looking through my ghost again, and this time I didn't mind his eyes.

"Will I see you again?" he asked me.

I could not find words. I could not bring the bubbles up from the wave that crashed and broke under my heart.

"I…" I stammered, and looked away, "I have to go get Ed."

I pulled myself away completely and turned. My back was to him, and I could feel the clinging spirits along my waist, trying to keep themselves on my skin as the absence of the original had suddenly become apparent. I rubbed my arm and inhaled as if to say something more… something that might make this softer and unrealistic… make it a dream again.

I heard the key fall to the floor. I froze with the sound. The metal against metal bang twice before it settled.

"Take care of yourself," he said, and I could hear his footfalls.

I had turned away.

He had said farewell, and turned away.

We had both separated ourselves, had both cleaved ourselves from the other, and then turned away.

My chest turned into a shredded hurricane of red, and I made my steps faster in order to halt the coming tears that burned behind my eyes. His arms were burned away with my blood. I wanted to severe him from me. I wanted to destroy the memory.

Why did you do that Faye?

Why did you do that Faye?

Why did you do that Faye?

Thick veins run a course through time

Sell it sickly, starved, sublime

The black stallions know all their lines

Collecting death in all their crimes

Growing deeper, groping further

Is this the reason why you curse her?

Because in the mirror reflection cut deep

Something stains this soul in me

Author Notes:

All poems (AKA the things at the end of the chapter in italics that tend to rhyme) from before and here on out are mine, unless noted.

Well, finally, inspiration struck after I graduated and I produced this. It's short, and it might not be the best installment, but there's more to come. I was writing this back at the end of June, and almost had it finished, but it remained a choppy mess, especially in the dialogue. I put it off and left it alone. Then, inspiration stuck to me after watching Vanilla Sky and remembering a song and a feeling. I'll be updating this story more often now, and for those who have stuck with me…


I appreciate all you have done for me as readers. This story will have 15, not including the ending, parts to it, which means I have 9 more installments to share with you. I wish it was much more, but I must end the story at some point. I heard a suggestion for a Spike version of this story, and I might just take it up after this is completed.

Would you, as readers, enjoy such a story?

Song listened to while writing and editing: REM – Sweetness Follows, Evanescence – Hello, From Autumn To Ashes – Autumn's Monologue, Enya – May It Be

NOTE: This is the second draft of this chapter. Before I updated this recent time, I went through and read all the chapters in order to get me in the mood for writing. I felt this chapter still needed touchups in weak spots, because I felt that some parts were out of character, and some were just weak in the imagery that I pictured in my head. Therefore, I did a second draft. Oh, and please excuse my very late update. I enrolled in college and began attending in late August. At the time that I normally would have picked up the story and written on it, I was overwhelmed with conflicting feelings and academic work, as well as a wonderful new romance. He encouraged me to continue. The next chapter is up. Enjoy.