Die, My Love

by Penelope Fletcher

  Ugh, but is that not wrong, Lee? Twisted?

  What happens with this being will mean the end of my life, this much is clear, so why does excitement bubble my blood and make my heart roll over in my chest? Life? For him, I will risk it all if he takes me. What is my alternative? To sit and wait for a fairy tale Prince Charming who will never come? Who will choose the gorgeous blonde-haired woman with the great body, the perfect smile, and well-ordered intelligent inner thought process? While I, the dark haired and murky minded thing that I am, wait in the shadowed corner with my black rose, yearning for the Darkling Prince who came for me, and who I rejected? No! I am his. Utterly his. And the next time I will not let him get away until he commits to what we could share. I trust him. It’s past time he trusted me.

  Up I get and head for my bedroom. I belly flop onto the bed and lie there suffocating. Should I clean up? Wipe away the blood? I groan and roll from the centre of the bed to the edge so I can push under the duvet and tuck myself under it. I scrunch my legs up and try to ignore the throbbing between them. Maybe I should watch something to calm me down? Oh right, my television is totalled.

  I shift onto my back and kick the covers off, now unbearably hot. The movement gets me tangled up and I struggle to get free. I’m huffing by the time I’m done, and my leg is for some reason still tangled. I slip a hand down my heated skin and touch myself. This will help. I need sleep, and after I release I will drift off into dreamland.

  It’s morning and … no it’s not it is early afternoon. I pretty much fall out of bed, lethargic and numb faced. Pushing the flat of my palm to the hot side of my temple, I feel the lumpy edges of sheet marks. Perfect. It takes a full minute to understand why I’m not in my Wonder Woman pyjamas, and why my chest is covered in dry blood.

  Swaying sleepily into the sitting room, I stare at the busted television and overturned couch. I’m feeling somewhat sullen now. On the other hand, maybe disgruntled? I take in the broken bathroom door and the shattered shower cubicle beyond. I’ve moved onto nonplussed. Oh yeah! Right. Life changing experience, expensive damage, and the realization I’m a bigger freak than all freaks before me. It’s all coming back to me now in oversaturated Technicolor.

  I go over to the painting in the corner and glare at it for a few moments. Picking up my colour palette, I grab colours number eight, twelve, and three. Squeezing the oils onto my palette, I pick up a flat brush and dunk it in the cloudy, room temperature water to soften the bristles. I proceed to blend the oils and apply to the canvass. My hand flies; the colour dabs, swipes, and splashes onto the artwork I had amorously created when my mind was bent with longing. I wipe the back of my hand on my cheek, and feel an oil smear decorate my cheekbone, and coat a few strands of my hair. I’m used to it so I ignore it. Paint crusts my fingertips and drips onto the floor to get squished between my toes. My fingers cramp and burn, but I push on, pressing my lips together until they deaden.

  Why so worked up Lee? Why is your chest heaving? Listen to you heart fly; it beats fast like a hummingbirds wings. Does the harsh light of day make everything sick and reveal how depraved what you crave truly is?

  My body shakes and my eyes tear. I lift the brush from the canvas and clutch it to my chest, swinging my head back and forth.

  I–I think I am … afraid.

  No! Quit lying to yourself. It’s not that you are upset or scared, because if you were you would be throwing your arms around the holy church and calling a Priest. Look deeper, hmm? You still want him so badly you cannot think straight. That is your choice, so embrace the damnation. You want him to claim you!

  I throw my brush down and stagger back. I push hair off my face and let my palms rest on my hot cheeks. The picture is transformed. My hands still cover his heart, but they are blackened with death. He stares up at me, but now his lips are claret and drip blood. His eyes are bright gold and slitted. His beauty is seraphic and terrifying. I look down upon him with love in my expression… and my eyes! My eyes, they … they look like his!

  What are you doing, Lee? Is this what you really want? You see what he is and what this will mean for your soul! Why are you not running from it?

  Turning from the art, I clasp my hands over my head. My eyes scrunch shut as I drown myself out and after a minute my mind is blessedly quiet.

  Peace.

  “Tidy up,” I command myself, and that is what I do.

