(no subject)
Through a window, she can see the moon, bigger and more luminous than she possibly could imagined with both feet on the ground.
There's the sudden sound of metal crunching and breaking apart, and the window cracks instantly.
She can hear a woman's scream and she knows it's not hers, but in the blackness that follows, she hears others' voices as well as her own.
The prince has to protect sleeping beauty. Twenty-one. Shoot them before they shoot you. My dog thinks you smell like money. You're trembling. You sing off-key. Evens. You're sure? Take care, Faye. She's got some kind of hold on Spike. Your story needs editing. I don't remember her. The most beautiful butterflies imaginable. Why, I'm just a gun-toting weathergirl. Smoke smoke, Faye-Faye! Puff puff, Faye-Faye! Maybe this is the one, the one I won't come back from. Yes, he was nothing but trouble, and I don't give a damn. If you see Spike... tell him I'll be waiting there. He'll know what it means. My memory... finally came back. But no good came of it. I'm not going there to die. I'm going to find out if I'm really alive. Why do you have to be such a trial? Do I look dead to you? Faye, why did you come here tonight?
In the dim morning light, her eyes open and all she's left with is the dream.
And the vague feeling that she's slept too long and missed something important.
Faye.
That's her.
Or at least she's pretty sure it's her, and as damn disorienting as it felt to wake up and know how to get up and put one foot in front of the other and to open her mouth and rattle off a choice word or two at the initial feeling of helplessness, to know what things are but not why she owns them, she feels the name is the one thing she can latch onto right now.
If there's a last name, she's not sure what it is. But she knows a couple of things by the time she's been awake for an hour: there's not a scratch on her, her clothes she found near the bed don't leave much to the imagination, and the pockets are full of things: a handgun, a nail file, a tiny bottle of perfume, cigarettes and a lighter, a tube of lipstick, a playing card (the ace of hearts), a credit card of some kind, and a gold-and-silver coin.
Putting the clothes on should, she insists to herself, make her feel more like Faye.
But she doesn't quite get it.
When she finally leaves her room, spurred on by a growling stomach, she doesn't walk as if uncomfortable in her own skin -- minimal as the outfit is, it fits her perfectly and does look good -- but she feels she's lacking the... certainty necessary to be who she is.
She hasn't even put on any of the make-up she found.
There's the sudden sound of metal crunching and breaking apart, and the window cracks instantly.
She can hear a woman's scream and she knows it's not hers, but in the blackness that follows, she hears others' voices as well as her own.
The prince has to protect sleeping beauty. Twenty-one. Shoot them before they shoot you. My dog thinks you smell like money. You're trembling. You sing off-key. Evens. You're sure? Take care, Faye. She's got some kind of hold on Spike. Your story needs editing. I don't remember her. The most beautiful butterflies imaginable. Why, I'm just a gun-toting weathergirl. Smoke smoke, Faye-Faye! Puff puff, Faye-Faye! Maybe this is the one, the one I won't come back from. Yes, he was nothing but trouble, and I don't give a damn. If you see Spike... tell him I'll be waiting there. He'll know what it means. My memory... finally came back. But no good came of it. I'm not going there to die. I'm going to find out if I'm really alive. Why do you have to be such a trial? Do I look dead to you? Faye, why did you come here tonight?
In the dim morning light, her eyes open and all she's left with is the dream.
And the vague feeling that she's slept too long and missed something important.
Faye.
That's her.
Or at least she's pretty sure it's her, and as damn disorienting as it felt to wake up and know how to get up and put one foot in front of the other and to open her mouth and rattle off a choice word or two at the initial feeling of helplessness, to know what things are but not why she owns them, she feels the name is the one thing she can latch onto right now.
If there's a last name, she's not sure what it is. But she knows a couple of things by the time she's been awake for an hour: there's not a scratch on her, her clothes she found near the bed don't leave much to the imagination, and the pockets are full of things: a handgun, a nail file, a tiny bottle of perfume, cigarettes and a lighter, a tube of lipstick, a playing card (the ace of hearts), a credit card of some kind, and a gold-and-silver coin.
Putting the clothes on should, she insists to herself, make her feel more like Faye.
But she doesn't quite get it.
When she finally leaves her room, spurred on by a growling stomach, she doesn't walk as if uncomfortable in her own skin -- minimal as the outfit is, it fits her perfectly and does look good -- but she feels she's lacking the... certainty necessary to be who she is.
She hasn't even put on any of the make-up she found.