Die, My Love

by Penelope Fletcher

  Tea set aside, I unbutton my shirt and roll my head around on my shoulders. An hour of yoga will go a long way too; my shoulders ache from being so tense. Passing the sideboard, I plug my iPhone into a speaker dock and hit play.

  Stripping off, the clothes go on the floor to be dealt with later. Naked, I pad across my cream carpet, singing along with Lykke Li, and refuse to think about You Know Who as it would spoil this equilibrium I’ve forcibly pulled myself into.

  “Ouch!” Shit. I bend over and rub my foot. I really need to move that coffee table. That’s the fourth time this week I’ve stubbed my baby toe. Next time it might rip off. Ugh, imagining that makes my tummy feel funny.

  Down the hallway, I pass my bedroom and pause.

  Back it up, Lee.

  I roll back onto the heel of my foot and peek into the darkened room. I thought I saw a shadow twitch. No, the room is empty, and I shrug.

  In my tiny bathroom – white and blue tile, bathless, and warmed by the towel radiator – I turn the shower on and sort my teeth out.

  The glass surface of the cabinet above the sink fogs up, and as one hand does the rhythmic circular motion so my toothbrush can do its job, I draw love hearts into the steam; going all dreamy eyed and mushy as He floats into my mind’s eye again. The love hearts melt after a while, the water shifting from vapour to liquid and running down the glass. The hearts look deformed and evil now.

  Is that supposed to be ironic or predictive or something?

  Go away common sense, you don’t live here anymore, hadn’t you heard?

  I frown, spit, and clean out the ceramic bowl by giving it a quick gush of water from the tap. No, stupid! Now you have to wait for the shower to flash to cold then heat back up again. Ah well. I wait and watch myself in the mirror.

  My hair reaches the base of my neck, curving slightly into a rather charming bob. I hope. It’s streaked with shimmering shades of bronze; which I guess makes it more appealing. Totally natural too, and soft, even if it tangles a lot. I lean closer to the mirror and look down, my eyebrows lifting appreciatively. My boobs are good: not exactly small. I can’t apply for the Guinness Book of Records or anything, but a man can grab ‘em and have some left over to deal with. My stomach is not flat. God knows I’ve tried to get it washboard, but my physiology was designed padded not iron railed. Who said size zero was ideal anyway? My stomach is pudgy above and below my bellybutton. I suck it in and turn to the side. Better. I exhale and the lines get wavy again. My butt is all right: bouncy and round. My legs are solid; they can bear my weight and look mighty fine in jeans. My shoulders and hips are broad but they even each other out nicely. I have what is called a homely figure … or is it childbearing? I have a pale splotch on my jaw, which my mother says is a birthmark. It’s not scary or anything, but … distracting. It takes away from my features; which are plain, but flow nicely and will age well. I’ll not get all jowly and wrinkly, I do not think. Ah, whatever. I’m no supermodel, but I’m okay with my reflection.

  I open the cloudy shower cubicle and stick my hand in bravely. The water is just right. Oooh. I lather up with some soap on my sponge and give myself a good scrub. I work up a sweat, which makes me laugh.

  I’m naked and immersed in steam; it’s not the moment I expect my senses to tingle. So why are they?

  I place my palms on the wall in front of me to watch as the hairs on my arms rise. I consider what to do about the presence I’m feeling behind me. Run? Okay, where to, the other cubicle wall? Turn around and attack? With what? My tiny fists of fury? Logically, my only weapons are soap and a wet sponge. I guess soap in the eye stings quite bad….

  Well, standing all sudsy doing nothing is not going to get you anywhere anytime soon is it, Lee?

  Sucking it up I rinse off, turn, and open my eyes. The adrenaline makes me feel each eyelash unpeel as my wet lids blink open. Water runs into my mouth and off my chin. I rub my lips together liking the slippery feel.

  I am not alone.

  Panic and disbelief want to render me hysterical, but my emotional palate will not quite get there. I am too excited, thrilled, and relieved, to be perfectly honest. It was not my imagination.

  He stands on the other side of the room frowning at me.

  Huh. Why the frown? What did I do? Um, but wait. This is my house, my bathroom. I’m Queen here, so why do I think I’ve done something wrong? I need my head checked. Such a low level of self-esteem cannot be healthy.

