@ofgatheringstorms
It’s said there is no such thing as karma. Others, however, argue that it follows every action, that it looms over each every doer and that, just like with time, it is impossible to escape from it. “ Make a good deed and one of the same nature will come to you – ” it sounded like a mother warning her child – “ behave inappropriately, and karma will make sure to come haunt you. ” It was a boogeyman of sorts, a nightmare besetting a child’s sleep.
Luckily for her, none of her nights were sleepless.
Shortly before the MIT days rolled around, Jo had gotten to experience mischief. It was bitter, and sweet at once like the many beers shared among friends behind their parents’ backs; it ached, as did her throat after the sips of hard liquor that became less rare with each passing month; it burned and stained her, similar to what the cigarettes stolen from her mother’s purse had done. Above all else, however, it consumed. It brought recklessness along – each night, a new desire beckoning, whispering “ go, go ” –, keeping her on the move. Suddenly, time froze and dripped between her fingers. She could play with it and mold it like clay. It wasn’t destruction, at least not to her; it was the creation of something mesmerizing. Whoever made history had power; whoever controlled it was a God.
She was nonstop, and never regretful. No sleep was lost to nightmares. If there ever was a boogeyman lurking underneath her bed, it had never come out. If karma did exist, it hadn’t caught up with her.
Unfortunately, like it’s the case for a lot of travellers, she grew tired. One could only go so far before their legs started aching. In the worst of cases, she would get fed up with a place just moments after arriving. She’d end up drained, spending most of her time in bed. “ One last trip, ” she’d told herself. One last trip, so better make it count. Ultimately, New Orleans would be the destination of choice. Never had she pictured herself arriving at the Mardi Gras capital, but what better way was there to mark the stop of her travels than visiting an old acquaintance ?
Jo’s expression lit up, a grin tugging at the seams of her lips, just as she stood before the doors of what locals referred to as “THE CALL OF THE VOID”.The doors were slightly open, and through the gap between the door and frame, voices, laughter, and some distant tune could be heard. A man stepped out, his uneven, clumsy walk making it clear he’d been indulging himself for too long. Brushing past him, Jo entered the bar, slightly shocked at how crowded it was as opposed to what she’d expected. Bingo. She claimed an available spot by the bar, motioning at the server & ordering a white Russian. Swift fingers fished for her ID – old habits die hard, do they not ? –, which made her own self laugh; she couldn’t recall how many strange looks or incredulous laughs she’d pulled out of bartenders upon handing them her 1963 Massachusetts identification card.
“ Is it true you own this place ? ”Jo asked, loud enough for Astor to hear from over where he stood.
