Warlord Metal (32 page)

Looking around the room - tavern, her mind supplied - once again, Jordan said, "Okay. If I'm not dead, than where the hell am I? What is this place?"

With a shrug, the Other's grin widened. "An ancient memory. A limbo of sorts. Someplace you created to feel safe and wish to experience again." The smile faded and she tilted her head, her eyes intensifying. "But this is only in your imagination."

Emerald eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said without thinking. But, it is safe here.

The Other smiled. "Yes, you do. You've just decided to be stubborn about it."

Jordan let it slide, a scowl on her face. It felt right and that irritated her, but her mind was occupied with other things. First and foremost was the fact that the voices that usually inhabited her head were... missing.

"They don't belong here. They aren't a part of you. This place is."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" the guitarist demanded, a trickle of anxiety in her heart.

The Other drank from her cup again, emerald eyes peering over the rim. She set the empty cup down. "I'm you."

Jordan snorted in derision. "Trust me, babe. If you were me, I'd know it." She glanced to one side and saw a peasant at a nearby table. "And what's he? I've never seen him before." she scoffed.

The Other leaned back in her seat. "No. Just window dressing. Not like them," and her long arm waved towards her band mates and friends along the wall.

Instinctively, emerald eyes followed the arm, watched her friends as they conversed or sang. Brightness caught her eye and she noticed others that hadn't been there upon her first examination - a doctor and a couple of nurses sporting their white jackets and uniforms, standing by a window. The doctor had a stethoscope around her neck and a chart, discussing something that was just out of earshot while one nurse nodded and the other prepared a hypodermic of some substance.

So much for feeling safe! she thought. And then she heard another voice in her head. They're only trying to help you. The whisperer was still there, the one that had been there all her life, the advisor that was consistently wrong, suggesting things that only caused more grief, more pain, more hurt.

Jordan shoved her plate to one side, a stern look on her face. "You gonna tell me what the hell is going on or what?"

"Definitely haven't learned patience, have you?" her doppelganger said with a wry grin. She shook her head and waved a finger at the redhead's apparent attempt at a response. "Sorry. Rhetorical question. Let's get on to what you want to know."

Sourly, the guitarist nodded in agreement.

"You're not dead yet, Jordan. But it's a possibility at this point. You'll be removed from life support soon and no one's sure whether or not you'll fight to remain alive."

"So, this is a delusion because of the downers and booze?" she asked, feeling on firmer ground.

The Other's eyes widened in surprise. "No. I told you. This is an old memory. A place of safety. This is where you've gone to escape the real world."

The redhead rolled her eyes and looked away. "It ain't like the real world is all that great, ya know," she muttered. "It's full of shit and blood and pain. Nothing more."

"And Sonny," the woman added, her emerald eyes pained.

Their eyes met for mere seconds before Jordan looked away again. Whaddya getting so worked up for? It's just a hallucination! She heaved a sigh. Or is it?

"Go look out the window."

Jordan debated whether or not she should do as she was told, a part of her not wanting to give in to this strange woman who looked so much like... me, the whisperer filled in. That does it! She dug in her figurative heels and shook her head.

Exasperated, the Other sighed deeply. "Damn, that stubborn streak is still a fathom wide." She also shook her head and added, "Fine. Then don't." She waved the older woman towards them, lifting her cup as a signal.

Despite herself, the guitarist glanced at a nearby window. It appeared to move closer with surprising speed until it was directly in front of her. There was no place to go and she could only stare out onto the scene before her.

A hospital room with sunlight entering from a window. A changing of the guard, as Atkins rose and Sonny hugged him. Words were exchanged, but Jordan couldn't hear them. And then the tall guitarist was gone, leaving her guitar in the corner by the bed. Sonny looked upon her still, pale form with deep sadness. And then she leaned over, kissing her on the forehead.

Jordan could feel a light caress on her forehead as she continued to watch.

Sonny settled down and pulled a book from her pack. She found her bookmarked place and opened it, her mouth moving as she read aloud to the comatose woman in the bed.