  He eyes me contemplatively then walks forward until he stands like a stone gargoyle outside the glass partition.

  My heart kicks too hard before plummeting to a crazy slow thump. I wait, all too ready to clasp my hands over my mouth, but no scream is building in my chest. A silent scream? No … still nothing. Under the spray of water, a question is poised on my lips but can I bring myself to voice it? Oh, I really need to do something about my loss of words when he is around.

  My misanthrope gargoyle comes to life and opens the glass. Cool air rushes in and my skin goose pimples. The hairs on the back of my neck mimic those on my arms, and I must look like a porcupine to what must be his finer eyesight. He steps into the shower cubicle and I step back to give him room.

  Anytime now, Lee. That scream needs to happen right now.

  He slides the door closed and takes another step. I see how confused he is and this makes me nervous. If he’s confused, what the hell am I supposed to be? Petrified? Befuddled? I take another unsure step back and struggle not to smile. Smile? What on earth? I jolt when the curve of my butt meets ceramic tile and I slap a palm on his chest. Halt, darkling prince. The warm water pours over him, drenching his heavy dark hair. He sighs and turns his face up into the spray. This does things … uncomfortable and hot things to my insides.

  This feels …wrong? Christ no, it feels too right. I will survive this.

  My fingers curl into his shirt, now wet and clinging to his body in saturated crinkles of fabric. I’m feeling awfully possessive right about now. I let my hands slide down, inside his trench coat, and tug the hem out of his soaking jeans. He stills and his head gradually tilts down so he can stare at me questioningly. I press my fingers into the skin of his waist, playful, but stare back stoically. I can send mixed signals too. Bending to rest his forehead to mine, his dark eyes remain open and aware, wary of me.

  I take a deep breath in. I’m trapped. I can’t get out and I’m not afraid to say I don’t want to. His arms bracket me, our bodies are now flush, and I like it, being surrounded. The length of him is firm, deliciously weighty, but so cold. I shiver. Wrapping my arms around him fully, I rub his upper back in small circles, and each muscle I caress is tight with tension. My fingers rhythmically slither down with the water and back up again. I soothe and comfort until he relaxes, and his skin warms under my palms as we stand in the plumes of steam. We are both so still. Am I a gargoyle now too? His flesh soaks up the heat until it becomes comfortable to hold him; so I do, tighter, snuggling my entire body close. This movement breaks the trance and he shudders, grazing his lips across my temple.

  Again, a whisper across my ears; something I want to hear, but am unable to. He should touch me, I think desperately.

  Look! He is motionless, as if he heard your silent plea.

  Can he hear inside my head? Wait, after everything, this surprises me?

  He eases away and regards my face for a beat; then longer as if surprised one is not long enough to reach the answer he needs. Never have I seen such ancient wisdom in the gaze of one so young. Yes, in his gaze, not his eyes. Those orbs are unfathomable and too dark to decipher. His gaze holds his knowledge; and it’s heavy, a manifestation of the power he wields.

  He reaches around me to turn the shower off. The drain gurgles and I wiggle my toes in the last of the bubbly foam. Water drips off my nose and dribbles down the curve of my spine in a lingering tickle. He brushes a lock of hair off my face and curls it around my ear. I don’t flinch, and why would I at such a tender show of his affection? I lean into hi
m, and watch his pupils dilate, flux, then contract sharply into slits.

  Another whisper, this time I hear it. ‘I am not like you.’ He is the whisper. His voice is like darkness, like silk. It’s rich, melted chocolate smoothly coating a coarse surface. I smile. Never have I heard its likeness.

  My reply to his concern of his dissimilarity is … so? He is not like me? Well, I had come to that conclusion the moment I saw him. I already know he is not human, remember? But I do need him to show me what he is exactly.

  My arms are around him so it proves simple to ease my fingers past the waist of his jeans, and let the tips of my nails scrape across the bands of muscle they find. He growls. A low, deep rumble that passes from his chest to mine. My heart kicks and my nipples harden. If the threatening look that accompanied that growl was meant as a warning, it’s going unheeded. Why would I stop this sweet torture?

