A Kiss To Build A Dream On - Season 2: Bridge

The Devil's Swing - Waltz For Zizi(Jazz Version)

The cold winter air that once numbed Henry felt oddly still. It was perhaps the fact that he had bolted out of the mansion in a hurry that was unbecoming of him. He panted and wheezed as he laid back, feeling the leather seats of his Rolls Royce cradle his nerves.

It was a short and stormy ride from Geber Laboratories to the White's residence on Commonwealth Avenue, in the heart of Back Bay. Living there, Henry liked to think, was having a finger in the pulse of the city. It made him feel, being a Florida native, that he belonged to a greater lineage than his own -- a place with a proud history.

With the best decor of the decadent '20s, it was filled to the brim with ostentatious furniture. The stained linoleum floor of the living room was pieced together by a soft beige carpet, filled with crumbs, dust, and a few questionable-looking stains. On top of it, a zebrawood table with a broken yellow vase surrounded by ash stood like a sore thumb among the black and white scheme of the walls, sitting squarely in the middle of the room atop the remnants of a once-pristine Persian rug.

On the farthest recess of the room was the piece de resistance: a painting of a man, made entirely out of ink; a gift from Zizi, given to him for Christmas. The man was covered in a jet-black jacket, with the sliver of a white cravat on his neck fading the coat and the background. Henry had loved it at first, hence its position as the centerpiece of the room; however, the more Henry looked at it, the more he began to notice some peculiar and disturbing details.

Instead of a head, a tower of smoke whirled from his neck, scattering and coiling around the rest of the painting. It all felt hazy and unfocused, yet oddly entrancing.

That night, however, he could see his own sadness reflected in the smoke. He felt a million eyes pin on him from every direction. Judging him. Taunting him.

The eyes knew. The smoke had told them.

Suddenly, all that pressure came over him, pounding his head like a hammer on a nail. Henry's eyes were dilating, his chest tightening with every breath.

Staggering slowly to the divan, Henry placed a hand on the headrest for support. He took deep gulps of air, clutching his chest.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

After a few minutes, just as soon as it came, it went away, as if that simple act brought him balance yet again, both physically and mentally.

"Look at you. You are a useless husk of a man. Pathetic."

The sudden whisper took him by surprise. On the same divan Henry was leaning on, the small frame of Zinet "Zizi" Geber laid gently wrapped in a gray woolen blanket, blending in perfectly with the peach-gold tapestry of the furniture. Her eyes were filled to the brim with hate and loathing, pitch black like the night.

The word that most defined her was "dreadful". Even though she was pushing past her mid-forties, her skin had become awash with wrinkles and liver spots. Scars ran down her face, making a patchwork pattern on her skin. She was white as snow and somber like winter.

Her attitude was too, a mirror of her devilish looks, but crocked enough to give an unnatural allure to all her erratic movements. All in all, her existence was a mix between an old crone and a half-rotten zombie.

Recognizing the bundle of fabric to be his lovely wife, Henry took a seat on the ottoman sitting nearby.

"Yeah. Sorry, bear. Just a long day, is all."

One of his most beloved activities was to stroke his wife's hair, a gesture of protection she always seemed to love. Not today though, as she batted his hand as soon as he tried to approach.