The Woman Who Came from Smoke Part 5

Azrael’s Circus of the Bizarre

The Woman Who Came from Smoke

Draft 3

By: Chase L. Currie

Lucille wanted to ask Charon why he was rushing off to go dance with the Devil, but she knew why. He loved the fight. He loved the pain. It was as if he was punishing himself for something he did before she was in his life. He wouldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t tell anyone what he did during the war, but it was enough to make him hate himself. He would drink with the Devil hoping to piss him off enough to see Death after him, but Death didn’t want to fight the man. No one really did.

She laid in the bed, petting Stanley wishing the lights outside the window would die, but New York didn’t know how to sleep. She watched the same snowfall on to the ground and wondered if Charon found the Devil yet. She tried to stay awake until he came back, but sleep came upon her way too fast.

Lucille dreamt of her home in the South. She didn’t miss it, but Stanley did. He wanted to go back home, see his mother, and find his younger brothers. They would spend hours listening to their father talk about magic and the power it brought. He was a powerful Warlock and served in the army during the Great War. Stanley would sit there with them while the boys would listen to him. It made the cat happy, it made all of them happy.

Then her mind raced forward in time to the German artist Anselm Dix, he was the portrait painter for the Circus. He was also the Seer for the Circus as well, but the only part of the future he could tell you was how you were going to die, not when. He did this by painting your portrait and seeing into your soul. The paint would outline the path of yourself to the very end.

The third week she was at the Circus he asked for her to sit. She didn’t mind. She kind of wanted to know how to she would die after a long life. He spent an hour or so on the painting, and by the end, he didn’t say a word to her. He looked up with his bright blues eyes, shrugged and said, “I can’t see your end.”

“Why?” She asked.

He shook his head as if he didn’t know. “What does that mean?” She asked him again.

“You are not real,” is what he wanted to say. It was the only way for him not to see the end of her life because she never really had a start, but he didn’t say a word.

“Why?” She screamed in her sleep.

Lucille took the canvas from him wanting to see her face on it, but it was blank, and then slowly her father’s face bleed into existence. He reached out from the walls of the canvas to finish the job he started. He put his hands around her neck and started to squeeze the life out of her. She fought back. She jumped awake to find Charon passed out on the floor and the sun starting to kiss the snow.

Lucille got up from bed still feeling the touch of the dream world. She wasn’t sure of the floor her foot was touching was real, but there was only one way to find out. She stood up hoping she was really awake and this wasn’t a dream within a dream. Half the time or most of the time, everything in her life felt like a dream, as if she was living it for someone else. She felt the cold, the sun, and the wind but it wasn’t real. None of it was real to her, and the weight of this other person’s life pushed down on her.

What if she was living it wrong?

What if she messes everything up?

What if she not real?

She fought against the idea as best as she could, but it hung over her all the time. Sometimes it would be far behind her to the point where she would almost forget about it. And then, like an annoying itch, it would rush to her side yelling, “You are not real.” It would never let her forget.

Lucille pushed on Charon trying not to cry, but the tears were falling like stones down a well. “Wake up,” She softly said. “Wake up, I need you.”

The tears landed on his cheek, and he slowly started to come back to life. He rolled over trying his best to keep everything in his stomach down, which was nothing but alcohol. “What, clown? What the Hell do you want?” He grumbles.

Lucille tried her best to speak, but the tears flood her mouth with emotions. All she did was sit there weeping and balled up. Once Charon realizes she was crying, he jumped up trying to understand what was going on and held her like a small child. “What, what is wrong?”

After a moment all she said was, “I’m not real.”

“Oh, clown,” the old man said sounding like a real grandfather, sweet and comforting, “You are very real. You have to be.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you are a big pain in my ass,” he smiled, and she tried to do the same.

Stanley jumped down from the bed petting up against him and crying for her to pet him. She sat there crying into Charon’s arms. The black cat only tried harder for her to pet him.

“Stanley, thinks you are real,” Charon said petting the cat.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Why do you feel this way?”

“Anselm,” Lucille told him. “He couldn’t see my end.”

“Fucking German,” Charon growled, “don’t trust them. You can never trust Germans, they are the lowest of the low. So you heel no mind to what he said, understand me?”

Lucille shook her head yes. “No, you say it.”

“I’ll heel no mind to what he said,” she slowly repeated.

“Good,” Charon smiled.

“You smell,” Lucille said backing away from him. “Badly.”

“It’s called Irish cologne,” Charon grin slowly standing up, “But I guess I should go clean up, huh?”

“I think so.”

An hour later Charon came out of the bathroom smelling better but wearing the same clothes. He could have used magic to change his clothes or clean himself up, but he wanted to take the time sober up. He also was hoping Lucille was done crying and being upset. He loved her, but he didn’t like dealing with those kinds of emotions.

She was dressed in a black dress, her red coat and black army looking boots. It was an odd thing to see a girl wearing boots of any kind during those days but army boots, it was almost like watching an alien walking down the road. No one notices her black and blue hair just the boots.

“I’m ready,” she said with a big smile and Stanley in her arms.