For Samandiriel – as it was her AV that inspired this story, and also because she manages to bring out my dark side.
"Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." - Mark Twain
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Mark never knew what happened.
He woke up in a hospital, burning with fever, his throat dry and his lips chapped. His eyes opened a tiny fraction and he struggled with his blurred sight. He blinked repeatedly and things cleared slightly. Another blink and the huge hazy-white blotch in front of him collected itself into the outline of an overweight nurse.
She leaned over him, jiggling her heavy breasts into his face. The musky smell of sweat hit him sharply and Mark gagged. The bitter taste of vomit rose up into his mouth and threatened to pour out of him. Mark struggled to sit up, but realised that he was much too weak, so he merely turned to the edge of the bed, almost falling off.
A thin stream of vomit landed on spotless white stockings and a shriek followed, accompanied by a steady stream of what he believed were curses. The nasal wailing voice faded away as the shoes moved out of his vision and apparently out of the room.
The overripe smell of fresh vomit reached Mark's nose and he dry-heaved until he felt like all the breath had been sucked out of him. Tears of exhaustion and weakness streamed down his face as he pulled himself back onto the bed and swallowed a couple of times, willing himself to stop vomiting.
It worked. Mark took a few deep breaths, trying to remember how he came to be here. The last he remembered, he had been hitchhiking in the north of India. His love for the exotic had drawn him to the subcontinent immediately after his graduation, and a three-month itinerary had enthusiastically been chalked out.
He traced his mind back to the last thing he remembered. He had been in a small village, trying to see the real India, not the glittery, showy metro-cities, or the better-known famous tourist destinations.
Memory stirred. A girl... a train station... a bed of straw... the feeling of arms around him... and those eyes.... He started shaking uncontrollably as it all came back to him in a rush.
* * * * *
Mark walked onto the deserted train station and looked around. It was dark. The only light came from the moon. It fell in silvery abundance over the edge of the platform, and down onto the ground, absorbed hungrily by the glittering tracks. Leaves of a banyan tree fluttered in the light breeze, hundreds of quicksilver pinpoints, making him think of pearl-edged butterflies flitting around the dark trunk. The February night held a bit of a chill and Mark adjusted the collar of his coat around his neck, snuggling into it.
A little distance away was the weak orange glow of a solitary bulb - the guard's cabin. The nondescript train station was nothing but a some sheets of asbestos thrown over a few poles in the ground. He walked over to one and knocked on it with the back of his hand. It clunked dully in the still night air. Something stirred in the periphery of his vision and he turned sharply to catch it.
He almost didn't see it, but it moved again. He squinted into the darkness and made out a huddled figure. His vision adjusted to the shadows a little better. A person was hunched in one of the corners.
As he was thinking about whether to approach the figure or keep his distance, a strong gust of wind blew into the empty station and snatched the figure's dark covering away, flinging it into the night. The person lunged for it, but missed as the piece of cloth was carried away by the current of air. Mark took off after it, throwing his backpack to the ground and running towards one of the edges of the platform. The blanket was deposited a few feet away from the rim, and Mark jumped down onto the ground to recover it.
Soft wool. Very soft. Mark rubbed the piece of fabric in his palms as he picked it up. It was a fine shawl really, not a coarse blanket of the type that was usually common among beggars around here. He had thought it was a homeless person taking shelter here, but now... perhaps another passenger?
He was in for another revelation as he turned back — a shock really. The figure had followed him and was now standing in the moonlight. It was a girl. Her straight, dark hair fell over her shoulders, her face in shadow. She wore a loose blouse and a skirt that brushed the ground. Her apparel was light-coloured, so it seemed like moonlight dripped down on her, spreading itself in liquid wantonness, flowing down the hand she stretched towards him.
Speechless, he handed the shawl back to her and stared as she wrapped it around herself and returned to her corner, blending into the darkness again until his eyes adjusted and he could see only her faint outline once more. It was over too quickly, before he could even think of saying something.
Mark considered pinching himself. An apparition? But the shawl had felt very real, he reminded himself. He pulled himself back onto the platform and walked over to his backpack, wondering what she was doing in such a godforsaken place, alone. As far as he knew, girls did not travel alone in this part of the world, and definitely not at night.
He paced around the platform, casting sidelong glances at the figure in the corner from time to time. He couldn't see more than a dark blotch of her vague shape in the black night. She sat unmoving, not noticing him, sleeping maybe? He wondered whether she needed any help, and decided to go ask her. The worst would be that she wouldn't understand him, and if she did, maybe he could pass the few hours he had to wait engaged in a pleasant chat with her.
He walked over to where she was sitting, his sports shoes making faint thumps on the concrete of the platform. She had to be aware of his approach if she was awake, but she neither stirred nor gave any other indication that she knew he was coming towards her.
"Hello?" Mark said hopefully as he neared her.
She didn't move. Mark wondered whether he should touch her or shake her. If she didn't want company, she could say so, but ignoring him like this was a bit worrisome. Was she okay?
"Um... Miss?" Mark bent and stretched his hand towards her, and at that moment she turned to him... and smiled. He didn't exactly
see
the smile, but rather he felt it. He was not sure how that was possible, because she had not uttered a word, and he could definitely not make out any clear features on her face, because the scanty light fell short of her form. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to explain it. Somehow, he
knew
that she would be smiling.
"Hello," she whispered.
The whisper was like the wind. Breathless, cool, free. Something that seemed to caress his soul, making him instantly comfortable, wrapping itself around him, vital, alive. Mark felt a tingle run through his body at the intensity of the feelings the one word aroused in him.
"Are you alone?" His voice sounded breathless too. He cleared his throat and continued, "I mean, do you need any help? One doesn't see many unaccompanied young girls at this time of the night around here and I just wondered."
That smile again.
Mark lowered himself to his haunches and peered at her, not too obviously, he hoped. But he had to know how he could make out that she was smiling. He tried to analyse it. Something to do with light and shadow? But no. She was in total darkness, the shawl covering her head and her hair covering part of her face. He couldn't even see the glint of her eyes.
"Yes, I'm alone. I don't need any help, thank you." The answer was polite but firm.
"Uh, well. That's fine then." Mark didn't want it to end there. "I'm Mark Davies," he said as he extended his hand, belatedly realising that she may not shake it as young girls did not consider it proper in those parts. He pulled it back when it was just halfway to her and pressed both his palms together in front of his chest in a
