C2 Another Dawn

Vincent sat up in a start. Sweat pilled down his neck, leaving trails of tender, chill bumps behind. He raked a hand through his damp hair, chest heaving for fresh breath. He felt relieved and anxious and nothing in between.

Three years. Three years had passed since the incident, and still he awoke to nightmares. He could practically feel the blades of smoke rattle about in his chest, slicing him open angry and demanding. Three years and he still saw the face of the woman who'd passed in the fire; he watched her flex her brittle jaw and stare with empty eye sockets. Angelica was her name. She'd have been twenty-four by now. Four years older than himself.

Over the elapse of years, everyone seemed to forget about the fire. To him, it still loomed like an angry ghost.

Intoxicated with sleep, he found that fine silk sheets covered his legs. His vision was fogged, his head aching with the same pinch that stiffened his neck. He gave it a subtle crack, and the discomfort faded.

Adjusting to the darkness, Vincent found himself lost in the walls of a foreign room. He couldn't make out much, apart from a puddle of silken brown hair beside him; tangled and tousled from a long night of drunken sex.

He'd done it again. Made off with some unfortunate floozy, not even acknowledging that the poor girl had a name. What was it again? Vinny was never good with names. More so, he wanted nothing more out of this girl than the one night stand that had just met its expiration. The sweaty, no-strings-attached sex he never sought after, but accepted when it was offered. And it was offered often.

He hoisted himself from the bed, careful not to wake Beth, or Betty, or whatever her damned name was. As the cool night air met his clammy sweat, it made him shudder again. He'd have that dream every so often, his mind ruthlessly dragging him back to the night that he had discovered he was a Wicked. It left him trembling, and even once composed, shakes took possession of his fingers, and he found it difficult to complete the small task of buttoning his shirt. He left it open instead and made off to the dark city streets in his bare-chested ensemble.

He hadn't the slightest where he was, but he'd find his way back home. He had a way with directions, and he found himself utilizing his talent quite often.

As he walked, he reached into his jean pocket and fished out his last remaining cigarette. They were his vice of choice—a steady ground when he had nothing else to hold on to. But it was not the most convenient of habits. As it turned out, lighting a cigarette was a bit difficult when you were absolutely terrified of fire.

Trembling fingers lifted his lighter, and after much self-preparation, he ran his thumb forcefully against the flint wheel.

Nothing.

He tried again, and again, the tension growing on his tired face. His vexation was only making his nicotine craving stronger, and he nearly considered sporting a flame from his fingertips. Last time he had done that though, he managed to set a rose bush on fire. He tossed his head back, letting a frustrated growl linger as a gurgle in his throat. He'd have to wait until he got back to his dorm room to retrieve his other lighter. Luckily, he could just barely see the hands clicking by on the old brick clock tower. It sat a distance away in all of its glory, taunting him with the 6 AM display.

It was unusual for him to stay the night with anyone, but eight hours ago, Vincent was most definitely not himself. It was the first time he blessed his tongue with even a drop of alcohol in three years. Not once since the fire did he have so much as a sip of wine. Not until last night.

He could only remember the first drink. Everything after that was an unforgiving fog. All he had to go by were the vivid flashes of misbehaved sorority girls and the sound of his name tossed about from one ear to the other. He had blacked out for the most of it, but he was sure he'd had a good time. College life was kind to him, and though money always brought unwanted guests, Vinny never minded them. He was sociable, popular, and tastefully conspicuous. He stuck out like a sore thumb, and most found it endearing. But no matter how many people surrounded him, none knew of his secret.

His life fell apart after the fire. Everything came crumbling down, like the burnt and battered foundation of the rotting home he left behind. The only people in this world who knew just what he was—the only two who could help him control something more powerful than himself—were gone now. He was left to his own demise, and he was reminded of it every single day.

After many failed attempts to spark a flame, he hissed blasphemy through his teeth, sending his empty lighter smashing against the pavement. He received looks of judgment from those wandering the dawning streets, but he didn't care. In his opinion, this was dealing with his anger in a healthy way.

He resigned the cigarette safely in its pack, and after ten minutes or so, he found his route back home to the university dorms. His room was located on the top floor, and he hated the claustrophobia of the elevator, but it was six in the morning and he was far too fatigued to climb the stairs. Once the metal doors opened up, releasing him from the small room, he was met with a pair of honey-brown eyes. A familiar looking face gazed up at him, but he couldn't put his thumb on it. She was attractive, fit, and her lashes batted together as her expression turned kittenish.

"Hi Vinny." Two soft rose lips folded into a frisky smirk as she brushed past him and into the elevator.

"Hey," was all he could manage—granted, he did flash her his most charming of smiles. She was probably someone he'd fooled around with before.

