"She was wearing the same clothes, but now she looked haggard and dirty. The delicate illusions that get us through life can only stand so much strain." Hunter S. Thompson

A spiral of smoke lures you into a stunned trance. The pictures in your head blur into mercurial ghosts, and your memories are muddy and unclear.

This is the beautiful way you fuck up your mind.

You look right at me with your hard silver eyes. Nothing but dull, chipped mirrors that are shallow and bleak. You're numb to fear, pain and anger. Tears evaporate before they hit the ground 

There was something there once. Do you remember who you used to be?

A fledgling, young and sweet. But constant chemical waves have eroded the shore of your soul away.

People knock on your door, call your name, look inside.

But anything valuable has been stolen or destroyed.

Nobody voiced concern anymore. No point in wasting words. 

Because even though you're broke and devastated and insane...

...you'll sit there calmly

Open your lipstick-stained mouth

And lie

And lie 

And lie

Chapter 1

Present Day: Mina

   The women form a circle around me, their bare feet beating a tattoo into the dusty earth. They throw back their heads, exposing white throats. Their dresses are ripped and dirty, unkempt hair loosely braided with leaves and twigs. As the dancing becomes increasingly frenzied, the women sway their bruised and scratched arms sinuously, then open purple-stained mouths and scream songs that have neither tune nor meaning. Their ravaging wild eyes flash dangerously. The pounding from their feet shakes the ground. My bones rattle and my teeth click together. In time I will be shaken apart.

   They link arms and circle around me again, moving faster and faster until the bodies blend together, becoming an orange blur. An orange so bright it makes my eyes water.

   Out, I think. I want out of this, let me go....

I wake up slowly, painfully. The orange haze is the sun slanting through the blinds and striking my eyelids. Sitting up gingerly, I wipe tears off my face and wince at the first splinter of a headache.

   That was Dean's dream, not mine, I think. He still misses it.

   When I first moved in with Dean - or, to be precise, when he took me in off the streets - he held my hands and said gently, "Now that we share a bed every night, from time to time you will see fragments of my dreams. Don't be frightened by this." His eyes clouded and he added grimly, "And when it does happen, do not tell me. I don't want to know."

   I rub my eyes. Despite the fingers of sunlight the room is still dark and I squint around the pewter-grey dimness until I see Dean. He is sitting in a chair by the kind of ugly desk every 3 star hotel room seems to have, his impossibly long legs stretched out almost halfway across the room. His gaze over tented fingers is impassive, leveled directly at me. I wonder uneasily how long he's been watching me.

   I pinch the bridge of my nose and groan. "Your head?" he asks.

    I nod, then wish I hadn't. A low pain is beginning to thud in my temples.

   "I must not have added enough elixir," Dean says. "I'm sorry. And I have nothing to give you." I can tell he's still drunk, but it doesn't surprise me. Lately he's always in some state of inebriation. Whether it's morning, noon or night makes no difference to him. But then, why would it? Customs like waiting until the sun is over the yard arm hardly apply to Dean.

   "Aspirin will have to do," I mumble, kicking back the sheets and climbing out of bed. The air conditioning sweeps over my naked body, making me shiver uncontrollably and break out in goosebumps.

   Dean stands. Every movement of his, even the slightest gesture, is fluid and smoothly regal. He's immensely tall and and powerfully built. He has a shock of curly auburn brown hair and an appealing, sweet-natured face that keeps him from being too handsome. His eyes constantly crinkle with mirth and the corners of his mouth curl up. When people look at him they smile in response without realizing it.

   He puts his arms around me. The warmth from his body makes me feel woozy. I want to press against him, sink into him, yearn for his hands to slide over my skin, but now is not the time.

   "Get dressed, Mina my love. We must away." I lean against him for a moment longer and he kisses my forehead  A brief starburst of colors swirl in front of my eyes, then he pushes my shoulders gently.

   "Ok, ok," I grumble and he laughs. I pull on my clothes and throw what meager belongings I have left into a duffle bag. Comb and toothbrush. A pair of jeans and a couple shirts. With our nomadic life traveling light is a must, especially when hopping from state to state and hotel to hotel. Unfortunately, hotel rooms are black holes that gobble up personal items and my supply of makeup, clothes and books is rapidly dwindling. I sigh with irritation when I realize I'm down to only three pairs of underwear.

   I begin to zip my duffel shut, then stop, blinking in confusion. The walls of the room waver like a road seen through heat waves. None of the furniture seems to be substantial. It all looks flat and one dimensional, like the painted background in a stage play. And for the life of me I can't emember what state we're in. Ohio? No. Ohio was last week.

