Jump to content

Medianoche

Recommended Posts

Concentration filled the young man’s resolve.

Concentrate – strike – Concentrate.

The first time he concentrated a gloved hand would coalesce back into reality. It, and the sword it was wielding, would reach out of the shadow his body had become. Then he would strike one of the dummies. Before he could be hit, he concentrated in reverse and brought the hand and sword back into shadow. The whole maneuver only took only a few seconds, but Guillermo wanted to do it faster.

Around him, tennis ball machines would fire their less than lethal missiles. They surrounded the periphery of the room and covered the fencing dummies that Medianoche was engaging. He had already been hit twice. It was more angering than painful. His eufiber gloves absorbed what little impact the tennis balls had. It was more the realization that if they had been bullets instead …

The young man was unhappy. His performance against supposed baseline antagonists had hardly been adequate. What was he going to do against nova opponents? It left him feeling empty. Medianoche wanted to be a hero like his idols in Team Tomorrow, without the straight jacketed treatment from Project Utopia. He wanted to do the good work without the applause, but without the legal hassles too. The dream of a secret force doing what needed to be done was what had brought him out of his shell. Now he realized he wasn’t ready and it hurt.

Guillermo walked from the gym into the estates arboretum. His sister was there painting. He sat down next to her.

“Hello Isabelle. I’ve been working on my technique.”

She didn’t respond. She never did. Her world centered on her art and there was no room for anything else. Ever since the accident … first she had been in a coma and now, while awake and functioning, she remained trapped in her own world. The doctors said it could be permanent brain trauma, or the psychological impact of being buried alive. Either way, there was little he could do.

Painting seemed to make her happy and her work was exquisite. She seemed to look forward to her art and she was the only thing that made her smile. It certainly beat their silent meals together. She had always been the vivacious one, while he had been more comfortable with his silent brooding nature. Now everything was on him and he was uncomfortable being put on the spot. What could he say? What could he do to make things right?

Isabelle turned and smiled at him. There was, maybe, the barest hint of recognition. She flicked her paintbrush at him then went back to her work. A few strokes later and she took a half step back.

“Failure of Perfection,” she said. “I’m done.”

“It’s beautiful,” he responded. Guillermo walked beside her and took a look. It was beautiful, hauntingly so. The image was all failing light and shadow. The painting was centered on a man driven to his knees. He was centered in a yellow streetlight. Out of the shadows, several figures were coming out of the shadows. What mattered most was how well Isabelle projected the hopelessness and the menace. She had not lost an ounce of her skill.

He took the picture off the easel. They went back to the main house together.

“I’m thirsty,” she said to no one in particular.

“We’ll get some lemonade inside,” he responded.

She didn’t respond. She remained silent until they walked into the glass lined hallway. The light played across his black turtleneck and black slacks.

“Black”, she said and she rubbed her hand in and out of the shadow on his sleeve.

All he could do was smile weakly back at her. Guillermo missed her so.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Archived

This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies.

×
×
  • Create New...