  I kiss his neck and breathe in. He smells lovely – like saltwater and wildflowers. I press another kiss to his smooth jaw; oh, and I sigh, because it was better than the first. There is a crack and the sound of glass splitting. Was that the ice around his heart? Unconcerned, I glance at his hands where they rest on the wall either side of my hips. Dagger-like fractures fan out in the blue ceramic tiles from where his fingers push. I quirk an eyebrow, dismiss the damage, and continue my tender assault. I kiss the soft plane of his cheek and skim another on the edge of his mouth.

  ‘A kiss is harmless…?’

  Was that thought mine? It was so faint I couldn’t decide if it had tumbled from my consciousness or his. No, not mine, because it had been a question. I’m certain about what I’m going to do. I’m going to kiss his mouth, and discover if it’s as lush as it looks. Then glide the tip of my tongue against his, taking more if he responds. It damn well will not be harmless. In fact he may fill my world up and I may destroy he balance of his.

  I move to claim his lips, but he turns his head, jaw clenching. Tisk! This does not faze me, darling; I’m a woman on a mission. I firmly grab his head, threading my fingers into his dark hair, and the move is a momentary distraction that makes me pause. His wet locks are plush, thick. The glossy strands threaten to slip through my fingers like liquid. He jerks back to me in surprise and I flash a predatory smile. Rolling smoothly onto my toes, I push myself forward and slant my mouth over his. One of my thighs hooks low around his hip, and I dig my heel into the back of his knee. He does not stumble from the move, but he pushes back into me, pinning me against the wall so both my legs lift and lock around his waist.

  He kisses me like he’s dying. He kisses me like he’s known me for an eternity. Heaven. I feel everything in this embrace. I absorb everything he is, and everything he feels, as his lips dance over mine, ardent, brutal. His hands still do not touch me, but he presses even closer. I feel like I will disappear, consumed, and I like the burn. There is nothing between us but raw emotion, and it’s painful, yet has the sweet sting of addiction. I inhale a gasp and my back arches when he kisses my throat. My eyelids flutter as my fists release their death grip on his hair to clasp his shoulders and dig in.

  Sharp points graze my neck. It feels amazing, and I squirm.

  Oh! Finally, he has touched me with one of his hands, fingers splayed on my stomach in a possessive clutch. Somehow this means more, this intimate touch. I feel it in the lines of his body. They have softened and it’s less like he ravishes me, and more like he loves me.

  A deadlier pain accompanies a rhythmic tugging from deep within my chest. The coherent part of me is bowled over that the sensation is bold enough to make itself known over my pleasure. Head flung back, I groan at the sound of his lustful sucking. Why does that sound so good? I wiggle, bait on a hook, and everything is too much. My lips part to cry out, no, to insanely demand more, but he snarls. It’s a deranged hissing at the back of his throat and I go rigid from shock.

  I have but a moment to think of what could be wrong before the pressure of his body holding me to the wall is abruptly gone. Cold air rushes over my shoulders and under my legs the exact moment a thunderous collision and tortured yell vibrate so loudly in my ears. I shriek. Forces of momentum shift from stagnant to dynamic too quickly and the pressure bottoms out. The cubicle becomes a vacuum a moment before the glass shatters and erupts like a volcano. Water explodes from the bottom of the shower like a tsunami. Water? Where did it–

  My ass hits the floor, hard, and I sprawl out. My skin squeaks against the tiles, and I bash the back of my head so hard my skull vibrates like a tuning fork. Oh god, instant double vision and nausea. My nose twitches at an unexpected smell. Sniff. Is that smoke? Why can I smell smoke in a wet room? Are the air and water molecules rubbing together too fast or something? Wide-eyed, blinking away the second screen that has come over them, I shift and hear the tinkle of broken glass. I stare at it under my legs, confused as to why I lie on a bed of splinters. Gah! The four walls of the shower cubicle are obliterated. The high-pitched squeal making me wince increases sharply and my ears pop. I clutch my head to rub them violently.

  The bathroom door hangs limp on its hinges, the wood ripped and torn in half. Solid wood does not bend that way. At least, it’s not supposed to. Shards have embedded in the back of the living room couch, which is turned over at a haphazard angle. Holy mother! A larger piece of the door sticks out of my flat screen on the far wall.