   I glance at Dean. He is solemnly studying himself in the mirror and his equally solemn reflection stares back. I open my mouth to ask, then quickly clamp it shut again. No. Asking would be a bad idea.

    Struggling to tamp down rising panic, I grapple with my memory. Finally there's a flash from the day before yesterday: on the bus...looking out the window...and seeing a herd of cows. Dairy. Wisconsin. We'd only been here for two days, but Dean's instincts had abruptly told him we needed to be elsewhere, so we were elsewhere bound.

   Wisconsin, we hardly knew ye, I think a little wildly, biting down on a hysterical giggle.

   Dean turns away from the mirror. "What's funny, love?" There's a small crease between his eyebrows.

   "Nothing,"I say hurriedly, shouldering the duffel. I'm not losing it. Not getting early Alzheimer's. Anyone would get a little discombobulated, the way we travel. Anyone.

"Then let's be off," he says grandly, propelling me by the elbow. "Off into the dawn's early light." The way he's slurring his words makes it sound like dawn's surly light, and considering I feel like someone has slammed my head repeatedly against the sidewalk, this seems much more accurate.

    We stroll past the front desk and Dean nods graciously at the clerk. "Thank you."

   The man straightens up and smooths his hair back. "Oh, and thank you, sir!

   "We shan't be paying for our stay," Dean calls airily over his shoulder.

   The clerk beams as if he's been given a compliment along with a basket of roses. "Again, thank you, sir. Thank you!" I almost expect him to clap his hands with delight.

   The sun is blinding, excruciating. It turns the pain level of my headache up to 11. I paw through my bag for my sunglasses before remembering they'd been swallowed up by another hotel black hole a couple days ago. Soon I'll have so few personal effects I can throw my duffel bag away and just tie a sack to a stick, hitting the road hobo style.

   Shielding my eyes against the white hot glare, I take Dean's arm as we cross the parking lot towards the bus stop. There's a small cluster of people standing around and as we get closer some of them instinctively pull their kids closer to their sides.

   "Just took at that," Dean says scornfully. "Shying away like skittish horses." I nod, but don't need to look. I've seen it many times. Dean doesn't bother to use a glamor, so instead of being treated like royalty we are considered to be walking stranger danger. Overprotective parents are often the sensitives.

   We sit on a low stone wall at the edge of the group, as far away from the moms and dads as possible. On a nearby bench, two teenage girls sit shoulder to shoulder, foreheads practically touching. One girl has blonde hair and a braid halfway down her back. Her friend is a brunette with a silky bob and bright crimson fringe. They are sneaking glances at us and whispering animatedly, but not giggling. I smile to myself, recognizing the game. People-watching and playing Let's Guess Their Story.

    In my mind I make up their dialogue, imagining the conversation to be something like this:

Blonde braid: The guy, he's older and looks rich. Well, used to be rich

because his clothes are all worn out but they, like, look expensive.

Crimson bangs: So he was the CEO of some ultra huge bucks corporation and made some bad investments and lost everything...

Blonde braid: "Obviously, if he has to stay at a crap hotel and ride the Greyhound..."

Crimson bangs: "And her? Some chick he picked up in a bar after his wife dumped him?"

Blonde braid: "Or maybe after going broke he got a job as a teacher..."

Blonde braid and Crimson bangs together: "And she was his student!"

Crimson bangs: "Or maybe he's a movie producer who, you know, hasn't had a hit in ages and is kinda down on his luck.  And she's a porn star but she's really nice and now she's trying to become a serious actress."

Blonde braid: "Or maybe she's his step-daughter and they're about to elope."

Crimson bangs: "Eeeew!"

   I see myself walking over to the girls. Nothing you come up with will be crazier than the truth. Wanna hear? Then I'll lean forward and talk to them slowly and deliberately, each word a drop of poison falling with complete precision. Watching their expressions turn from surprise to shock to terror and then finally to...

   And finally to madness. Even before I'd finished talking both faces would have the voided, thunderstruck aspect of a person who has gone suddenly and inexplicably insane.

   I look away, a shudder running through my entire body. It was just a scene playing out in my head, but it seemed so vivid, so real, that for one terrifying second I thought it had actually happened. I could see every detail as clearly as if it were on a movie screen - the color leaching from their faces, the stark black circles of their pupils widening...and I could feel how easy it would be, how ridiculously easy, to twist those young minds into something warped and unrecognizable.

   But that wasn't the worst part. Not at all. A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach and I swallow hard, trying not to throw up. Hunching over, I dig my nails into my thighs so Dean can't see my hands shaking.

   The worst part was I could also feel how much I would enjoy it.