  I pull the chunk of wood from the couch and set it upright. I take down the television to stack it and the two pieces of wood by the front door. I sweep up the glass in the bathroom and wash down the spray of blood on the walls. I also hose myself down. I mop up and make a mental note to order a new shower cubicle, I’m pretty sure I can afford it. I’ll eat Pot Noodles for the rest of the month or something.

  Finished cleaning, I sit on my couch and check the time on my iPhone. Four o’clock. I open up Safari and check the screening times for the movie tonight. Eleven forty-five. Okay. I drop the phone onto the seat beside me and draw my legs up under me, ankles crossed. Crossing my arms around them, I lean my chin on my knees.

  Time to think, Lee.

  Chapter 3

  Reality Bites, Huh?

  I’m back at the cinema in my usual seat after doing everything I usually do. I bought my popcorn and Pepsi and I’m sitting in the middle seat in the middle row. But He is not here and the black and white lion is roaring on the screen. Nothing. I scan the rows again as my breathing speeds up.

  He is not going to show. Is he, Lee?

  Damn the man. He is stubborn and stupid, and if he were here I would tell him so. My eyes close briefly as my grip on the paper snack bag tightens. He would not dare disappear forever…. would he? Suddenly, I’m not certain and everything collapses into a void. Is it possible he heard my thoughts earlier? That he was able to experience the mind numbing panic and fear that had overcome me whilst I painted his true likeness. Oh, how that must have burned him. To hear me terrify myself over what he is and what his affection means.

  Yes, but think it through, Lee. If he did he would have also heard you condemn yourself, your very soul, to be with him.

  So … then he is not here for another reason … a selfless one?

  For the love of all that is holy, how could he consider doing this! I’ve no doubt that if he wants he can disappear for the rest of my life, vanish without a trace, and I will be left crazed with wanting and loneliness until the day it all gets too much and I fade away.

  My iPhone buzzes against my hip. I crack an eyelid as Marilyn’s platinum curls bounce onto the screen. The phone taps a dance on my hip again. Aha. Maybe he has my number? With a shaking hand, I take out the phone and slide the screen lock with my thumb. The slick screen lights up my face. A text message from Bethany. It eases the disappointment of it not being … oh, I don’t know, an unknown number that would send me his voice?

  Suitably pissed off, I ditch the snacks and leave the cinema, my eyes scanning every row as I go though I know it’s useless. If he’s here I would know it. Wouldn’t I? Well, when he came to my home I felt his presence, so it should be the same elsewhere.

  Outside it’s all ozone, crowded cobbled walkways, and overfilled pubs with names like Drummonds and O’Neil’s.

  I hail a black cab, one of the nice old ones that trundle, and slide in, mumbling the name of the nightclub Bethany instructs me to attend through the penny sized holes in the Plexiglas partition. The brash sounds of London Town are muted as I slide the door closed. It smells like stale coffee and vanilla air freshener. A nod of my cabbie’s purple turban, a click on the payment meter, and we are on our way.

  My knees knock together as I fist my hands in my pockets, and stare at my boots, wanting to cry at how miserable I feel.

  Wait, what was that Lee?

  I turn in the faux leather seat to peer out the half-moon back window. My breath catches, my heart soars, and suddenly everything is okay again. That figure in the shadows is Him. A smile curves the corner of my mouth when
said shadow darts from one corner of the street, past our cab, to wait in the corner at the end of the road. Joyous, I bite back a cry of happiness and settle back in my seat. This continues all the way to the club. He follows me, and I resist jumping out the door to throw myself at him.

  We arrive. The cab chugs stationary as I launch myself out the door like a rocket and breathlessly ask, “Receipt for ten, please?” The meter shows four pounds eighty-five, but that is how happy I am. I pay the man, all smiles, and good humour now. I bob my head to the small picture of a chubby baby tucked into his sun visor wishing him and his family good health before trotting away.

  At this point, I’m motivated to ignore the shadow at the end of the road. Not because I want to, but because I’m female, and I have to draw the line. I’m suddenly (and inexplicably) fuming walking from curb to club entrance. Possibly this anger is a delayed reaction from his inconsiderate behaviour earlier? Surely, he knew I would panic when he was not in his usual seat.

