There is a ceaseless blaze

which rages inside her, that nothing will quell. She has never been content to sit quietly at her studies or her needlework, she has no patience for cooking nor cleaning nor caring for children. Time and again her mother has lamented that she will never find a man willing to accept as a wife someone with so few feminine skills and graces.
       But as she has no desire to become a simple housewife, this suits her just fine.
       She was born just as a new century began, and the fresh breath of excitement which blew over the world as a zephyr from Olympus must have filled her lungs with her very first breath. A daring boldness has always been one of her most dominant traits, whether climbing out from her cradle as a baby, showing off the newest dance steps to her astonished schoolmates and shocked teachers, demanding her mother allow her the latest hair styles from a very young age, or taking part in pranks at school and with friends; she has always been the first to try anything new and exciting. Before the Great War ended, she became old enough to sign up for work, with the men still away and factory positions painfully vacant. To her mother's dismay, she began working in a factory, using this as an excuse to crop her hair "frightfully short", going to and from work in men's overalls. Yet with the money made and experience gained there, it was not long after that she announced she intended to put herself through college, at a co-educational school in the city. Even Mother had to admit to being impressed with her only daughter's courage and resourcefulness, though she disapproved greatly of a school which allowed unmarried young men and women to mingle so freely, as well as her little girl living in a boarding house so far from home.
       Though she was happy at school, it could not last for long, and in a few short years, she was in need of a new adventure. But with the men home, there were markedly fewer jobs open to her, and she abhorred the thought of teaching children. So, for the moment, she is employed as a sales clerk at a reasonably fashionable clothing store, living with an older woman and a few other girls her age in a house not terribly far from work. The house is charming, the old woman kind, and the other girls fun - one in particular usually up for a good time just as she is.
       But still, she burns, and there is a raging need inside of her which is never soothed for long... and there are many stories which Mother has never heard.
       Nearly every night, she frequents the nightclub in town. The jazz is hot and the alcohol available, the atmosphere both intimate and mysterious, with a sense of rebellion and free will, providing a decent escape from the drabness of work and the world. It, however, comes nowhere near the clubs in the city she was a constant patron of all through college. Though alcohol production had been outlawed not long after she began school, that only made for more of an adventure. Not that it was by any means difficult, for someone always knew someone else who had access to it or knew a new nightclub to try. And as the alcohol became sparser, it drove them to be all the more indulgent when it was available. Even when it wasn't, there were alternatives, often beyond smoking... And the riskier the high, the greater the thrill; the hotter the music and more risqué the dance, the music and the heat and the fire burning within her drove her to such delirious rapture.
       Sitting now in her room, on a cozy chaise beside the window, she looks unseeingly out at the dull grey view. Snow is late in coming this year, and she is glad it is not yet so cold, but it is horridly depressing to look at. Getting up, she wraps a knitted shawl close around her and stands in front of the small, carefully carved table which stands at the head of the chaise. Peering at the print on the label, she shrugs and lifts the large, fragile black disk which rests atop it. She kneels, setting the record gently aside, and pulls a box from the shelf, beneath the table's surface and just above the floor. Sifting carefully through the endless row of pasteboard and paper sleeves, she pulls out an empty one, replacing the record within it. After returning it to the box, she continues flipping through, until at last she smiles and pulls out a sleeve with much-worn corners.
       "Ahh, my Bessie... sing away the grey of the day, willya?" Gracefully sliding the record from its sleeve, she places it on the turntable, turns the crank on the side, then gently places the needle on the dark shellac, which is holding in its mysterious way voices which alternately enrage and soothe her passions.
       As the song begins, she lounges leisurely back on the chaise. Closing her eyes, she lets the waves of the sultry voice wash over her. The minor key, the sparse accompaniment, the passionate heartache of the singer, all form a direct connection to the longing in her own soul. The gritty dips and slides of raw emotion in the expressive voice are set in rich contrast to the casual elegance and conversational responses of the fluid cornet, and the interplay of textures meet her passions and take them by the arm, leading them where they need no longer be bound by courtesy and the demand to be ladylike. It is in the music that she is at last free, without constraint or crushing expectation.
       Opening the window the slightest bit, she reaches beneath the chaise, pulling out a hatbox of sundry items. After rummaging a moment, she withdraws a cigarette and matches. She lights the cigarette and sets the matchbook aside, with the same motion of her arm placing the needle back at the beginning of the song to play it again. Leaning against the window to let the smoke float away into the chill air outside, she watches idly the burning embers she holds before her. So many different shades of red, more than any painter could possibly mix... such rich tones, lit from within, as a summer sun pouring through a cathedral's stained glass.
