Monday, April 06, 2009
After the Party
It had been a long night.
Gillian, exhausted beyond the realms of death, had collapsed into her grave even before dawn and Felicia, heedless of the blood that matted her hair, had fallen asleep on the sofa, a pink, triple scar from a reaver blade curving from thigh to armpit.
“You don’t look well, Harold,” said Jasfoup, picking up the remote for the television and switching it on. The morning news, with its impersonal accounts of foreclosures and distant wars, was oddly comforting in its familiarity.
Harold lifted his broken arm and tried without success to close his fist. “You should see yourself, matey,” he said. “I’ve never seen you too tired to spruce up your appearance before.”
Jasfoup looked down at his ripped and bloodied suit, then across the room to the mirror. His face was so badly burned on the left that bone showed, and his eye shone from a crushed and lidless socket. He concentrated. The flesh regrew and the suit flickered and was replaced with a new one. “Better?”
Harold nodded. “Much.” He looked at his pocket watch, dented but still working. “I’ll have to phone the school,” he said, “to tell them Lucy won’t be there.”