  I take no notice of the line of half-dressed sparkly people waiting to get in, and beam at the suited bouncer, all dimples, and windswept hair. Returning my smile with a nod, he unhooks the velvet rope jerking his bald head for me to enter. As I glide past he turns back round, his beefy chest puffing as he barks at the grumbling line to pipe down.

  Inside, I’m a tad disorientated and wary. I’ve not been here before and I’m sort of trying to blend into the flow of the crowd but not quite managing it. Bethany and I often hook up like this. She texts me at the height of her boredom, unable to sleep, and since it’s past midnight she’s probably drowning her sorrows. I head to the far left hand side of the monochrome bar that takes up the entire back wall, descending one of the two curved staircases, watching each step with a hawk eye. I have a pedantic ‘thing’ about navigating stairs. I always imagine myself taking an epic tumble down them as I walk up or down a flight. Phew. I’ve reached the bottom of the staircase sans face plant. Cool.

  This place is something else. It showcases trashy bohemian chic in what I suspect most British people expect the Moulin Rouge would’ve resembled. The walls are dark, (black?) and there is a lot of faux velvet, crimson drapes, and hoary fixtures. A glittery chandelier hangs low from the middle of the coffered ceiling, and at the back is a diminutive oval stage. Above, a gilded balcony winds its way around, so the kitschy pantomime chorus of cancan dancers above can coo to those down below.

  Bubblegum pink hair bobbing in time to the off-kilter beat, Bethany spots me, and wiggles her slender fingers in a girly wave. I briefly rub my hand on her arm which sparkles with pixie dust, and settle into an empty stool beside her.

  “Hey sweets,” I murmur in hello.

  “What in god’s name are you wearing?” she asks.

  Though my friend wears a hot pink sequined boob tube and leopard print jeans, I still look down at my plain black camisole and jeans, high-heeled boots, and Mac expecting something bizarre. I’d dressed to impress. I’d a thought earlier when I was getting ready that He would like this get up.

  “I went to the cinema,” I offer by way of an explanation.

  Groaning, she pauses, drink halfway to her pouted lips. “By yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  She slams the glass down. “I can’t believe you still do that shit. Do you know how creepy and depressing that is? Going to the movies by yourself?”

  I laugh. “Movies? When did you become American?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I shrug. “You already have.”

  She rolls her eyes as her cheeks gain colour. “So I have.” Bethany puts her drink down and her voice drops a few octaves, laughingly, “And what fun I had whilst doing it.”

  I chuckle uncontrollably… at so small a thing? No. Maybe it’s the fact I’ve realized why other men had held nothing more than a vague interest for me. “Oh, Beth!” I mock lament, both in reaction to her silliness and my own thoughts.

  She abruptly stops laughing. “I swear to god, I would kill for your voice. Each time you speak it’s like being ear fucked.”

  “Ear fucked,” I echo and wince. “No, thank you.”

  She pulls a cigarette from her sparkly clutch followed closely by a rhinestone decorated Zippo lighter. I frown disapprovingly. When did she start that again? The barman raps his knuckles on the bar between us and points to the No Smoking sign. Beth pouts, but tucks the offending item behind her ear. How unladylike. How Bethany.

  I look out into the crowd and freeze. What the…? Something potentially disturbing has caught my eye.

  “I’ll have another,” Bethany orders since she has the barman’s prized attention, and stabs her finger to her empty margarita glass whilst shooting a questioning look at me.

  “Gin and tonic,” I answer distractedly, my neck and torso stretching for a better look.

  I could have sworn I saw man with a head of thick, dark hair and a black trench coat push a girl into the bathroom. Am I going crazy? He wouldn’t do that … he would not do that. And there is more than one man in the world with a black trench coat. It could be– Ouch! A sharp pain on my thigh reveals itself as Bethany’s inch long black nails digging in.

  She peers at me then snorts, “You are going to fuck the next man who you make eye contact with.”