       She laughs softly to herself, shaking her head. "Why do I think of cathedrals? I should be dead the moment I stepped within one... Music is my only god now, my only salvation and my only peace. I have committed sins only music will permit..."
       Tapping the ashes thoughtfully out the window, she watches as the embers brighten anew, just as Bessie's voices grates in a deliciously carnal manner. Grinning, she takes another breath from the cigarette, feeling its gritty heat spreading through her. "Ah, but who needs cathedrals, Bessie... temples of the flesh are far more interesting than a pure, simple life of abstaining from everything. I never liked white anyway, red's always been the color for me."
       The record ends, and she sits in still silence for a few minutes, listening to the hiss and pop of the needle on worn shellac, circling endlessly around the last groove of the record. Sighing, she feels the dullness seeping back into her, consciousness slipping into quiet disinterest. There are a few hours yet before the club will open in its night-time form, with the lights low and music loud and the crowd lost in chaotic release. Slumping down into the chaise, the calmness outside only irritates further the scathing force clawing inside.
       The pungent smoke no longer interests her, her tolerance has grown too high for it to have much affect any longer. She rolls up her sleeve to the elbow, letting the shawl slip away, then pushes the still-bright end of the cigarette into the tender flesh on the inside of her elbow. Wincing, she grits her teeth, yet she is smiling - the rush of feeling which courses through her, the blinding pain is electric, tearing through the fog which so often leaves her numb. There is little she will not do, if it provides any degree of excitement. She longs for visceral experience, loathing the idea of simply reading of things in books, or even seeing a film, though that is a step up at least, being an experience in itself.
       Her first cigarette had been at the tender age of thirteen, her first encounter with a boy a mere two years older. She regrets past actions only in that they are now no longer possibilities of interest to her, she must seek farther, more extreme, to fill her needs.
       As a birthday present when she turned sixteen, her mother had given her a necklace of pearls, which she had been given by her own mother many years before. She keeps them, of course, but the short delicate strand is tucked away in a jewelry box. Around her neck now is a long, double-looped strand of much larger pearls - not real, of course, she could not quite afford such luxury yet, and they would hardly be practical for such everyday use as she puts them through, particularly when dancing. Her favorite dresses flirt dangerously near her knees, and she has slimmed her figure as much as ever she can.
       So much that her mother does not know...

       An energetic knock on her door stops her varied musings, and she slips the now-extinguished remainder of the cigarette deftly in a corner of the windowsill hidden behind the curtains. Quietly closing the window and unrolling her sleeve back down to cover the burn, she calls out for whomever is at the door to come in.
       "Marjorie Williamson, why on earth are you laying about alone in your room, when I have such delicious news to impart to you!" The slim figure in the door wears a stylishly square-shaped cream dress, accented with a handful of tasteful sequins. The ubiquitous cloche hat covers her close-cropped golden-brown curls, and her light brown eyes sparkle with excitement. Stepping swiftly into the door, she closes the door securely behind her. Instantly, she rushes over to the chaise, her heels muffled by the handsomely woven rug on the wooden floor, dropping to her knees in front of her friend, clasping her hands in her own. "Madge, darling, you remember me telling you about that lovely man Gregory, don't you?"
       Smiling in an echo of the other girl's excitement, she nods with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. "The one whose lap you spent the entire evening in a few nights ago? When you weren't throwing him against the wall and kissing him in the most outrageous manner, that is."
       Giggling, she nods in acknowledgement, grinning with a combination of slyness and pride. Neither of them blushes now, unless intentionally to further their purposes. "Do I detect jealousy in that sweet voice of yours, doll?" she croons, kneeling up and pressing her lips teasingly to the other girl's.
       Returning the sly smile, her eyes darken with seduction and desire. "If I say yes, will you kiss me again?"
       "Mmm, what if I want to kiss you anyway?" Nibbling lightly at the other's chin, she sinuously glides up onto the chaise, draping her arms gracefully around the slim frame, nuzzling her lips against the smooth ivory cheek.
       "Ooo..." Gasping in delight, she in turn wraps her arms around the other girl, drawing her close and turning her head a little.
       Immediately knowing the hint she is being given, she chuckles softly and trails the tip of her tongue ever so lightly around the delicate shell of the girl's ear. Seeing her shiver, she smiles. "Oh, my dear Madge... I really have half a mind to simply keep you to myself tonight."
       "If you promise to show me a good time, you can... ooo, your tongue is far too sinful, wherever did you learn such things, my little charity girl?"
       Gliding her tongue skillfully over the side and nape of the graceful neck offered her, she purrs softly. "The result of many good nights, as well as a few bad ones... But I needn't entirely give you up tonight - you are included in my plans."
