Outsider by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh Page B

forever scattered in her bed, but they are generally lying
safely sheltered by her six tiger-patterned pillows. Looking
intently and intensely at Sid, Dawn talks about a bright yellow
envelope the writer received a few days ago, and that is now lying
on one of the “Death-and-Blood” shelves in the bedroom. The
content, a leaflet advertising a benefit in favour of the
aforementioned subversive group, could be used as evidence against
Sid. Pulling a dark T-shirt over her green mohican and tattooed
skin, Sid, her brain now extraordinarily focused, listens to Dawn
whose grey eyes have been fascinating her more and more lately.
Along with the smile. But Dawn is not smiling. Even so serious, her
face is extremely beautiful to Sid’s eyes. If people knew. It is
not Terri Harley, mighty rock singer whose powerful voice could
raise the long dead, she’s got a crush on. No, never mind this
detail right now because the keyboard player is talking. She is
saying that she is the one who sent the incriminating leaflet.
Under the assumed name of Lindisfarne. Getting more decent by the
minute (Sid, still on her bed, willing to keep at Dawn’s level, is
now wearing black boxer shorts matching her dark T-shirt, and
starts struggling, juggling, with a pair of socks), Sid doesn’t
even think non-decent thoughts, she is too spellbound by Dawn’s
voice, Dawn’s eyes, Dawn’s everything. Because, as Dawn sometimes
sings on stage: “Track number five’s got the voice and the smile,
and the matching grey eyes”. Despite her subjugation, one black
sock with a red-cobwebby pattern barely on her left foot and the
other still in her right hand, Sid exhales a sigh, gets up, keeping
her eyes on her dream woman as long as she can, walks to the shelf,
tearing herself away from the previous scene, snatches the
outstanding item with the now identified and familiar messy
handwriting, hands it over to Dawn, who grabs it and stuffs it into
an inside pocket of the denim jacket the writer has seen a few
times gracing a few stages. But since when does Sid wear blue
jeans, too?
    And the tattooed writer woke up in her darken
bedroom, cozy and naked, but never naked with all her Native
American tattoos, under the tiger quilt, her eyes grasping at the
empty air, wondering which of her Two Spirits - whale or wolf – she
was.
    She was alone, all alone as every morning.
The hold of the dream was so strong over her split personality, it
didn’t let her drift into the daily loneliness, not yet. She
sighed, swooning, willing herself back to the dreaming, trying to
reinsert herself into this parallel universe, wishing to spend more
time listening to Dawn Ferndale’s captivating voice and lose
herself deep into the grey eyes.
    Before the aspic of morning loneliness get
another bite of her vulnerable heart again.
     
     

CHAPTER NINE

    Sid had arrived late because of the rain.
Definitely reality for her small Kawasaki when she had to restrain
its speed, in the name of caution.
    It was a gay club, charging club prices at
the door and at the bar, women only, but with men as guests (Sid
would shake her head muttering under her breath what kind of joke
is that) and they had given Second Look only thirty minutes. The
venue was middle class and Sid felt out of place, like everywhere,
like every day, with or without the drugs. She was in a manic mood
and full of good intentions to well behave.
    Music was rocking full swing but the audience
looked frozen, a few feet away from the stage where Terri and Dawn
were giving away their best, tension running up and down their raw
nerves.
    What’s wrong , Sid wondered. Have I
done something wrong? Should I dance or should I freeze?
    She wanted to dance but the musicians’
tension freaked her out, while the music gnawed away at her feet,
harassing her tight skin, like a tickle too hard to make her laugh.
But the music’s pull was too strong for Sid to resist. Without
thinking more, she gave in to her standard behavior,