The End

by Charlotte E Hart

  We keep moving, the music becoming less raucous as we weave our way through more people towards a corner at the back, until we eventually reach an anti-room of some kind. It’s full of people milling around, leather seats and long couches dotted around, barely clothed women lounging on them in their state of disarray. He walks over to one girl, who’s about passed out on one of them, and turns to hand me our drinks before lifting her and moving her somewhere else.

  “Wasted,” he says, gruffly, the beginnings of a snarl directed at her prone body as if it disgusts him, his hand brushing the seat off for me. It amuses me more given the cupboard we’ve all just been in, our own minds near as wasted as that poor girl. “Sit.” Oh, harsh.

  “That sounded like your brother, too,” I say, as I find my way into the area and take a seat.

  “I’m nothing like my brother, which I’m sure you know all about,” he says, reaching for his drink in my hand and smiling again as he takes it.

  “True,” I reply, as he sits next to me. “You look nothing like him either.”

  “No, we never did.” I don’t doubt it. They’re so different, both in looks and nature.

  “So, what are we talking about?” I’ve no idea really. I can’t even process how one starts a conversation about Blaine, or even if I should in reality. It seems rude in some ways. Uncouth.

  “How is he?”

  “What? He’s your brother. Wouldn’t you know?”

  “I don’t know anything about my brother anymore. I just worry about him.” The admittance makes my brows rise, wondering why. “He’s been distant for a long time now. Changed from who he used to be. I don’t know what happened between us. You’re the first woman he’s shown any interest in for well over a year or so. I just thought you might know how he is.”

  “He’s okay,” I reply, quietly. Assuming that what I know is as okay as Blaine ever is. Although, how would I know? He’s the only version of him I’ve ever known.

  “Is he? Really?” Cole seems genuinely concerned as he asks the question. Probing, as if I should understand everything he doesn’t. But I don’t know the answer to that question, and I also don’t know how much I can say to him about anything anyway.

  “The last time I saw him, which was yesterday, he was fine, Cole. Just Blaine. Normal.”

  “Hardly normal.” I smirk at that, bizarrely happy about the fact that he is in no way normal, and neither am I now by the looks of my behaviour ten minutes ago.

  “He’s normal to me, Cole. It’s the only way I’ve ever known him.”

  He fidgets about and smiles, a slight frown descending as he thinks about something for a few minutes. I just sip my drink and stare off into the crowd again, smiling at all the exhausted bodies lying around, wondering if they’ve all fucked themselves stupid tonight.

  “He never used to be like that, you know? He was larger than life.” I turn to look back at him, intrigued with whatever’s coming next. “He used to play tag in the gardens with me, show me how to do stuff. He was a great big brother. Fun.” Fun?

  I snort out, drink spluttering from my nose, trying to fathom a picture of Blaine being anything close to fun. I don’t know what to say to that. I just gaze at him as he flops back on the sofa, his head lolling back as if he’s tired of everything, certainly this place and what it has to offer. I smile at the move, wondering when men like Cole grow up and find a family, for some reason knowing that Blaine will find this type of lifestyle completely unsuitable. Although, it’s not like Blaine’s exactly settled down is it? Christ, the man can’t even say I love you successfully. “But it started changing in college, and then conversation stopped completely about a year or so ago. I tried, but he wasn’t interested in talking at all. Still isn’t. Do you know what happened?”

  My eyes widen at the directness levelled at me, his face a sudden mask of his brother, pushing for answers I absolutely will not give him regarding dead women. I pull in a breath and twiddle my straw around in my drink, unsure how to avoid the topic if I want more information myself.

  “Why would I know anything, Cole? I’m just writing a book. He’s teaching me. That’s all. Giving me information about his lifestyle. It’s just research. I wish I could help, but I can’t.” Won’t. I won’t. Not at the moment, anyway.

  He nods and stares back into the room again, a look of acceptance all over his features as he flops back again and gazes at the ceiling. It is annoying, though, now I’m thinking about it. Perhaps Blaine should give his brother more than nothing. At least something. Guidance maybe. Help. That’s what families are for, aren’t they? Support. Happiness. A sense of home to run to when you need it most. It’s what mine is for, anyway. Perhaps if he did then he wouldn’t seem so alone.

