Our City - Prologue
#1 of Our City
_ "Riders on the storm, riders on the storm
Into this house we're born, into this world we're thrown.
Like a dog without a bone, an actor on a loan.
Riders on the storm."_
It was the third day of rain and he could smell a fourth lurking off at the edges of the skyline. It haunted the molding corners of the apartment, soaked into the carpeting and crept through the bubbling, floral wallpaper. He could even find it in the drops of water that trickled through the caulking of the window frame and dripped down across the frame-less mirror propped up against the wall at his right. The smell was everywhere; he couldn't escape it. It wrapped him in a claustrophobia that made the muscles of his shoulders bunch and his skin crawl. He'd always liked the smell of rain, it calmed him, but this rain carried something else with it: not anything bad, just something new. And he waited, anticipating --- what?
_ "There's a killer on the road, his brain is squirmin like a toad
Take a long holiday, let your children play ---"_
He was young, solid and his image was carved against the window. His blonde hair was long and his eyes, dark. He was clean-shaven, his clothes unimpressive but wrinkle and stain free. Bruises ran up the length of his arm and along the ridges of his knotted knuckles.
The voice on the radio, hiding somewhere behind the static, sang on. He slipped his half smoked cigarette between his teeth and pressed his arm up against the window.
The streets wrapped around his world, carved in tarmac and asphalt like a chain-link fence. The streetlamps all flickered with musty life that fell across them, and the mists that traced the highways and parkways glowed like orange cobwebs. The fog was filled with lines of red and white eyes and cars drove through.
The smoke of the cigarette crawled up around him and he ground his teeth against the butt, tasting the nicotine like acid on his tongue.
--- but what was that smell?
It had been with him the past two days, something that he kept in the back of his mind and thought he would learn to ignore, like the wet musk of the mattress and the water stains on the ceiling. But it had only gotten stronger. When he braved the rain outside, he could taste it in the back of his throat and felt it shiver up his spine. At night, it melded with the dirt stained darkness of the room, frustrating yet fascinating, as he lay in his bed, trying to figure it out.
It was feral, and reminded him of the forest that clung to the city limits like a dark moss --- the smell of the old, green world. But the city choked smells like these, the ones that sat with him, filling him with high proof life. The city covered it with the scent of people, of waste, of humid, polluted air. And the green aroma of life would waver and vanish, forgotten by all that hadn't felt its freedom run triumphant in their veins.
_ "--- If ya give this man a ride, sweet family will die
Killer on the road, yeah."_
Whatever the cause, the worst part of it was how it reminded of empty memories and of the vacant spaces for rent on his own lifeline. He couldn't remember his life before this, a life of smells and the animal feelings clawing and biting in the pit of his stomach. Michael couldn't remember anything before her anymore.
The corroded bedsprings groaned as she stirred beneath the covers and sighed. A fork of ecstasy passed through him and he smiled. He glanced back over his shoulder. She was sitting up, silhouetted in the muted light from outside. Her naked, pale shape glowed with haunted life. She looked over at him and a gleam of white teeth shimmered in the dark as she smiled. Dahlia looked like an animal on the hunt.
Michael looked back out the window, pressing his hand against the glass. It felt like melting ice beneath his palm. He could barely stop himself from crawling back into bed with her right then and going crazy. That hot joy was tickling at the back of his neck.
_ "Girl ya gotta love your man, girl ya gotta love your man
Take him by the hand, make him understand
The world on your depends, our life will never end
Gotta love your man, yeah."_
The creak of springs, like hinges on an old door, sounded in the bleak room as she thrust off the sheets and pushed herself off the bed. The strain of the floorboards greeted him. He felt her warmth and felt her scent, always strong, pour over him --- cigarette smoke, oily perfume and the salt of the blood that ran through her veins like a cream. There was a comfort In it. It reminded him of dimly lit bars, strip joints and signs with twisted neon across their face. At her touch, he sucked in his breath and felt the tension in his shoulders flatten, the tingling joy rippling down his spine. He pressed his teeth together and grinned.
"Another day of rain tomorrow," she said.
Michael nodded. "Yeah."
