rear view rosary, zakia

The soft fabric of her fleece is still enough to weigh down her wings, carefully folded and tucked away beneath layers of fabric. The backpack resting on her shoulders has caught on some of the feathers, but she takes the pain in stride, resisting the urge to re-settle it or shake free of it entirely. Before her, paintings melt together, a stream of liquefying colors that refuse to reveal their secrets no matter how long she stares. The tears that gather at the corners of her eyes blur them, but they’re like an unsolvable optical illusion. Not one angle reveals anything more than common human art.

It’s one of the few areas of humanity she doesn’t care for. Aside from the homey, distinctly styled art of churches and temples, Zakia’s never liked art.

A few steps here, a few steps there, she wipes the tears away as she crosses to the other side of the gallery. She’s not dressed for the occasion, her nice slacks and heeled shoes clashing with the jacket she refuses to remove. The temperature’s a comfortable 73, but she doesn’t care for the amount of human contact using the coat check would require.

There’s a book in her pocket, a book that holds the answers but not in any form she can understand, but the name of the gallery inscribed itself on one of the pages two hours ago, and that’s as much of a sign as Zakia needs.

There’s a soft tinkling sound as glass touches glass, then a harsher noise as someone drops their wine to the floor. Zakia doesn’t jump, doesn’t even notice the wine splashed her shoes. She’s more focused on the man who caused the accident. A handsome young gentlemen in a pale blue shirt and black suit jacket, who slips past the confused young woman who’s glass now lies in pieces. There’s something about him she doesn’t trust, and then she sees the pin- wings- and begins to follow him across the floor.

He halts in front of a painting on the far end of the gallery and she wants to tear the pin from his shirt, wants to expose him, but she hangs back. There are likely other Watchers here; wherever she goes, she’s never alone. Their ignorance is not typically a problem, but it’s hard to imagine this sleek, confident man is anything but informed. In on it, more likely.

He’s in the painting. He is the painting, there’s no mistaking it. They share the same little freckle on an extruding cheekbone, the same small birthmark on the nape of the neck. The painting’s dated from the 1800s. Zakia’s no stranger to the supernatural, but still she hangs back, unwilling to interrupt until she sees what the man’s intentions are. He certainly took a risk in being here.

And he takes another one as she watches, for he turns to a man who isn’t smiling and gossiping like much of the rest of the crowd, tips his head to him, and asks slyly, “Enjoying your evening?”

TAGS:Tsun as Zahir

NOTES: heylo

"All too often, integrity stands alone"

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