       She raises an eyebrow in intrigue. "Oh?" Placing a hand on her friend's knee, she trails her fingertips lightly and devilishly along the inside of her thigh, beneath her dress, moving just far enough to cause her to squirm. "And what plans are these, that you have kept from your very best friend, my dear Evelyn?"
       "Ooo, oh heavens, dear, you'll get me all worked up..."
       "That was entirely my intent," she murmurs with a playful grin, brushing her lips lightly over the other's, fingertips still tickling teasingly along her stockings.
       "Mmmmm... But you see, I was about to tell you, when you began to create all of this distraction..."
       "I?" A dangerous and brashly amused grin curls her richly painted lips, and she grabs Evelyn by the shoulders, throwing her back onto the chaise and holding her down, leaning over her, hardly an inch of electrified space between their two hungry bodies. Both breathing heavily, faces flushed, she stares challengingly into the other's eyes, her own a molten deep brown. "I believe it was you, dear doll, who started this..." Slowly, she tilts her head down, and presses her lips firmly against the other girl's, their breath hot and hearts beating swiftly. She gently lets her slim body rest against the one beneath her, both sighing softly at the warmth and pressure and excitement of forbidden physical contact. With each quivering breath, their breasts press closer together, soft skin meeting and long legs entwining.
       After some immeasurable moments, Evelyn draws back, gasping quietly for breath. "Madge... not now, not... no more than this... Mrs. Avery will call us for supper soon, and I don't know if--- mmph! Madge! I--- mmmm, ooo, don't do this to me, you know I can't resist you..."
       Feeling quite pleased with herself, she sits back, legs on either side of Evelyn's as she sits lightly on her hips. "Well then. Whatever are these plans for the night you've been absolutely refusing to tell me about?"
       "Mmph, well if you'll just give me a minute to explain..." Catching her breath now, she continues. "Well. Gregory is a close personal friend" she winks at her own such friend "of the man who owns the Katty Korner down on Chestnut Street, and---"
       "Oh don't tell me we're going there," she groans, sulking prettily and tossing her short hair. "It's terribly seedy, full of aging men who think they're still attractive, and---"
       "Do let me finish!" she giggles, playfully nipping at the other girl's wrist. "As I was about to explain, it's only that way during the daylight hours - allays suspicion, you see. After eight in the evening, it's a regular black-and-tan, with more bootlegged drink than even you and I could waste in a night, and the absolute hottest colored jazz band in town."
       Her face now betrays a genuine interest and a growing excitement. "How's the crowd? Not full of fresh-faced schoolboys, or aging bachelors looking for more than they're worth?"
       Smiling, she shakes her head. "Not at all, as swinging and cool as we could hope for, Greg has given me his word."
       "He's given you a lot more than that, I'd bet."
       "Hey now! You're no white-clad little schoolgirl yourself, doll."
       "I can if you want me to be," she purrs, her voice low and sultry, again leaning down close over the other woman's body.
       "Oh let me up already!" she laughs, squirming to free herself, trying to tug Marjorie off of her.
       "Do you promise to buy me a drink once we're there?" she teases, struggling against her.
       "Yes! Oh heavens, if that's what you want, of course!" Still laughing, she sits again as she is released. Patting down her hair, she straightens her hat, which had nearly fallen off several times. "But please, not the most expensive drink in the house this time? Really darling, I had to flatter and coax all night last time to get enough drinks, you spent half my money in one go."
       "But for higher quality, you must be willing to spend a little more, in women as well as liquor," she croons charmingly, batting her long lashes.
       "Of course, of course. Now do make yourself presentable for supper and let me do the same, for one of the other girls might suspect how delicious you are, seeing you all mussed like this, and want a bite." Smiling as she stands, she kisses her forehead lightly. "Come to my room after supper, and we'll pretty our faces up."

       It is well into the dark morning hours when she returns to her room. Her hair is rumpled, her carefully done make-up nearly worn away, her dress clearly having sustained a great deal of activity throughout the night. Her skin is slightly chilled and clammy, for though she had been driven home, her jacket had been lost or forgotten at some point in the revelries, and she had not enjoyed the company of the man who had finally brought her home so much that she would wish a second meeting in which to return a borrowed jacket. Oh, he had been fine enough for a bit of fun, but that was all she wanted from him, and no more.
       Sighing heavily, she closes the door and falls onto her bed still-clothed, too tired and worn to move. There had been alcohol in plenty as promised, but its affects have largely worn off by now, and the blazing energy the music and liquor and fellow Dionysian revelers had give her is gone, leaving her empty and drained.