  Breathing in deeply, I take another sip of my G&T, keeping my face expressionless when what I really want to do is piss myself laughing, or burst into tears. Neither is appropriate and the former would only encourage her whilst the latter would make her want to hurt somebody. “No, I’m not,” I say eventually.

  “Why?” The word is thrown back at me with genuine puzzlement. I shoot her, my self-proclaimed pimp, a look over the rim of my glass. “Don’t you look at me like that, Lee. I am of the opinion you need a hard cock between your thighs before you turn twenty-five next week.” Bethany places a hand on her sparkling décolletage and her engagement ring nearly blinds me as it twinkles under the revolving lights overhead. “Besides, I feel this. It’s going to happen, get over it.”

  I blink slowly. Okay, if Bethany feels something it happens. But still, her delivery has not improved at all in the years I’ve been getting her to practice. “Do you have any idea how perverse you are? How poisonous your mouth is.”

  She’s not listening, but waving her hands in the air in an erratic fashion I’m sure she sees as persuasive or all knowing. “Your virginity is precious. And looking at it one way, it’s mine, but, looking at it another you still have it. And of the two of us, that makes me promiscuous. I kind of resent that.”

  I eye her. “Seriously? My god, Beth, you were That Girl in high school who believed spunk was, “Good for eyes and skin,” weren’t you?”

  “That hasn’t exactly been disproven now has it?” She bristles, and I know like the sky is blue that she really was That Girl, and I find that cute as hell. “It would make sense that something that helps make babies would be….” She trails off, and I have to admit I’m relieved, because nothing good could have come from her next words.

  Ah, why is she drooling? Stroke?

  I wave my hand in front of her face and that gets a reaction. She gathers herself and quirks an eyebrow. Intrigued as to what made her lose control over the deadliest muscle she possesses, I turn to where she stares.

  A tall man stands at the top of the stairs, returning my look without blinking. Our gazes lock and lightning bolts ricochet between us. The moment is broken when a nondescript woman staggers past, with a dazed expression, rubbing her neck and shooting him an awed look.

  My reaction is instant. My breath catches, like I suspect it will every time I see him after any length of time, and my heart thumps. I cross my legs at the pleasurable tingle spreading from the middle of my thighs, down the back of my legs, and into my calves.

  Lee, you mess, look sharp girl.

  Flushed, I continue to meet his gaze, and loudly say. “A hot guy who fucks sluts in nightclubs a companion for life does not make.” I know he can hear me, but as soon as I s
ay those words, I look down at my lap, blushing hotter the longer I feel his assessing gaze on me. Yeah, it was childish, and out of character, but I was jealous … just … really teeth grindingly jealous.

  Breathing in deep, I look back up, wanting to see him walk over.

  He’s nice to look at. So nice it becomes a hardship when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. It’s like looking into the midday sun. He compels me to watch him move closer and demands my attention stay focused. He walks and people move without noticing he fills the space they vacated for no apparent reason. Looking at him objectively – rather than the demented considerations I had bestowed upon him since I had first laid eyes on him – I’ve decided he is not attractive in the traditional sense. By today’s standards, he is extraordinarily plain, but there is something sensual he omits.

  Ah, yes, like a glowing orb of uranium. It’s intelligent to snuggle up to one of those, isn’t it, Lee?

  He stops in front of me, just shy of touching. My mouth opens and air comes out.

  Again? Use your big girl words, stupid!

  No, I’ve got nothing. I turn my face toward Bethany, because my eyes refuse to leave him, and I’m mildly embarrassed how obviously he’s ensnared me and robbed my ability to vocalise actual, you know, words. Interesting. Bethany stares straight through him. She bobs to the beat of the music, and sips her wine. He can really get into people’s heads, can’t he?

  I slip off the stool and onto my heels that make a strangely loud clack, clack when they hit the resin floor. I straighten and my chest brushes his. The brief contact is electric and too much too soon. I’m dizzy enough, thank you kindly. I lean my elbows on the bar behind me and shake my hair out, trying to think of something, anything, to ask that won’t scare him away. I don’t bother to yank the flimsy strap of my camisole back up over my shoulder; exposed since my coat hangs, leaving it bare. I’m too occupied with him to fuss with my clothes.