Scarves - PART IV
Friday, September 22, 2006
Tattered Edges
Turtle slept soundly through that night, but then again she does sleep like the dead. I woke her twenty minutes premature, partly because I wanted to talk, but mostly because I was afraid the alarm would not want to go back to its former life after it establishing itself as a blunt weapon.
The sheets are covered in dried blood. I panicked and began to search Turtle’s neck for new wounds. Sweeping her hair aside I looked at one side, nothing, pushing hair across her neck, nothing. Yet now where there was no blood there is a crimson streak across her back. Terror overwhelmed me before rationale thought came through, informing me the dressing on my hand had become overly saturated. I laughed, and told Turtle that perhaps she should go take a shower, for it might not be a good idea to be wearing a vampire’s favorite perfume. She looked back at me confused, I held up my left hand, causing her to react with the yuck face. Walking to the bathroom Turtle reached for the scarf hanging on the mirror. She cocked her head and began to murmur.
“What is it?” I asked
“It seemed to move away from me. And now that I’m looking at...” She picked it up, looking closely at the scarf. “It feels wet.”
“Wet? Like a cake being left out in the rain, wet?”
“No silly, more like a moist towelette wet. And this stitching, It’s really complex, a tight lace, done with, I’m guessing a triple-zero needle.” I titled my head like a dog when someone says ball, “Someone really knows what they are doing. Hmm.” She opened the curtain a bit to let in some natural light to get a better look. The scarf shivered back away. Turtle open the curtain more, once again the same reaction. Finally, frustrated she flung the curtain open letting the morning sun pour into the room. There was a squeal as the scarf met the morning sun, then like one of those firework snakes the black scarf became darker, turning first to ash then carried away on an unfelt breeze.
“Well you don’t see that everyday.”
“ I think I’m calling into work today. You said you’ve seen those scarves?”
“Everywhere. But they never did that.”
The first place we stopped was at Mia’s restaurant, knowing that we could scrutinize her scarf. We were told that the she was supposed to have a shift that day, but had not showed up nor called in. We went back every day after, but I have yet to see her. I wonder if I ever will again.
I pointed out the scarves to Turtle: the pink and orange, the teal and brown, the blue and green, and the rare greyscale variety. For the most part the Wearer carried on with their lives as normal. Banking, eating, drinking, socializing, carrying on errands, living a normal life, but they all tended to stay away from deep shadows or unlit passageways. Turtle walked up to these people, engaged them by raving about how beautiful their scarves were. Asking where they purchased it, they would answer that it was a family heirloom or a gift. She would then inquire if she might be able touch it and attempt to figure out its texture and pattern. The usual reaction was one of fear. The Wearer’s eyes would begin to focus on the middle ground, as if they were trying to perceive something that was not quite there. Then they recoiled from Turtle’s hand and hastily departed our presence.
Since this technique wasn’t getting us anywhere, we decided that the best way to analyze a scarf was for us to enjoy a meal. We walked around looking for an available seat next to a Wearer. After a few missed opportunities we found one. I ordered food while Turtle sat observing the scarf the way a scientist would a new organism. Jotting down copious notes about the length, the width, the pattern, and discretely firing off her camera-phone to record the color. The next step was to touch it.
The slightest touch caused no feedback, but when Turtle elongated the scarf to see its stitches in detail, it coiled back, wrapping itself tighter around its Wearer’s throat. The Wearer, a teenage girl, reeled back grabbing at her throat as the scarf intensified its grasp, and looked vulnerably at Turtle. The Wearer sprinted to the bathroom, I presume, wrenching and pulling at her scarf, struggling to let oxygen into her lungs. Her friends sat dumbfounded, when finally one of them went to check on her, I motioned to Turtle that it would be in our best interest to leave.
I wanted to head back to CheckPoint Bratwurst and try to piece together what we had seen, but Turtle had other intentions. She bee-lined for the knitting store, picked up 4 skeins each of brown and teal alpaca yarn, and a pair of in-the-round triple-0 needles. “What are you going to do with that?”
“Make baby booties. What do think?”
The idea was if we wore a counterfeit scarf then perhaps we could blend in. Remove us from being prey to one of them. When I had mentioned that wearing the scarves would make us property to someone, Turtle responded by saying, I know, but they won’t know whose property, because no one ever claimed us. Therefore, an anomaly in the food pyramid. Somehow this all made sense to me at the time.
Every free moment she had Turtle would work on a scarf. I let her sleep at night, as I would lie awake watching as the curtains blew in the breeze, waiting for them to return. There would be nights I would shoot out of bed as I heard a woman voice cry out only to realize that her and her lover were enraptured in a moment of orgasmic bliss. Our suite faced a major thoroughfare never allowing silence, making it difficult to sleep during the day. I did my best to get a couple of hours when I could, the rest of the time; I would down pots of coffee.
I watch her sleep now, breathing slowly and peacefully dreaming. She wears the scarf, since the vampire made its intention for her. Another week and I will have mine, and then perhaps I can sleep serenely in her arms again. I put my arm on her back, getting lost in her rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.
In.
Out.
In the morning I found myself splayed across the bed. I glance at the clock, 5:45, Two hours have passed. I bolt up to scrutinize Turtle for the mark of teeth, but I cannot move from my prone position. Being half-asleep I thought my arm was pinned under Turtle. If I could have only been that lucky. Around the post of the bed and around my wrist is a scarf.
I twist and turn, moan and call, “Turtle! Turtle! Tortuga! Turn on the light!”
She goes from dreams to full consciousness in seconds as the lamp flickers on. She spins around to face me, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breathe. “Well, at least it will go with everything. Black is in this season.”
End?
Labels: fiction, scarf, vampires
posted by Don Taylor @ 12:16 PM,