Almost. Almost, she could make out the voice. Make out the words.

"Hardly shit, blood and pain," the Other's low voice murmured.

Jordan started and the window was suddenly back where it was supposed to be. She was still seated at the table, the woman across from her. Her cup had been filled to the rim with more apple cider. "Look, what the fuck do you want from me?" she growled.

"To admit that you love and are loved."

Emerald eyes blinked in incomprehension. "Love?" she finally sneered. "Love is a myth. It doesn't exist." But isn't that what you feel when you're with.... "And even if it does exist," Jordan hurriedly added, "I don't deserve it."

"Why?"

"Why?" the redhead spat in disgust. "Get a clue, bitch! If you're me, you know exactly why!"

The Other studied the smaller woman for long moments. "So, what Lucifer started, Sylvia finished?"

"No. What I started finished Sylvia."

Lips pursed in reluctant understanding, the woman nodded her head. "You talking about this?"

And the window was back with a vengeance, making Jordan feel a bit dizzy from its speed of approach.

A very young girl with inky black hair was tying an older blindfolded woman, restraining her wrists, hanging her from a chain in the ceiling of a typical dungeon. Chains, whips, clamps, strops, rack, leather harnesses, dental chair complete with hydraulic drill. A bamboo screen was raised, revealing a small man of dark European descent, smoking a cigarette and watching the scene.

The redhead's stomach clenched at the memory. Her mind blithered on other topics, trying to ease the familiar feelings of panic and fear. Jesus. Was I ever really that young? She tried to turn away from the view, but couldn't move, helpless as she watched the past replay itself.

The young girl began doing things to the woman, slapping her, caressing her, applying nipple clamps, attaching restraints to her ankles, a spreader bar. The man in the window pulled a cellular phone out of his pocket and made a few phone calls, idly stroking his manhood between cigarettes.

"Stop this!" Jordan demanded aloud, her voice echoing eerily.

And then the man rapped on the window, calling the girl out of the room. He gave her money and a pack of cigarettes in reward. He ordered her to strip and she did. After a fierce kiss on the lips, he handed her pills, insisted she take them, give them to the woman inside. Which she did.

The same feelings from the drug she had taken all those many years ago began to surface. Jordan watched her younger self go back into the room and administer the pills to her captive. Fear and anger began to pulse within her breast.

The girl continued as she'd been doing, torturing, teasing, tempting. She retrieved a leather strop and began to give the woman what she'd come to receive. Stinging lashes were laid on back and buttocks and thighs. But the girl became paler as the drug took effect. And the woman began to look less like she enjoyed the treatment and began to struggle against her restraints.

The fear and anger Jordan was feeling suddenly exploded into a fury. She shook with it, sweat running from her in rivers and teeth grinding painfully together, fists knotted.

The girl began to growl, to use more force. What had begun as pink welts soon became red. The edge of the strop began slicing the pale skin of the woman, blood welling up, staining the leather, further striping her back. The woman screamed out in pain and terror. The man pulled his member out and began to masturbate.

Jordan's heart ached at the violent explosion from her younger self, revisiting the morass of seething emotion that had set her on her course.

Her own low voice soothed over the violation of her soul. "Do you actually believe that there wasn't something else going on here? Something you had no control over?"

The man reached his climax. He used his step-daughter's shirt to clean up the mess. Another man joined him and they chatted as the girl continued venting her fear and rage. The men joked and laughed and then entered the dungeon. The first man intercepted the girl, removing the strop and tossing it to the new arrival. As the second man continued what the girl had begun, the first strapped her to the rack.

"You don't remember much past this point, do you?" the Other asked.

The window was gone again. Jordan sat ramrod straight on the bench, breathing heavily. The emotions that had been seething through her had disappeared and she was left only with a vague physical detachment and exhaustion. She swallowed, her mouth dry, and lifted the cup of cider to her lips with shaky hands.

"Do you remember what happens next?"

Jordan shook her head. "No," she said in a low voice. "I woke up in my room the next day."