Her hands moved forward over his naked chest and her fingers began to trace the scar that ran like an inverted cross down from his neck and over his heart. Michael felt his pulse stammer. She pressed her face into his back, her naked breasts pushing up against him. He could already feel his jeans beginning to tighten, his hands dying, needing to get a handful. The desire was out now and wild in him.
Dahlia just smiled. "Not right now. I've got some things I need to do."
She dragged her teeth along the ridges of his spine and Michael's fist clenched against the window, his body trembling beneath the sharp pressure of her teeth. It all flared up stronger than ever inside him. The need to grab and stroke and fuck didn't understand "not right now", but when she moved away from him and the moist air leaked out between his teeth, all he could manage was a laugh.
"You're a bitch."
She tread across the room and flicked the lights on. His neck cracked as he turned away from the window and watched her naked body slip into a pair of black leather pants and a tank top. Her black hair shimmered like wax. Michael couldn't help the frustration. His guts still thrased around inside of him like live wires.
"Where are you headed to?"
Dahlia dropped down on the couch, scrunching up her nose as a cloud of dust rose up around her head. She grabbed for her boots and pulled them on. Her eyes were watching the floor, but a smirk was pulling across her face like the slits in her leather pants. It was all just another bullet to his brain.
"Don't worry about it."
"I will anyway."
"Well, you shouldn't my dear."
"How do I know you aren't out on some other guy's bone?"
She flipped her face up at him and he caught the smirk as a smile for a second before she began fiddling with the studs along her ears. Her eyes still seemed to be intent on solving the mysteries of the carpet stains, studying them like inkblots. The needs were beginning to wander off, taking his erection with them, and he was left to watch her every movement with eyes unfiltered by that hot, electric buzz.
--- and then there was the smell again.
"Have you smelt anything recently?" Michael said.
"I've smelt a lot of things recently."
She stood and strut about the apartment, gathering up her wallet, keys and lipstick canister.
"Anything out of the ordinary?"
"Not especially, no."
Dahlia crouched down in front of the mirror and began to play with her bangs. The leather of her pants tightened against her ass and Michael was struck with the desire to sink his teeth into it. He couldn't help but laugh.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Dahlia's fingers inched up Michael's leg until they twisted around his belt and she hoisted herself up. The pants slid down his waist a bit and she pushed her fingertips against his hips. With a sigh, she nuzzled her head under his chin and the slick smell of hair dye greeted him. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arm tight around her waist, pulling her slender body against his.
"Don't worry," she said, "I'm yours."
Michael said nothing. All he could think about was how there was nothing before her. There was no trace of memory, no trail of it to follow to an origin, nothing. And he thought she knew this and this made the animal rage in him stir. He wanted to beat her head against the wall and scream "what the fuck did you do?! What the fuck did you do to me?!" But her scent would come in heavy waves, up and down, the smell of fucking to him and the anger would be quelled and all he wanted then was her to be his.
"I'm just yours."
He pressed his nose into her hair and breathed in as if it were the last breath he would ever take.
"You really haven't smelled anything off?" he said.
She pulled away from him.
"Are you referring to something in particular?"
"It's like the forest --- like the smell of the forest is suddenly really strong, but --- it's not forest." He shook his head. "I can't describe it."
Dahlia leaned in and touched her lips to the bottom of his chin, her teeth brushing against his coarse, shaven skin. She pushed away from him and moved towards to door, her hips swaying as if she were walking in tune to music. He could feel the edge of the need crawling back, but he knew it would leave as soon as she was gone.
She pulled the door open and a wave of outside things tickled at his nose.
"You gonna come back?" Michael asked.
He couldn't see her face and he could only guess that that leather-splitting, jean-tightening smile was on her lips.
"Maybe."
The door closed and Michael was left alone. Only the waning voice and the slick, synthesized piano filled the silence.
_ "Riders on the storm, riders on the storm
Into this house we're born, into this world we're thrown.
Like a dog without a bone, an actor on a loan.
Riders on the storm."_
And as he turned to stare past the window, he realized that the smell wasn't the forest at all. He suddenly understood it and wasn't sure why he hadn't figured it out before.
It wasn't something at all --- it was someone.
_ "Riders on the storm, riders on the storm."_
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Riders on the Storm (1971) - The Doors