  “I don’t even know your name. Lana, isn’t it?” He turns his head towards me again, his hand signalling a bartender, who’s walking about collecting drinks, and ordering two more drinks. She disappears off again, grinning gleefully at the wink he gives her. “He wouldn’t tell me that either. He’s so fucking secretive about everything, don’t you think? Never lets anyone in.”

  I laugh, snorting my drink out again and trying to regain composure as I lever my jacket off and settle in for a long discussion about the man I still damn well love. Fuck it all. Regardless of whether we stay together or not, Blaine needs his brother in his life. He does. It’s the only family he’s got left. And from what I’ve seen of Cole so far, a little lightening up would do Blaine the world of good. Chill him out. Make him laugh on occasion. Relax. Be happy.

  This is a conversation that’s happening, minus the dead woman part.

  Chapter 15

  Blaine

  T he wind whistles through the trees lining the avenue as I gaze around the desolate place and keep walking on. It’s getting cold now, late autumn air bringing a sense of the winter coming at me. I barely feel it, though. Not here. I’ve got no right to feel anything here other than guilt and remorse, something that settles deeper with each footfall towards her. I can still sense her in my fingers, the taste of her as prevalent in my mouth as it always is when I’m here. It’s the same every time I come, some resonance of hatred guiding me into her, hoping for forgiveness maybe.

  I weave the stones as I scrunch up my sleeves, not caring for any other corpse beneath my feet as I trample them. There’s only one soul in here I’m bothered about, only one I need to talk to again. She won’t answer. She never does. I made sure of that by putting her here in the first place, but she does help me see clearly on occasion, giving me some form of clarity between my wants and needs. She stops the inclination to decimate, reminds me what happens when I let the sensation roam free.

  Scanning around again in the low moonlight, I consider how many of these deaths were natural or forced, not that it matters. I’m one of those killers, though. I took life. Played with it and mocked it. Treated it like my own private adventure into the sordid and disgraceful. She’s here, six feet under because of me. I still don’t know what I hope to achieve with these roses in my hand, but I bring them each time I come. Blood red, their thorns still on. It seems laughable to remove them given her desire for the pain I applied to her skin, the same pain she begged for. As if removing the spikes would inhibit her progression to the afterlife, making the place too soft for her to land comfortably.

  I half chuckle at the thought as I walk past the tombs littered with angels weeping, their hands offering prayers to some god or other. Fuck gods. Gods wouldn’t have made me this way. They wouldn’t have let these internal beings inside me build to uncontainable levels, wouldn’t have allowed their progression to fruition, let alone excelled their final decadent abandon. Gods and demons exist here. Right here on this planet. They exist in the money makers and charitable ventures. They reside in the human condition to behave and conform to other’s wishes, not least shown by the exhibition of monetary gain from those charitable ventures. Pockets lined with corrupt earnings. People starving while kings sit on thrones, their crowns sl
anted at jaunty angles to show their disposition as unmovable or unaffected by the poor.

  The thought makes me growl, uncomfortable with my family’s association. Perhaps I would have been a better politician than a psychologist. Perhaps I should have followed in mother’s footsteps rather than Cole, made a difference to this fucking planet by bullying and charming, rather than attempting to help and guide. I could have used this inside me then, forced compliance in other ways, controlled it.

  The thoughts continue as I get closer, some semblance of order trying to pull together both Eloise and Alana in my mind, complete the jigsaw I created with that smashed vase. One’s nothing but flesh and skin, the other a torrid mixture of feelings and emotions to challenge what I believed empty and unreachable. It causes a sickening sensation to rise in waves as the grey marbled slab comes into view, remorse for my wants etching home to rival the sense of love she calls for. I do want it for her, though. I want it enough to stand this sickness inside, weather it forever should she choose to stay now she knows it all. But I want her to come here first, to stand in this place and lay her hands on what lies beneath the slab. She will need that to understand what she’s involved in. She needs to feel the cold of this grave and comprehend its meaning to her body in my hands. I won’t lie, nor hide this from her any longer because love, a life with me, will forever hold this possibility for her.