He tossed the thought aside and instead ambled along the empty hallways until he found his dorm. As he cracked the door open and started to the bedroom, he wasn't necessarily surprised to see half of the room vacant. He had expected a roommate any time now, but it was his own personal preference to live alone, anyway. That said, he relished in that small, private room of his. His bags were still unpacked, his things lying about in a small heap, unlikely to be bothered with anytime soon.

A soft jingle danced at his feet, and Vinny looked down to meet the sharp orange eyes of his feline companion, Archibald. Archibald was a rough, mangled street cat that had found Vinny as only a kitten. He had a habit of picking up strays and homing them until he could find suitable owners, but Archibald was one mean-mugged Persian he'd never part ways with. He'd cared for the cat for three or so years now, forming an unbreakable bond. He loved that cat more than he loved most people, though the furry bastard was hardly appreciative.

Archibald licked at his long gray tuffs and took a seat in front of Vinny with a resting glare. Slowly blinking his crescent eyes, he let out a noisy caterwaul that made Vincent squint.

"Alright, alright. Fat-ass." Vinny stretched his arms over his head with the puff of his chest and let out a tired groan. From his things, he sought out a can of cat food, chinking it open and dumping the contents into Archibald's dish.

The dorms, of course, had a no-pet policy, but that'd never stopped Vinny before. They never did inspections anyway, so he had little to fear. Besides, every freedom he wasn't allowed he could always buy with his riches.

With the soothing rattle of Archibald's purr, Vinny took a gander out of the massive page of windows in front of him, watching the sleepy city streets of Seattle come to life. He couldn't enjoy it without giving off a colossal yawn. It was far too early for him to be awake and functioning properly.

As he closed the blinds and flushed out the light in his room, his cell phone rumbled in his pocket. With sleep in his voice, he rubbed at his eyes and answered the call: "Yes?"

"Mr. O'Connor,"—he recognized her chirpy tone immediately—"I'm calling to inform you that your account balance has been replenished for the month, and this year's tuition paid in full. Please contact me ahead of time before making any large withdrawals, and if you—"

"I know. Thank you, Suzy," Vinny grunted. "I can take care of it myself." He hated being treated like a child. Having his father's assistant call every time there was a fraud charge on his credit card, having his bank account monitored and fed fresh cash every month—it was taxing. Especially because a part of him always hoped it was his father on the other end of the line.

"There were some abnormalities to your bill last month. Your father requested I inform you." Clicking came from the other end of the line—the soft gentle patter of acrylic nails meeting letters on a keyboard. "I'll let him know it was nothing to worry about."

Vinny bit at his lip, then relaxed his angst with a sigh. "My father... no word from him?"

"He said he'd return your call," Suzy replied. "He's meeting with some important magnates in Eastern Europe right now. He's taken up quite the interest in expanding Project Eden overseas."

Project Eden. Vincent bit the inside of his cheek. The damn thing had been sucking out his father's soul for the last ten years.

The project was a plan to create upscale, high-tech hotels in the center of wastelands. His father had made a fortune from his successes in the United States. It was as simple as finding a ghost-town, saving a pretty penny on the land and tearing it all down for renovation. It always started with the hotel, 'Garden Gates'. Or as his father called it, 'The Garden of Eden.'

The buildings were always beautifully crafted, and the accommodations like nothing you'd ever seen. Once Eden blossomed from the dirt, casinos followed. Expensive restaurants, outlet malls, and everything from hair salons to amphitheaters. Johnathan Alexander quite literally created utopias from pocket change, and the profit was bountiful.

Since the day Vincent was dropped from foster care and into the green fingers of Alexander, he'd rarely seen him more than a few dozen times. When he wasn't traveling for business, he was far too busy to mind his own son. He hardly shared an interest in Vincent at all. In fact, the last time they'd met, he was placing roses on a headstone.

"I can take a note for you if you'd like," Suzy stuttered through the silence. "I can't promise he'll call, but I can promise he'll get it."

"Yeah, tell him to burn in Hell, will you, sweetheart?"

"Ah, one of these notes." The assistant laughed leisurely. "Should I add it to the pile with the others?"

"Do what you want," Vinny scorned, "just let the bastard know I'm switching majors this year."

Suzy almost sounded surprised: "That's all you wanted to tell him?"

"Yeah. That's it." His voice was dry as he hung up the call, tossing his cell phone lazily onto his night stand.

That wasn't it. Not exactly. Part of him always hoped he'd manage to spark up a conversation with Johnathan. That it wasn't too late to build a relationship with the person he'd called a father for the last ten years of his life. But maybe it was too late. And maybe it was for the better.

He clawed open the top drawer of his nightstand, emptying the last three painkillers from their bottle and swallowing them down with the same glass of lukewarm water from the day before. And just as the sun began to peek through the cracks of the city, Vincent escaped from the warmth of the windowsill.

Tired and angry, he fell back into his bed, praying that once sleep found him, it wouldn't be carrying a flame with it.