ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Above and Beyond

Vignette - Above and Beyond
Dramatis Personae Isra, Khalida
In Absentia	2013-07-06 Khalida makes a house call.
Location <NYC> Morningside Heights
Khalida frowns at her phone when she pauses at the intersection. Then, putting the device away, she crosses against the signal and hastens her footsteps just by a fraction. A gauzy eggshell blue khimar loosely covers her head and neck, secured above her left ear by a green dragonfly pin. The buttons on her white linen blouse match the headscarf, as does the skirt that reaches just past her ankles to brush the white fabric straps of her sandals. Over one shoulder she carries a bulging canvas shopping bag, and over the other a sporty royal blue Patagonia purse. She ascends the steps to Isra's apartment, shaking her head at the graffiti still--or again?--scrawled across the door. The broken front window, at least, has been replaced. When neither knocking nor checking her phone succeeds in gaining her admittance, she fishes a set of keys from her bag and lets herself in. "Isra," she calls, locking the door behind her and bending to remove her sandals. The sorrowful sweeps of Jay Ungar’s Ashokan Farewell drift from the sound system in the living room. “Are you here, habibti? I’ve brought you groceries, and that liniment you--” Khalida freezes in place, one foot still lifted and the sandal dangling from her fingers. Her deep brown eyes are fixed on a length of athletic bandage, the kind Isra uses to wrap her feet, trailing around the corner of the long kitchen counter. The adhesive fabric is twisted, dirty, and caked with blood. Lowering the shopping bag to the floor, she steps up out the entryway and rounds the counter. Her eyes grow wide and her breathing faster as she sees more blood-stained bandage strewn across the living room. “Isra!” The melancholy violin strains from the speakers drown out her voice, urgent yet wavering with uncertainty. One hand drops into the purse and returns clutching her phone as though it were a talisman that could ward off evil. An empty ceramic vase on the coffee table has been knocked over. One of Isra’s brocade-and-mirror-work satchels lies on the floor, half-open and spilling its contents. The door to the bedroom stands wide open. When Khalid steps inside, she finds the bed neatly made and unused, but several items have been swept from the table in front of the vanity and lie haphazard on the ground. She also sees a black sports bra hanging over the edge of the laundry hamper, its inner lining stained solid brown with dried blood. “Oh God, oh God,” she whimpers, “please no...” Entering the master bathroom seems to take a monumental effort of will, forcing one foot in front of the other past the spacious powder room, past the toilet and the shower stall. The hot tub is quite large for such a small apartment--and one of the primary reasons they chose it over the other candidates--but Isra still cannot fit her entire body in it unless she folds her wings in tight. Right now, those massive wings spill over the steep sides of the the tub like a giant’s broken kite, or one of Da Vinci’s flying machines gone horribly wrong. No steam rises from the water. Isra’s head lies pillowed on her folded arms along the wide brim, displacing the soaps and bath oils now scattered across the intricate tessellated tile floor. “Habibti?” Khalida whispers, leaning over her patient, one trembling hand outstretched to touch her cheek, which is so pale that her light brown skin looks almost gray. Isra’s bright green eyes snap open and she /snarls/, surging forward, wings flailing, one hand lashing out. Khalida gasps, too startled to scream, and tries to twist away. Isra’s claw grasps the khimar where it drapes across Khalida’s chest, arresting her motion and forcing her down onto her knees. The two women end up face to face, only a few inches apart. Hands held open and wide, Khalida keeps very still and stares at the gleaming fangs set in her patient’s ashen face. “Isra, dear, are you quite all right? I’ve brought you...I’ve brought you groceries. And liniment.” Distress has brought out her English accent, usually so soft that few think anything of it. The growl dies in Isra’s throat, and her hand slowly releases the fistful of blue fabric. Khalida sits back onto her heels, still quivering and breathing hard. Folding in her wings, Isra gingerly levers herself up to sit on the brim of the tub. She is /not/ shaking, nor abashed about her nudity. The savagery she displayed mere seconds ago is simply gone, as if it had never happened at all. Khalida rearranges her headscarf, which has come loose enough to reveal tresses of graying black hair. Finally, hesitantly, she reaches out to touch Isra’s hand, which is warmer than hers and has a smooth texture distinct from normal human skin, especially apparent when wet. This time Isra does not start or flinch, but turns a perfectly placid gaze upon her. “I apologize, Khalida,” she says, her soft alto just slightly hoarse. “I was having a bad dream. I am fine.” “Bollocks,” Khalida retorts primly. “You look dreadful--you /sound/ dreadful. There is blood all over the flat. /Something/ happened.” Isra rolls her eyes, suddenly a temperamental child again. “Don’t be so dramatic! The blood is hardly /all over/ anything.” “Except for your clothes,” Khalida presses. “Please, habibti, you know you can tell me anything. And I know posthemorrhagic anemia when I see it.” “Why do you need me to tell you, then?” Isra does not hurl this as a barb, but asks it plainly, calmly, while pulling her hand from Khalida’s grasp. The effect ends up being the same. Her physician, still kneeling on the tile floor, looks smaller somehow, worn and tired. All the years of caring for her one unique and needy patient, her ‘Enigma’, seem to write their woes in deep lines of worry on her caramel skin. “I’m sorry,” Isra says, “I’m so sorry, Khalida. I just didn’t want to concern you, and it is obviously too late for that.” She climbs out of the tub, wraps herself in a plush beach towel, and offers Khalida a hand up. Khalida clasps her hand and braces the other one along her forearm, wincing a little as she rises. “You have grown strong! /Stronger/, I suppose.” Isra smiles, a fleeting glimpse of pure, childish joy. “I /flew/, Khalida! Well, /glided/, and with a great deal of assistance, at that.” She stalks out of the bathroom, drying herself along the way. “Is that how you got hurt?” Khalida follows her, helping to maneuver the trailing tip of one wing through the narrow doorway into the bedroom. “No.” Isra suddenly seems to take a great interest in drying off her tail. “It was a sparring match.” “Sparring! You are learning martial arts? At that school of yours, I suppose? Your instructors really ought to take better precautions!” “It wasn’t that bad,” Isra replies doggedly. “You know how blood gets /all over/ everything...” Khalida crosses her arms and arches one slender black eyebrow at her patient, who trails off. “Isra, darling. I know it is very exciting for you to find others...like yourself, so to speak, but I beg you to slow down and be wary. This Xavier character seems a bit dodgy to me.” “He is a good man,” Isra insists. “That may be, but good men make bad choices, too.” Khalida lays a hand on her shoulder. “I just don’t want you to get dragged into the machinery of mutant politics and come out...” She shakes her head. “I must go put away the groceries. Are you hungry?” “Famished.” The reply is instant, unaffected. “Good! I will throw something together.” Khalida starts to leave the room, but pauses in the doorway to look back. “And dispose of those bandages, won’t you? They nearly gave me a heart attack when I came in, and now I would like nothing better than to drench this entire place in disinfectant.” Isra sighs. “At once, Doctor Sa’eed.”