  I stop as the grass shortens and gaze at the long slab of marble, tracing the edges of it like I’ve done hundreds of times before. It’s as barren of Eloise as my heart is of her. Nothing more than a façade above her, which encases her bones. The similarity forces a chuckle through my lips, remembering her arms around me at night, her head on my chest, hoping for something she would never have. She holds more of my respect and acceptance because of her position now than she ever would have found in life. She was a body. A toy. A plaything to dabble in and test myself on. And now she’s a corpse because of that arrogant escapism of mine, one left to putrefy with the decadence of the moment.

  I lower and start clearing the area, my hands brushing the leaves away as I put the fresh roses to the side. For what it’s worth, it seems necessary to clean her. I always do, perhaps hoping to cleanse myself in some way of the sin. I never did in life. Never once did I bathe her or offer support for the wounds I caused. I amused myself with her pain, languished in the look of her as she winced every step she took towards the sea. And then I made her take more, my fingers focusing in on the areas that already hurt the most, pressing for more of her agony so I could celebrate their sound.

  They come back to me as I keep swiping away the dirt, the tone of them so different to Alana’s. They were juvenile in comparison to the ones she honours me with. Simple, like a child’s weeping, tantrum even. Long continued howls, all the time filled with tears and pleas for help. I didn’t help. Wouldn’t. Helping her like I should have done would have meant releasing her back into society, using my mind to guide her. It’s what my professor should have done, what my monster refused to do, and what my magician amused himself with.

  He came from her. Learned his craft through her petulance and irrational behaviour. No one teaches that in school. No one shows a sadist how to manipulate or weave his web effectively, the beginnings already coming from schoolyard pranks and jokes. We learn it through trial and error after those, influencing our decisions based on the best outcome for our cocks’ wayward endeavours. We smile when the pain lands, laugh when the weeping continues, become more aroused as the screams come. We fuck raw and hope that it hurts like hell, not caring for the eventuality of breaking the very thing we’re fucking into. Our minds, my mind, wants the inevitable ending. It claws for the humiliation and continued cries of agony. Fucked as that might be, it’s what I am, what this fucking monster needs feeding with.

  The brushing carries on until I’m satisfied with the effect. It’s not clean, more swiped and prodded, a near dormant possession of her forcing my perverse reaction to touching the slab, remembering her. There’s still a vibration here, a tingling under my hands. It makes me look at them and stare at the dirt, its smudged countenance now visual rather than hidden like it normally is. It shines Alana back at me, her inked, smaller hands fitting perfectly into mine, her smile radiating through that touch somehow.

  “I’m in love,” I say quietly, perhaps hoping she’ll hear it from six feet down, tell me what to do. I am. Deeply in love. I’m as lost in Alana as Eloise was in me.

  She doesn’t answer, and even if she did, she’d be jealous, petulant. She’d sulk, make me chain her up and beat her for her reaction. It makes me rub my fingers together, trying to feel her in my hold and gauge that thought, wonder if it’s something I still need from Alana. “What should I do?”

  I don’t fucking know why I’m asking that. Some need for approval maybe, some guide to tell me moving forward into this is acceptable. Delaney would say it is, that I should just let myself go, let Alana take whatever I give and see how that works out. Cole would push me into families and children, tell me that will make me happy. It won’t. I know that much. I’m not interested in paternal longings or sentiments of containment for the children’s sake. Marriage be damned. I just want my beach and her on it, purple fucking stripes and ink stained hands forever washing into the ocean in front of her. I want skin I can bruise, arms that can wrap around me when I chose to have them there, and a life free of doubt and accusation. My mind wants to be clear, accepted. Allowed as moral in some fucked up way, honourable. I want those dates and my aggressive thoughts blending, finding their own equilibrium with no one to condemn or judge. For once, and because of her, I want all the things the average human appears to want.

