07-04-2019, 10:26 PM
Contessa Helena de San Finzione reasoned she must be in surgery in the real world right now. It wasn't her first time; she'd had work done before, but nothing major. Just removal of some of the bigger old scars that comprised her sole inheritance from Wade Parker.
That had been different, though. They'd put her under, she'd wake up and cry and babble for a bit, then went back to sleep and woke up OK. This time, she'd gone from unconsciousness back at the castle to what she hoped was a somewhat lucid dream, because she really didn't want it to be the near-death experience it appeared to be.
Helena took a drag of her cigarette and turned to the strange caricatures of morning talk show hosts Sally and Cara, the set of whose show seemed to be the location her mind had picked for whatever this was. She began whatever it was naked except for her tiara and other jewels; however, the idea that this was entirely her imagination took some of the thrill out of her fantasy of masturbating on live television, so she decided to get dressed.
She had discovered that she had some measure of control over things, and had managed to create a red, knee-length Chinese qipao with two black dragons fighting an unseen opponent on the front and a slit up the length of her left thigh to clothe herself.
"Ok," Helena asked as she exhaled the smoke. "So, how's this work? Are we going the Dickens route and relive what a terrible person I've been, or some nightmare court room where everyone I've ever wronged takes the stand and recounts all the horrible things I've done or what?"
"Well, Helen," Sally-Thing replied. "We CAN do the whole 'Trial of La Contessa' thing, or you could use this time to your advantage and figure out why someone just tried to kill you."
"Jury's still out on whether or not he's succeeded." Cara-Thing piped in.
Helena nodded affirmatively.
"Why not? That sounds more like me. For myself, even if I don't live to tell anyone else. So, what do I know about the guy who attacked me?"
"Ooh," Cara-Thing spoke up. "I do believe we have a clip! Can we roll that?"
An old film projector like the ones Helen remembered from her early college days appeared, as did a screen. The projector started rolling, and she could see Generalissimo Ramirez through her own eyes as they were about to step into the Grand Ballroom.
"Hey," Helena said with a smile as she took another drag of her cigarette and picked up the mug of coffee in front of her. "This hell is finally good for something!" She thought about trying to will a bowl of popcorn into existence, but decided against it.
Helena watched as Pierre, the tour guide, played the role of having been "surprised by her sudden appearance." He'd been a good actor. If she lived, he had a raise coming.
And then, from the corner of her view on the screen's eye, she saw him. The man in the white windbreaker.
"We can pause this, right?" She asked the Sally and Cara-Things. She then shouted to whoever was in the control booth that she couldn't see. "Does this have a pause?"
"It's your memory, do what you want." Sally-Thing said.
"Ok, pause," Helena said to the air. "Back it up a couple seconds. There!"
She looked at him, beads of sweat forming on his brow that she would have written off as the noon-day heat of San Finzione even if she'd paid attention to them before. He was watching her with that look of murder that she would have recognized sooner if she had singled his face out in the crowd. Now that she was looking at him, she could see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, gauging the moment to strike.
"Don't think I've ever seen his face before," Helena thought out-loud for the viewers at home. "But that doesn't mean anything. Someone could have hired him."
"Do you think so?" Cara-Thing asked. "It was pretty sloppy work for a paid job."
"Yeah," Sally-Thing said, gigantic feet up on the couch as she sipped from a wine glass the size of a 50-gallon drum. "And if it was a political nut, wouldn't he have shouted 'death to tyrants' or something?"
"I don't usually do this with an audience. I'm speculating, ladies, and all I've got right now is 'don't know the guy.' For all I know, he's a stalker who got tired of whacking off onto tabloid pictures of me while cutting himself and decided to 'follow his dreams.' Look, I've got a process to these things, and you're not helping. Hit play, someone."
Cara-Thing turned to Sally-Thing and stage-whispered as the film resumed.
"ARE we here to help or are we just supposed to fuck with her?"
"It can be two things." Sally-Thing replied.
Helena watched the memory, returning her gaze his direction after looking away for a couple more words with Ramirez. Now she was keeping her eyes on the man who was thirty seconds away from stabbing her. She saw him reach into his right pocket as his left arm dropped to his side. Her attention went back and forth between his two hands, and while the shank was dropping down into his left sleeve, his right hand produced, with some little difficulty, a tiny, brown, glass bottle that he was unscrewing with his thumb and forefinger.
