It's Showtime - Prologue

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper

  

"So... You wanted to save them," said the boy.

The girl next to him watched as the barman poured yet another drink to quench her thirsty soul. She simply answered: "Yes, I did."

"Then why did you leave them?" asked the curious boy, the one nobody knew nothing about.

She was intrigued by his sudden interest. As she took a sip from the glass in front of her, she told him: "Because I wanted to save them."

"And by leaving... you actually... saved them?" another question coming from the boy.

She looked at him. She looked into his eyes as if she could read deep into his mind and heart. You see... This used to be her talent. Reading people. Deciphering their darkest intentions and their strongest emotions just by throwing them a sheer glance. However, she didn't know what was about the one in front of her that made her play along: "No. I gave them time."

"Time for what?" he asked without a beat in the conversation, as if he already knew the answer.

"Saving themselves," she replied, her words obvious to everyone but him.

"From who?" his sincere and piercing eyes burning straight into her black orbs. Black as her soul after she lost the ones she loved the most. Black as her mind after she decided to run away. Black as everyone and everything around her. Black and sad as the world she was living in.

"No one. Everyone." She didn't know what else to say. About this. If she were to start talking about everything that happened not so long ago, she wouldn't be able to stop for another year.

"Are they safe now?" she heard his voice once again.

"Maybe. I'll never know," she said as she asked the barman for a refill. "At least I hope to never know," she added silently, hoping he wouldn't hear.

But he did. And his curiosity was far beyond any limits. "And why is that?" he questioned the beautiful brunette.

She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to scare him away. But, at the same time, she felt as if he would understand her. "Because when I'm involved, someone eventually dies," she started, looking at the glass in her hand. "And I'm sick of that," she finished, downing another drink. Her throat was burning, but she had no other choice. She wanted to forget about everything, even though, in the end, she only forgot about herself.

"I don't understand," he spoke, and in that moment she sensed it. There was something in his voice. He wasn't dangerous. He was of no harm.

"You don't need to understand. You just have to listen," she replied, finally knowing that she found the one. The one worthy to listen to her story.

"What if I don't want to?" he asked, looking straight into her eyes, trying to break the armor of patience she had built since the moment the conversation started. He knew who she was.He heard about her personality, about how angry she could get. And that was exactly what he was trying to do: annoy her.

What he didn't know was that she learned how to control herself, at least when the matter wasn't as deadly as she was used to. "Then you can leave," she reluctantly answered. She knew he was just too curious to leave right when he could find out something.

He laughed loudly, making a few people around them turn their heads in their direction. "You can't just let me leave. You don't let anyone just leave. You are Jessica Queens!" he exclaimed, silently this time, not wanting to drag more attention.

"You know nothing about me, darling," she spoke, emphasizing every single word. And, indeed, that was true. Her short temper was something not to joke about. Her emotions swayed like a pendulum. "But if you insist on getting yourself killed..." she voiced, bringing her hand to the inner pocket of her jacket. "Then so be it," she continued, showing him the handle of her silver dagger.

"No. Wait," he jolted. "Continue your story," he added when he felt that the tension between them was about to snap.

She looked at him as if he were a lunatic. Her eyes sparkled with fear, sadness and anger as she spoke: "Continue it? I haven't even begun."

Silence spread fast between them. The tension became once again so thick you could cut it with a knife. "So... How did everything begin?" he asked after a while.

Feeling just a little bit dizzy, she answered, her words not necessarily making sense to anyone but herself: "It didn't. It has always been there. We were just unable to see it."

He didn't enjoy riddles. He wanted answers. Real answers. A real story. "It wouldn't hurt if you were more precise." And then he knew it was his cue to stop talking and just listen.

"I guess it all really started a year ago..."