  I stand up after fuck knows how long, not sure if I want to walk away or sit on this slab and ponder life’s merits for more of my time. Part of me wants to leave, get to Alana and show her I am capable of her request. Another wants to bed in here. Lie on top of Eloise and let the winter coming freeze me to this spot. Let myself die on her tomb and watch as the birds above fly free. Let Alana do the same with them. Without me.

  I look up, searching for birds in the night sky, hoping to see their path, show me mine. Nothing is there. It’s empty but for a few dull clouds drifting across the moon, one that’s descending slowly into the ground the longer I’m here. I smile at it, some visage of understanding because of its emptiness. For all the mental turmoil this place gives me, it does provide a sense of companionship still. Always has. It’s the very reason I banned myself from it, hoping to tame this monster of mine back into its fucking casing. Force it away rather than have this place remind me of his wrath. There’s a hope here, a warmth, a memory of someone who knew how to allow me on them and welcomed that sensation. She loved me for it, gave me her heart because of it.

  Stupid girl.

  I turn, annoyed with the thought of her corpse suddenly and irritated at my feelings of sadness, and snatch my last set of dead roses from the top of the headstone. I should leave. Let this go and move on. Move on from Alana. Move on from Eloise. I should just continue to exist without either of them, relax within that and let my monster quieten again. Be bored again.

  It’s an infuriating thought, rendering my heart as dreary as it was before the little madam arrived and woke the fucking thing up.

  “Chase me, Sir.”

  My smile grows wider as the dead roses rustle in my grip, the dried up petals crunching between my fingers. The thought encourages more sneers to come from me, remembering her skin in my fingers as I begin scrunching them to feel their texture. They crumble, just like she did, the petals and leaves disintegrating onto the slab below. I watch them scatter, their fall some reproduction of her tears as the wind blows them away. She took it all from my young monster. She pleaded and begged as the blood ran across her skin, bellowed her screams of pain into the night. She wept and choked, gagged. Every sordid capability I could think of, she ventured into without care to her safety. Pretty skirts and tanned legs, the bruises co
vered with make-up each day to avoid gossip in the classroom. And she fucking teased me all day in there. Batting lashes, licking lips. She pushed and goaded me, knowing what would come in the evening when I got her home.

  I can remember the sound of her skin splitting even now, as if it’s still here with me. She’d taunted me with a guy in class, showed me that she could leave me if she chose to. She couldn’t, and the resulting night brought more pain than she’d ever taken before.

  Flesh tore exquisitely, the slash of it as enticing to my eardrums as the fresh scent of blood that came from the gash. Pretty knives, serrated blades. Blood that drips and pours. Screams that resonate. The dull thud of flesh once it stops struggling in my grip. The silent pleas for less, more. Fists full of torture, and a mind full of countless possibilities, all because of her disobedience. She brought that out of me, gave me that avenue to play in, toy with. It was the first time my magician got involved with my monster. The first time all of me worked as one. And the first time she nearly ended up under this slab.

  The image of Alana clouds my mind as I finally turn from the grave again, my feet trying to find the route away from temptation. Sick and twisted. A sadist in love with no ability to veil the once adored route forward. Life has become a never ending riddle of complications and challenges, puzzling me rather than the once simplistic view I coveted. I’m tainted with hopes and dreams now because of her. Fucking writers of stories, their resonance rubbing off on me somehow, willing me into happy ever afters I do not deserve nor believe in. This story will have nothing but a black cover and words written in fountains of crimson blood, her blood.

  I wander after that, barely knowing where I’m going nor giving a fuck. Around this graveyard is probably the best place for me, continuing to lull in my maudlin thoughts until some correct path booms inside of me. Clarification is what I need. Factual insight. A case study that denotes evidence and preferential parenthesis, dependent on the subject matter at hand. Time spent analysing and evaluating the present acute data. Fucking feelings have no connotation of representative facts here. Feelings muddy waters. They lift too much dirt from the floor, saturating facts with inconvenience and counter-productive attributes.