That had been different, though. They'd put her under, she'd wake up and cry and babble for a bit, then went back to sleep and woke up OK. This time, she'd gone from unconsciousness back at the castle to what she hoped was a somewhat lucid dream, because she really didn't want it to be the near-death experience it appeared to be.
Helena took a drag of her cigarette and turned to the strange caricatures of morning talk show hosts Sally and Cara, the set of whose show seemed to be the location her mind had picked for whatever this was. She began whatever it was naked except for her tiara and other jewels; however, the idea that this was entirely her imagination took some of the thrill out of her fantasy of masturbating on live television, so she decided to get dressed.
She had discovered that she had some measure of control over things, and had managed to create a red, knee-length Chinese qipao with two black dragons fighting an unseen opponent on the front and a slit up the length of her left thigh to clothe herself.
"Ok," Helena asked as she exhaled the smoke. "So, how's this work? Are we going the Dickens route and relive what a terrible person I've been, or some nightmare court room where everyone I've ever wronged takes the stand and recounts all the horrible things I've done or what?"
"Well, Helen," Sally-Thing replied. "We CAN do the whole 'Trial of La Contessa' thing, or you could use this time to your advantage and figure out why someone just tried to kill you."
"Jury's still out on whether or not he's succeeded." Cara-Thing piped in.
Helena nodded affirmatively.
"Why not? That sounds more like me. For myself, even if I don't live to tell anyone else. So, what do I know about the guy who attacked me?"
"Ooh," Cara-Thing spoke up. "I do believe we have a clip! Can we roll that?"
An old film projector like the ones Helen remembered from her early college days appeared, as did a screen. The projector started rolling, and she could see Generalissimo Ramirez through her own eyes as they were about to step into the Grand Ballroom.
"Hey," Helena said with a smile as she took another drag of her cigarette and picked up the mug of coffee in front of her. "This hell is finally good for something!" She thought about trying to will a bowl of popcorn into existence, but decided against it.
Helena watched as Pierre, the tour guide, played the role of having been "surprised by her sudden appearance." He'd been a good actor. If she lived, he had a raise coming.
And then, from the corner of her view on the screen's eye, she saw him. The man in the white windbreaker.
"We can pause this, right?" She asked the Sally and Cara-Things. She then shouted to whoever was in the control booth that she couldn't see. "Does this have a pause?"
"It's your memory, do what you want." Sally-Thing said.
"Ok, pause," Helena said to the air. "Back it up a couple seconds. There!"
She looked at him, beads of sweat forming on his brow that she would have written off as the noon-day heat of San Finzione even if she'd paid attention to them before. He was watching her with that look of murder that she would have recognized sooner if she had singled his face out in the crowd. Now that she was looking at him, she could see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, gauging the moment to strike.
"Don't think I've ever seen his face before," Helena thought out-loud for the viewers at home. "But that doesn't mean anything. Someone could have hired him."
"Do you think so?" Cara-Thing asked. "It was pretty sloppy work for a paid job."
"Yeah," Sally-Thing said, gigantic feet up on the couch as she sipped from a wine glass the size of a 50-gallon drum. "And if it was a political nut, wouldn't he have shouted 'death to tyrants' or something?"
"I don't usually do this with an audience. I'm speculating, ladies, and all I've got right now is 'don't know the guy.' For all I know, he's a stalker who got tired of whacking off onto tabloid pictures of me while cutting himself and decided to 'follow his dreams.' Look, I've got a process to these things, and you're not helping. Hit play, someone."
Cara-Thing turned to Sally-Thing and stage-whispered as the film resumed.
"ARE we here to help or are we just supposed to fuck with her?"
"It can be two things." Sally-Thing replied.
Helena watched the memory, returning her gaze his direction after looking away for a couple more words with Ramirez. Now she was keeping her eyes on the man who was thirty seconds away from stabbing her. She saw him reach into his right pocket as his left arm dropped to his side. Her attention went back and forth between his two hands, and while the shank was dropping down into his left sleeve, his right hand produced, with some little difficulty, a tiny, brown, glass bottle that he was unscrewing with his thumb and forefinger.
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