The Other leaned closer, peering at the redhead in concern. "You stayed away from the dungeon for quite a while, didn't you? It was days before help came?"

Needing no window to relive the memory, Jordan nodded, eyes closed.

The girl snuck into the dungeon while all were asleep. She was horrified at the amount of damage done to the once beautiful young woman. With solid resolve, she retrieved the bloodied and tattered shirt, dashing out of the house with it. The girl stuffed it into the garbage can in the alley, right next to the old pizza she'd had for dinner the night before. And then she went into the house and picked up the phone.

"What'd you tell them to get them there so quickly?"

Eyes stinging, the guitarist gave a watery snort. "You know. Told 'em I'd been shot and hung up the phone."

"How many days was it?"

"Six," was the whispered response.

"For saving her life, for bringing your step father to justice, for stopping the continuation of a viscous group of sadists who cared for nothing but their own entertainment you don't deserve love or to be loved?"

"No!" Jordan pushed away from the table, rising in her denial, wanting to leave this conversation, this tavern. Long arms reached out to stop her and she turned and swung.

With ease, the Other dodged the blow and caught her hands, pulling her into an embrace that was more a wrestling match. The redhead struggled to get away, to run from the tears that were threatening to start, knowing that should she cry, she'd never stop. Refusing to be daunted, the Other held on tight.

And Jordan's dominant will finally broke as great sobs shook her small body for the first time in her conscious memory. She cried for her broken childhood, the torments of her step father, the abandonment of her mother. All the disgust and hatred and doubts, the sympathetic looks from strangers, the knowledge that nothing would ever save her, stop the pain, stop the hurt, stop her own rage and violent soul.

The arms holding Jordan eased as she stopped fighting their containment. She was whisked up and carried like an overgrown baby back to the table. There the Other settled back down on the bench, cradling the woman, rocking, caressing, singing gently in a low voice.

Hours seemed to pass before the misery finally appeared to reach its end. The sobbing quieted and the tears tapered off. The redhead felt exhausted and drained. But not in a bad way. She sleepily listened to the woman singing, her voice surprisingly like Sonny's. Completely relaxed in the embrace, feeling wonder at the familiarity of it, Jordan asked, "Why are you here?"

The singing stopped and the Other hugged her gently. "Because you don't think Sonny's strong enough to handle it."

Recognizing the truth in that statement, Jordan nodded.

"But, she can handle it," the woman continued. "She does have me to fall back on." Long fingers brushed red gold hair, tucking it behind an ear.

Emerald eyes narrowed as she tried to comprehend the statement. Even as she tried to think, she realized that the woman holding her wasn't her doppelganger.

And then her eyes closed. So tired. The memory faded. Instead, she heard the low voice of the woman - Sonny - holding her, speaking to her.

"Next time we'll be born on the same day. I'm eager to..."

"...do it all again, even the sad parts, but especially that first winter." A few more paragraphs were read and Sonny closed the book, finished. She looked over at the figure in the bed, trying to see past all the tubes and wires.

Emerald eyes looked back at her.

The teenager's heart lurched for a second. Calm down, girl! It could be just an automatic reaction! You've seen it before! She set the book down and rose.

The eyes followed her movements.

Swallowing, half in fear and half in hope, Sonny stood next to the bed and leaned closer. "Jordan?" she softly asked.

Under the oxygen mask there was a croaked response.

"OhmigodohshitIloveyou!" The young woman dived for the call button and mashed down on it. Within seconds, a bevy of white clad men and women burst through the door and hustled her to one side. She anxiously watched as they poked and prodded and took vital signs.

"Back off!" Jordan growled, her voice raspy from lack of use.

The sound of her irascible lover sent a shiver of happiness through her and Sonny couldn't help but giggle at the stern faced nurses.

Refusing to be daunted, the staff continued their ministrations until they were satisfied. The head nurse turned to her as they all filed out, a warning look on her face. "Don't tire her out," she ordered. "I'm going to call the doctor to have a look at her." And then she was gone, as well.