Author's note:
This story contains violence and sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
The world revives
Colors renew
But I know blue, only blue
Lonely blue
Within me blue
Without you
The mind churns
The heart yearns
Life goes on but I'm gone
'Cause I die without you
"Without You"
from RENT by Jonathan Larson
My love is gone. Dead. The last image I have is her lying on a cold slab, half of her beautiful face a mangled ruin. Gone is the light that danced in her kind eyes and the whisper of her sweet voice. There is only darkness and silence now. Never again will I hold her lithe body in my arms. She is committed to the earth, only to be held by the dirt and worms. We had but a few short days together, but they will blaze forever in my memory. I have to hold onto those moments for the both of us now.
I can't sleep. My bed is cold and lonely. Once she lay her perfumed head on this very pillow. Her scent lingers, but who knows for how long. She left a small bottle of shampoo in my shower. I want to cover myself in it and pretend she is near, but I don't want to waste the precious liquid. Instead I open the bottle regularly to remind myself of her sweet smell.
As if I could ever forget her. In our brief time together, our souls merged. One blending seamlessly into the other. When she left this world, our shared soul was ripped apart. I am left with a jagged fragment; half of a whole, never to be reunited.
I can't sleep. Not in this bed with its sheets that caressed her soft skin even as I did. Not in these walls that stood witness to our passion.
Maybe I'll take a drive. She was driving when she died; maybe I will, too.
I find her on the corner of Edison Avenue and Vine Way. She stands in front of an ATM. Convenient, I suppose, for johns who find themselves in need of quick cash. I don't require such a luxury, however; I am prepared. I always preferred working in cash. Paper trails are just too easy to follow these days.
She's not a perfect match, but the shape of her is close enough. The angles of her nose and jaw are strikingly similar. Soft green eyes and pouty lips. Just wipe off that ridiculous clown makeup and change the hair. She will do.
"Your name is Isabella," I tell her as I roll down the passenger window.
"Whatever you say, Baby," she coos at me.
Her voice is scratchy with years of abuse. That won't do. Isabella's voice is a clear sweet bell.
"Get in," I say coldly, watching my knuckles turn white as my hands tighten on the wheel. "Don't talk."
I drive in silence back to the apartment. Occasionally, she catches my eye. I try not to look too closely. It's best not to get distracted. She remains silent as the dead.
I take her up to my room quickly. My grip tightens around her thin arm. As soon as the door is closed, I don't let her go.
She is confused when I give her the washcloth and tell her to wash her face, but she does as commanded. She is patient as I tie back her hair and apply just a bit of eyeliner and shell-pink lipstick. Lastly, I have her put on her glasses. I try not to look at her skimpy dress and strappy heels. My Isabella would never dress so. She was the picture of grace and beauty.
"Much better." I smile as I survey my work. "You are looking much more like yourself, my love."
She stretches to kiss me. Her mouth tastes vaguely of cigarettes. I ignore it.
"Take off your clothes. Get on the bed." I instruct.
Turning from her, I remove my tie, my shirt, and pants. These I fold neatly on the chair by the window. I drop my boxers on the ground. No one cares if boxers are wrinkled.
She is splayed out on the bed beneath me. Her knees open to me. She beckons me into her. Her body squeezes me with an intense heat. It is a delicious warmth I had not hoped to feel again. I shudder and a guttural sound escapes me. My eyes close in pleasure.
"Isabella." Her name passes my lips like a prayer. "I love you."
Isabella's hand comes up to caress my cheek. I take it in mine and kiss her palm and each of her fingertips. I run my tongue along the soft ridge of her knuckles.
Something crimson flashes in the corner of my eye. Her nails. Isabella's nail were painted a delicate shell-pink and neatly manicured. She would never wear this garish color. I open my eyes and see that her nails are jagged and uneven. What is this? What has happened to my love's nails?
Her face comes into focus. Not Isabella. It is the face of a stranger. Who is this imposter?
"You're not Isabella! What have you done to my Isabella?" My voice is hoarse.
"You… you hired me," she says in a whiny voice.
"I told you not to speak," I cry as I push a hand over her face. Her scream is muffled against my skin.
This isn't right. I tell myself, angry and confused. It didn't happen this way.
My fingers curl around her slender throat. She looks up at me with wide eyes. She tries to scream again but her voice is gone. She tries to slap at my face, but she doesn't have the reach. All she can do is scratch at my arms, my hands. I barely feel it as her nails cut into my flesh.
The spasms of her struggle pulsate around my still-swollen member. A few strokes later I am spilling my seed into her warm depth. I collapse on top of her, spent.
Her arms are limp now. Her eyes are open, but they are glassy and tinged with red. Her glasses are askew. I can see the engorged purple tongue between her parted lips.
I squeeze my own eyes shut and try to picture my love's sweet face. When I open them, she is there. She has fallen asleep. I shan't wake her. I switch off the light and carefully curl my body around hers. She is warm.
Maybe now I can sleep.