Raquel looked out her window at the rain and sighed. Her dark red hair cascaded down her shoulders as she watched water fall, fall, fall like her spirits. It was an empty world she saw. All intellect, with no passion, no soul, no raison d'etre.
Her analyst said she needed to get laid. He had a predatory light in his eye when he said it; she stopped seeing him, and blocked him off her phone. Now she had no one to talk to in this city, this dirty crush of humanity with no humanity.
She had robbed herself of the only link to society she had. Now the self-pity started to tear at her thoughts. She was hopeless. A social misrepresentation of a human being. The crush of depression bore down on her like a physical weight, like millions of years of sediment slowly crushing the bones of her psyche to oblivion.
A fizzle sounded behind her, and she smelled smoke of a pungent, sweet odour. Turning around, she saw an American Indian dressed in flowered shirt and ornate beads, and a tall thin man carrying a book of sheet music. They were smoking out of a small clay pipe.
Raquel jumped up and backed to the wall. "Who... who are you?"
"Pardon us ma'am," said the Music Man. "We're just trying to escape inter-cosmic evil. Uhh, where's your back door?"
The Indian was looking into her eyes. They were the deepest eyes she had ever seen, misted inside and out.
Music Man pulled on his friend's arm. "We're in a hurry, Moon Runner. Let's get outta here before someone tries to kill us again, I need another drink, and give me that damn pipe."
They were gone. She ran after them, but they had disappeared. She dropped to her knees. "Gone..."
Friday, October 30, 2009
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