Master Frankenstein

Master Frankenstein.





I.



The black hat was slid a little to the left of her head

and now threw a sharp shadow over one third of her face.

But she didn’t go through the trouble and put it straight back.

Trouble that she didn’t take for time that she didn’t made,

not for unimportant things as appearance - on times like this.



Not on times like this.

This was fighting.



A loose curl fell faint over her shoulder -

her hand zoomed noiseless through the air.



There were things.

Things like allure and that she was always such good listener -

there were things that could change.

But only one thing never changed - Sandrine never looked back.



Tjak!  The cue stick in her hand cut the air in two.



II.



‘Bet,’ with the same glance of arrogance in his intense green eyes

did he allow two silver ducats to slip through his fingers.

Snuffled and coughed. Sighed and -



Sighed and - rapid, his look froze.



Behind him, out of a dark corner, rose a familiar voice;

'Jetz, Alec, a sign of loss…'

He raised an eyebrow. Turned around and took a sip from a bottle,

one of the many that were standing on the timber floor.



'I never made an oath on your acts, Jèrôme…'

was the final answer, with growling as undertone.



III.



'Gaston, I’m suffocating -’ she sounded cold and distant - as always,

but this time had there been some of panic displayed through her voice.

'Gaston!  Keep your hands off Amy - just once!  For goodness sake…'

Pats!  A slap in Gaston’s face was the result.

'Amy!  For goodness sake…'

'Oh, please, give me a break…' Amy sank determined into a chair

and immediately pulled her cloak with a fierce gesture over her legs.

Gaston received a violent look while she somewhat loosened her shawl,

then she said; 'I’m really fed up with this sister-love-stuff!’

Standing up again and walking to the window she went on;



'I’m no baby -'

'Have no polio - can plea for oneself just fine’



Amy turned around. Gaston sniffled 'What’s that smell?'

She looked through the room and stuck with Jordan;

standing in the corner, with her back towards everybody.

A white cloud of smoke rose up, irregular but obvious.

‘Jordan!'

Jordan turned around with a sudden pull -

so sudden, her jade green cloak slid off her shoulder.



'You smoke?'



Two blue eyes stared disordered into the space.

Two blue eyes stared into - nothing.



IV.



'The name is Franc,'

with a flowing movement, he touched as a salute swiftly his hat.

'Sounds as -' that he would like to become something.



That he would like to fly away - would like to become something.

Not now, but later. He would like to make the world as it should be.

Not someone as his parents - no, never.

(Good beloved people, but still. None who would remember,

no-one who would know their deeds when their gone.)

Be someone - just someone backstage. Someone who the world needed.

Someone nameless.



He would like to fly away to places behind the horizon -

to places where nobody knew him, where he could be someone.



Not now - but later…



‘Better be silent, Milady' his cloak was dark as the night.



V-I.



The Scottish checkered shower curtain had been shut,

only two legs that hung over the bath edge could be seen.

Told by the scar on the left ankle - Jordan.

Kris walked with firm steps across the room to the bath in the corner,

once there he used his fingernail to draw a line under Jordan’s right foot.



No reaction.



Only the sound of moving water and rustling stuff.



Then finally a withheld response;

'Oh - that tickles - don’t …'

'You are a dry bastard Jordan,' Kris answered.

'I know - but thanks for reminding me anyway…'

Silence.



Silence.



'Can I - can I come in?'

'Uh…no, I have no clothes on'

'As if I care - you carry my child'

'Yes - well, why not. Come in,'

Kris pulled the checkered curtain open with one hand

and raised an eyebrow 'You lied,'

'Sorry,' although there wasn’t really remorse to hear in her murmur.



Kris stepped clumsy into the bathtub and sat down on the edge.

At the bottom was some turbid water, not more than 5 centimeters.

Jordan held a bottle of port in her left hand - a gnawed off pencil in her right,

and a cigar was stuck just behind her ear and to be seen between her blond hear.

Aside from a notepad was there a music box on Jordan’s stomach.

The shower curtain closed up again behind him.



'What are you writing?'

'Memorial…' absent mumbling. Nothing more.

'Memorial? For who…?'

Silence. Slowly slid Jordan her legs inside the bathtub.

‘Jordan…?'

‘There’s not much more alive in there, Kris…’

It was not more than a whisper.

A splash interrupted the silence. The sound of glass towards metal.

Tearing paper. Mumbling. A sniff followed with silence.



Silence.



V-II.



Silence.



Silence - kloink. Two. Three. Four - five.

The last ducat slipped through his index finger and thumb

the very moment he felt a cue stick against his back -

one that wrote a “Z” with sturdy movements.



Almost - almost did he jump up.



'Five?  Alec, that’s really not done -'

Jèrôme’s voice sounded faint, as if he predicted misery.

Alec tapped slowly against his hat, before asking;

‘Not…?'  his question had a sarcastic undertone.



‘Can’t you count Alecsandros?' asked some above him.

‘Isn't it Zorro and Elena?' did he avoid the question.

'Who said it isn’t?' came another question fired back, but too fast.

'Franc.'



'Five’s really not done, Alecsandros -'



One swing, and now the cue stick was standing upright next to Alec.

'You smashed it out of my hand,’ he felt hot breath in his neck as he spoke.

'I didn’t even touch you Alec,’

'With your - cue stick?' he turned around and stared depressed into the air.

Sandrine raised triumphantly an eyebrow and clicked with her tongue.



'Royal Flush - very clever'



VI.



Someone who always dressed gallant, who always tried to behave.

Always tried to make up for the behavior of her twin brother -

always tried to hush up her little brother’s sickly raids.

Tried to spare her baby sister.



'I’m done -' out of the darkness arised the words.

Suddenly her body fell to the side

to come down with a soft thud on the wooden floor.

With a penetrating pats hit the bottle in her hand the ground

and splashed into pieces.

Red liquid and blood blended into each other when splinters hit her arm.



With her charm.



At the other side of the room had it been silent for a while

but now the shower curtain had gotten a split opening -

and a voice; 'Kelly?'



No reaction.



Amy and Gaston turned around at the window, on the same moment -

the very same; their heads bumped against each other.

Gaston rubbed his forehead. Amy took the candle and walked to the body,

gathered the glass pieces and threw them against the wall. Then she asked;

‘Kelly?’

She sunk on her knees aside from her sister and slowly caressed her cheek -

while whispering ‘Kelly…’



Tears were gliding over Kelly’s face - but with charm.



VII.



'Men whom call themselves masters - not on own initiative, naturally'

Jason turned away from Kelly and addressed the broken mirror on the wall.

'Friends?' the once victorious Royal Flush was still stuck in his hand - petrified.

'No,' the cue stick pulled a line through the dirt on the wooden shelves

'he would never do that,'

Amy turned a tuft of hair around her finger and raised an eyebrow.



The mirror laughed evil; ‘He doesn’t have any friends,’



'Whiskey -' two eyes shot fire beneath the brim of a jet-black hat.

'Shakespeare?'

'The storm - ' the blue shower curtain was pulled open with one firm pull

'in a glass whiskey,'

'No -' Jason’s face froze. The cue stick stood abrupt still.

'Guiseppe…' low by the floor rose a hoarse whispering.



'Let Frankenstein help you…Master'



- - - - -