Necrophilia

Erik sank down beside his wife and held her head in his arms. Tenderly, he covered her parted lips with his mouth and caressed the soft crease of her eyelids. His kissed the cool tip of her upturned nose, her temples, and her pale forehead. He swept her golden hair aside and lingered his hands upon her neck as he sighed. As the strands slowly slipped through his fingers, he held her tightly in his embrace for a very long time.

He shouldn't have let her out alone. His fine china vase, cracked as she might have been, was never meant to leave the cupboard. But he had been so overjoyed after their wedding that he had forgotten to worry. She had smiled at him and kissed him sweetly before he helped her into the boat. As she rowed, she had turned her head over her shoulder, in a coquettish manner and mouthed goodbye. He had smiled back. He had retired to his room to wait for her return.

Erik had dressed himself many times before. But tonight was different—tonight they were married, and she was his wife. There was no more third party to interfere, and it had been her choice! He could not have stood in front of the mirror long enough, staring at himself. The eyes which looked back were unrecognizable. They smiled. The light in them danced, rejoicing! Truly, he could never imagine her leaving his side again.

This was the day! Tonight was his victory!

Now, as she lay cold in his arms, poor Erik could think of nothing but how he had been cheated out of his right. He had believed Christine was the Helen to his Menelaos but even the King had his wedding night. No. Christine was not Helen, and she did not want run away. She loved her King in a way Helen never would, and she promised to stay "till death do they part." Not yet, the corpse wept, not yet, Christine.

Lowering his mouth to the blue vein of her neck, he let his lips kissed the small mounds of her teacup breasts. He called her name into her soft stomach as his skeleton claws grasped onto her small hips. He took her, almost without a morsel of regret. "Do not fear me, Christine. It is Erik who cares for you, even in death." She felt cold inside, but her muscles were loosened, and Erik took her simply. She would have wanted. She would have agreed. Closing his eyes, he saw her come to life.

The boat rocked to the rhythm of their bodies. Her hands crept to his shoulders, and she squeezed them mercifully with her fingers. Her lips tremble, and she cries "My husband!" as she realizes that it was not an attacker who loved her but a lover who attacked her. Splendid Christine; she was not frightened. Alas! It was Erik who loved her! Delighted, she relished in his godly voice, so inhumane and sad, even while he clutched her in his embrace. Her eyes flew open as their rhythm quickened, and she dug her nails into the back of his skull. A gush of warm wetness overcomes her hands, and her nostrils picked up a metallic stench.

Erik sighed and laid Christine back down onto the hard wood. He dressed her, unable to retain his composure. His imagination was an odd instrument. He closed her open eyes with his quaking hand. Gently, he dressed his bride, and combed out the unruly pieces of hair on her head. Her face was still rosy, even in death. Erik lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed her fingertips.

A metallic stench overcame him.

He sat up and looked down at her in horror. Fresh blood had entrenched her fingernails. A sting pricked the back of his head, and Erik reached for his skull.

Perhaps he had not been cheated after all.