       "A cigarette..." she murmurs, digging vaguely in her small purse. "God I need a cigarette..." With as little motion as possible, she finds her cigarette case and a book of matches, clumsily lighting one and putting it to her lips. She breathes slowly and deeply, this time not bothering to open a window, simply watching the smoke drift gently upwards to soak into the wall and ceiling. The night had gone as well as any other, in fact the band was the best she had heard in some time, and had hardly stopped for a minute. The man who had brought her home, after a private encounter in the back of his car, had been the most promising of a small handful of men who had sought her attention throughout the night, all of them plying her with drinks, compliments, and promising caresses in plenty. He had been satisfactory, once she had overcome his initial bits of confusion and uncertainty. Clearly, he was new to the idea of the modern woman, and seemed astonished by just how much she wanted. Of course, she knows her appetite is voracious, and he could not have known that... but he soon caught on. Tonight, she had driven him to greater exhaustion than she usually did her various lovers... yet though her body grew tired, the need within her refused to be silenced.
       Everything was just as it should have been tonight, yet it was not enough.
       But in the privacy of her own room and thoughts, she knows - it is never enough. She seeks out so much, yet even at the height of pleasure or intoxication or a dance, there is still an ache inside her, but sharper, harsher than that, a rage, a fire... A fire which never goes out, which she can never expel from inside her, every minute of every day it sears her. She does not know for how long it has gone on, or how much longer she can withstand it.
       She thinks back.
       She fights it with all she has, but she is too exhausted now, she knows when it began. Fiery tears flood her eyes, she chokes on smoke, feeling her chest breaking inside.
       "Why, Mama? Don't let him--- No Mama, don't leave me, don't let him hurt you, Mama I'm scared, Mama don't leave me! I hate you! Stay away from me, I hate you, you left me alone! I can't--- Why, Mama? Why can't you stop him? Why does he always--- I hate you! Stop, please---" Choking and sputtering, she sobs and cries helplessly, all the pain closed inside the thick walls she has made flooding her entire self, her chest aching and body shaking. Curling tightly, she hugs her knees to her chest, the forgotten cigarette pressed against her leg, burning a small hole in her stockings and scarring her skin, but she does not notice, the pain without is so much less than the one from within.
       And still, the flood of tears does not combat the fire which torments her soul. She feels her body weakened by the tears, but her soul still trapped by flesh, her body an inescapable vessel locking her spirit in with a destroying flame, eating away at everything it can, her heart and will reduced to mere fuel, nothing left to her to draw on for herself--- There is nothing left but the fire within, if she could only let it out--- Her body keeps it trapped within, if she could let it escape--- If there was a way out--- If she could just let it break through, it might leave her---
       Scrambling out of the bed, she nearly collapses onto the floor, her muscles exhausted and vision blinded by forgotten tears. Staggering, she clutches at the furniture, working her way over to the small desk placed beneath a window... The moon appears from behind a cloud, the room is cast in soothing blue light - which she cannot see, for all is red and black to her now. Reaching the desk, she falls to her knees, digging recklessly through a drawer, not caring what sound she makes in the sleep-silent house. The moonlight paints her skin with an eerie pallor, and her eyes seem dark and colorless, as the pair of shears she pulls from the desk reflect the light.
       Sitting ungracefully on the floor, disheveled and irrational, she opens the shears as wide as they will allow. She runs her thumb along the exposed blade, pressing the fragile flesh against the unyielding metal. A stinging jolt dances through her - blood gleams darkly in the faint light, and she smiles broadly. "If I just give it a way out," she mutters, her voice low and calm. "That's all I need to do..." She presses the blade against her arm, slicing the skin in a haphazard line, smiling as the blood is exposed to the chill night air. "If it has somewhere else to go, it will leave me alone... It must be tired of being trapped in such a small place, no wonder it was fighting so..." The shears cut into her other arm, then along one leg. Beaming, she is happier than she remembers ever having been. "It's working! you're free, leave me now, you have a way out..." She feels a twisting yet in her stomach, a slight tightening of the chest. "I guess my arms and legs are a little far to go, do you not know the way? Here..." She struggles out of her dress, not noticing the stains of her own blood which meld into the fabric. Turning the blade toward herself, she furrows her smooth brow as she applies more pressure, until she feels the cold metal pierce her sweating skin. She slides it down and smiles at the stinging dark line against her pale flesh. "There now... can you find your way now? I'm sorry I tried to ignore you so long... I didn't understand... you can go now... go now..."
       Dropping the scissors, she lays back on the cool wooden floorboards, the still-sharp lines across her body standing out sharply, glinting in the moonlight, their darkness slowly dripping to stain the light-colored wood. She closes her eyes, and smiles, at peace.

       The fire has, for a time, at last left her alone.