  I scramble up, ignoring the glass shards that slither into the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. Shoving the destroyed door out of my way, I dash into the hallway still dripping wet. My front door swings open. At least he’s not smashed that one to pieces. Dark, oddly spaced imprints of his wet shoes are left on the cream carpet and this makes me absurdly angry. Marching down the hallway, I slam the door closed and my chest heaves in furious undulations. Damn the man to hell! Huffing my disbelief, I press my back into the wood and push a shaking hand through my hair.

  Please, god, don’t let that ruckus have woken Ms Chang, my neighbour.

  Something bright and primitive in the disparity of its surroundings catches my eye. In fact, I’m surprised I focus on anything at all so profound is my distress. I stare at the bloody handprint on the wall, half smudged as if the person had left it by accident rushing to get away.

  Slowly, with trepidation, I drop my chin to my chest. The damp skin on my breast and stomach are covered in red. There, just on the swell, twin punctures weep blood. My hands shake as I slide a palm over the vivid colour to see if it’s real. There is so much and it’s everywhere. I’m not dripping water, but my own blood.

  Lee, are you going to pass out now?

  I feel woozy, and I reach out to hold onto something, but end up swiping the air in panic. The world cants to a funny angle and I collapse. Trying valiantly to keep it together, I breathe in deeply, and release the breath with my lips puckered into a circle, my cheeks puffing out. I repeat the calming process even as bile floods my mouth. My already unhappy ears buzz, my vision tunnels, and the back of my nose blocks and burns. I’m making odd choking noises because of this ghastly sensory complaint.

  Ugh, I don’t like this cotton-wool-in-the-brain feeling. I fight the queasiness and fright until my breaths are no longer panicked gasps.

  When I finally regulate my breathing, I peel back the mental band-aid on what’s causing my distress. Oh, the sickest thing? I’m not frightened by what happened between us. Seeing the punctures on my skin impressed the reality of the danger I insist on flirting with, and my body – biologically hardwired with this debilitating reaction – started to shut down, but the emotional stress originates from the knowledge I don’t care what he is. In the prism that is my emotional range, there is no anxiety over what he is.

  He has not hurt me, and now, I truly believe he couldn’t hurt me because he feels as deeply for me as I do him. If not why did he come here tonight?

  To kill you Lee!

  Oh, yes, well in retrospect I think that is the truth. He came to end me.

  Then why am I still brea
thing, thinking, and yearning for him? Was that why he left: my need for him? Did I scare the monster? He had shot away like a bullet considering the destruction he’d left behind. I wish he had stayed to see how I feel about it all. All I remember is intense, overwhelmingly pleasurable sensations radiating from the bite, shimmying down my torso straight to my … ahem. His feeding created small fireworks behind my eyelids, sparks of electricity across my skin. Is that what his bite does? My eyes tear up, and I blink, refusing to cry. Had he continued suckling me I would have come apart in his arms, screamed in bliss. Yes, possibly that is hardwired into me too, a response of pleasure in the face of pain.

  I am not like you.

  No, darling, you sure as hell are not like me. Nobody has ever made me feel the way you have. Surely, you should have felt this or gleaned this from my thoughts.

  Oh, Lee, how deep into the rabbit hole you have fallen. You’re worse than Alice.

  Honestly, with a look, he got me hot, and when he had touched me…. I press the back of my hand to my forehead, and flush. After the first time I saw him I’d continued to go back to the cinema to watch him pretend to watch the films. I know he wanted to come and talk to me, but I was unsure why he never did. Wishful thinking on my part? No, he wanted to … I think. So with me being, well me, I had persisted: stubborn and unable to give up. He would at least look directly at me rather than from the corner of his eye as he ran away before I could catch up to him. He had left before the end credits tonight, and I thought I finally had a chance to talk to him. Yeah, he evaded me, but my plan had been to simply try again tomorrow night. Hey, I figured I had all the time in the world, but this time he’d followed me home. Somehow he’d managed to enter my house. He’d watched me in the shower. He liked to watch. Oh, damn. I press my legs together and whimper, cupping a hand over my mouth so I do not have to hear myself react as well as feel it.

  If anyone else pulled that shit I would’ve screamed blue murder. I would have gone at them with my nails and not stopped until they were a bloody mess at my feet. Then I would have gotten the cricket bat hidden under my bed and spent a few minutes feeling guilty about not feeling guilt as I beat the crap out of the intruder whilst waiting for the police to arrive. But Him? He is allowed to watch me and do anything to me his dark mind can envision, always will be.