the saints cant help me now

She hears him before she sees him, her ears expertly trained to the sound of footsteps in the otherwise quiet park; his make a distinct click with each step, a steady rhythm moving closer with each passing second until they come to a halt next to her. Close, too close for her to be altogether comfortable with the proximity and yet she says nothing to him of her discomfort. Rather, her gaze remains focused on the pale yellow that is the moon, admiring the waxing crescent for its position in the sky, looking down on the simpletons of the earth. Even partially obscured by clouds, she finds it to be mesermizing.

Smoke? You look a bit cold... He says and she finally allows her attention to waiver and her head turns towards him; her face is partially cast in shadows, the side facing the moon bright with an eerie illumination while the other remains shrouded in a phantom darkness. "Well since you offered," she says. Her voice is too friendly, a ruse in itself â€" like an inborn façade, disguising her true nature much like the brightly colored frogs in the rainforest. Poisonous to the touch, but quite alluring to look at. "I have a bad habit of forgetting my coat. I'm working on it, but progress is slow."

Of course it is a lie to appease him, but she finds herself unable to control the sarcastic drivel that slips out of her mouth, fluid and instinctive.

The truth is, she had left her coat on purpose â€" it lay sprawled across the hotel bed, useless for the moment. She needed the cold to penetrate her more than she needed the warmth of her coat. It kept her focused, helped her process her thoughts all the more thoroughly. But there is only one thing important enough that she would venture out into the middle of Hyde Park on an exceptionally chilly winter night.

Her uncle. Stirring up her nightmares again. Reminding her why she is what she is.

Reminding her that he made her this way â€" that he took her heart away - with his fat, clammy fingers digging into the skin at her throat. Squeezing, pressing so tight that no breaths could possibly come. Until her heart faltered and stuttered to a halt, only to be brought back by the insistent compressions her father frantically performed in an attempt to resuscitate her.

But he doesn't need to know that, this stranger with the grey eyes and the cigarettes. "Something nefarious, obviously. What else would I be in Hyde Park at this hour for," she questions teasingly. She finally reaches out to grab a cigarette from him, her eyes shooting up to meet his. His are friendly â€" nothing like her cold ones â€" and grey as slate. She places the cigarette between her lips, assessing him fully as she grabs the lighter. The flint sparks on the first try and she inhales deeply the taste of tobacco and smoke before letting it curl from her nostrils with slow precision, like a lazy dragon.

"What are you doing in these parts? Haven't you heard â€" it's cold. Quite dangerous to be in a place like this after hours." There she goes again, skillfully deflecting his questions.

"And excuse me if I'm wrong, but you look far too nice to be of the overly mischievous sort. If you know what I mean."

Murderers, rapists, Hunters.... Surely, he didn't fit into either of those categories.

She crosses her arms for warmth, careful not to burn herself with the cigarette propped loosely between the fingers of her right hand. With a quick turn, she shifts so that her whole body is facing him, her hip leaned against the stone bridge for balance. "I'm Blaise, by the way."

True to form, she doesn't ask for anything in return. She doesn't care to know his name, though perhaps he can bring her some form of amusement for the rest of the night.

Possibly take her mind off of the disturbing events that are her sordid past.

Maybe.

blaise m. duval