Motel Somewhere in Manchester - May 3rd

She hadn't meant to kill the man in the park. The Beast was hungry, however, having been denied for nearly a week. In truth, she couldn't muster much sympathy for him after what he might have done to that child. After licking the wounds away, she'd slit his throat with his own knife, hiding her tracks. Afterwards, when the city had settled in for the night, she'd taken the body to the river and dumped it in. But not before raiding his wallet of its cash. All two hundred some odd dollars of it.

The money had purchased the use of a motel room for one night, the balance spent on trivial, but necessary items. The dress was not so trivial. Casting a glance towards the door upon which it hung, Rain smiled. Floor length, the white dress was a sleeveless affair that hugged the upper body, then flowed outward into a voluminous skirt. Several diaphanous layers floated above that, each cut and hemmed at a different angle. It was perfect. Stripping quickly, she stepped into the shower.

Twenty minutes later she was seated at the edge of the bed, a towel wrapped about her torso. Holding her arms out, Rain inspected them carefully. Clean. She'd gotten a razor to scrape the backs of her arms and legs, leaving a wet clump of golden fur clogging the drain. She'd have to take care of that before she left.

What was next on the agenda? Oh, yes, the claws. Dragging a pair of clippers from the bag, she started with her fingers, trimming carefully until each sharply clawed tip was cut away. That done, she bent to give her toes the same treatment, leaving the floor littered with silvery claw tips. Wrinkling her nose, Rain vowed to clean that up too.

Rising to her feet, she moved to stand before the mirror, gauging her appearance. The twin points of her ears were visible through her water flattened hair, but she shrugs that off. When her hair dried, they'd be hidden, and besides, she had bought another hat. White to match the dress. Excitement churned within her and she felt the quick brush of wet fur against the backs of her legs.

Shit. What was she going to do about the Caine-be-dammned tail?

Rain's eyes stray back towards the dress. Its volume might hide a multitude of sins. Reaching for a brush, she stroked it through the hip length mass of her hair until it dried. Then it was time to get dressed.

Stark Raving Mad - Later That Same Night

Heads turned when she walked into the jazz club. Petite, golden blonde hair flowing past her hips, the diaphanous layers of the white dress silhouetting her form, she was stunning. Ignoring the stares, she made her way over to the manager's booth. Speaking in low tones, she nodded, then sat down to await her turn on stage.

When she was announced to a round of polite applause, Rain walked towards the stage, surprised to find herself nervous. She hadn't sung before an audience in years. Upon reaching the stage, she turned and took the mike into one hand. There was another smattering of applause along with an appreciative whistle or two. The lights overhead put the stage into stark relief, but the small round sunglasses she wore shielded her sensitive eyes.

The music she had requested began playing and she timed her opening, counting the beat silently. Bringing the mike closer to her lips, she lifted her chin, voice rising soft and pure.

"Midnight,
Not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.
In the lamplight the withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan.

Every street lamp seems to beat a fatalistic warning
Someone mutters and the street lamp gutters
And soon it will be morning.

Memory,
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days. I was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again."

As she sang, Rain closed her eyes, letting the lyrics flow from her lips, each word carrying the full weight of her emotions, her voice inflecting her own loss, sorrow and hope. When she was through, the last note fading, the she opened her eyes to a thundering ovation.

But she had not sung for them, and even though she knew he would not be there to hear it, her song had been for a scruffy, shaggy-haired individual whose soot stained clothing stank of smoke and gasoline. She had sung for Molotov.

Moonlight,
Turn your face to the moonlight
Let your memory lead you, open up enter in.
If you find there the meaning of what happiness is
Then a new life will begin.