One Final Regret

The full moon hung over the city. The stars seemed to fall to earth. Gilbert watched the sky through his window, reclining against the old chair. He was in an attic, high above the passing cars and people. The building below him, faded with age, croaked in the cool wind. His attic room, a single bed, hundreds of books askew, and candles illuminating the musty wood, provided him a home for the past ten years. He grew to lovingly despise it, as he thought was a clever way to describe his displeasure with a roof over his head.

She rose from the shadows and padded to Gilbert. She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned her head in. She smelled of cheap perfume and bread. He breathed it in deeply, turning his loving eyes towards her. She grinned, her red lips parting to reveal white teeth. Her eyes were green and her hair was black and tightly curled, framing her ovular face. She placed her hands on his chest, feeling his hear race.

"What are you doing up so late? I thought you went to sleep." She whispered in his ear, so not to wake the stars.

Gilbert turned in the patchy chair and wrapped his arms around her waist. She had pulled her silk nightgown on. He could see the shape of her ample breasts push through the silk, soft and curvy under milk-colored fabric. Her hips bulged and he gripped them, seeing a shadow of the hair in between his hands, ready for his lips. He never knew he could love someone so desperately.

"I was looking at the moon."

"It is lovely." She said, her eyes turning towards the taciturn satellite hanging just outside the window.

"Not as lovely as you, my love." Gilbert said. His pale hands moved up her bodice and cupped her breasts. She hummed in delight and ran the back of her hand along his cheek. Then her fingers, manicured to a point just short of perfection, brushed his white hair back. She could see his eyes gleam, like red embers. Her lips puckered and she bent down, pressing them against his. He kissed her back and delicately pulled her nightgown off, exposing her body. It was the color of cream with patches of rosiness applied as though by an artist's hand. He admired it in the silvery light.

She laughed. "You only paid for one session!"

"I'll pay for another, love." Gilbert explained, his hands now massaging her sides.

Her eyebrows glided beautifully up her forehead. A corner of her lips twitched. "No," she shook her head, already edging closer to him. Gilbert placed kisses along her neck. "No, I'll give this to you for free."

Gilbert smiled into her skin, breathing her scent in, and storing it in his memory. He etched it in stone. It would erode only by time's cruel touch. She titled her head back and allowed him to indulge his senses. He could barely see her in the dark. But he had already memorized ever curve of her body by touch alone. He placed his palm against her thighs and rubbed upwards, feeling her, and falling in love again and again.

…

In the morning he woke to find that she had left. Her clothing was picked up and her purse was gone from its spot on the edge of the bed. The flower he had given her had also departed, leaving a void that quickly filled with happiness. Gilbert smiled and clutched the bedclothes, bringing them up to his nose for another desperate attempt to cling to her scent.

After he cleaned up the small room, he walked out of the attic to the bathroom on the floor below his. He placed his clothing next to the sink. He carefully washed his face and brushed his teeth. Next he entered the shower, hunched over because it was too small. The golden faucet, with its paint already chipping off, limply spat water at his papery skin. He scrubbed his hair and body thoroughly, not missing a section. His loins still burned with her touch. He longed for it to linger but it couldn't last forever.

He finished his toilette and exited the bathroom. He replaced his old clothing in his attic room and locked the door. With a final look behind him, he made his way down seven flights of creaking, noisy stairs. The chambers echoed with each footstep. He buried his hands deep in his pockets.

The first floor of the building sported a concert hall. The top had been refurbished to host the musicians. It had long since fallen into disuse, however clean it was kept for tourists. One of the top musicians, Roderich Edelstein, had been acquainted with Gilbert. When misfortune reared its head Gilbert's way, Roderich felt a drop of sympathy and offered him the attic room, which was the most he could do at the time. Gilbert gladly accepted and his life had found a new rhythm to latch on to.

Gilbert worked the morning at a mechanic, in the afternoon he purchased some groceries, and then he worked the night at a liquor store. When he returned to his attic, he waited.

She arrived promptly at eleven thirty that night. She opened the door, having made the flights of stairs in sling-back red high-heels. She was slightly out of breath and collapsed at the edge of Gilbert's bed. He watched as she pulled her purse off and set it on the corner. Gilbert finally moved off the chair, placing his book down where he left off, and sat next to her. She wore a short sequenced navy blue dress. Her hair was done up. She didn't look like a courtesan. Gilbert placed his hand on her back and kissed her cheek.

"What are you reading now?" she asked.

"It's a new book."

"What's it called?"

"It's called Something Wicked This Way Comes. It's very good."

She was dyslexic and mostly illiterate. She had been very good at painting and designing. She hoped that after selling her body for long enough she could afford to purchase an education in architecture. She told Gilbert this several times. Yet, she was always interested in what he was reading. She lay down on the bed, the quilted fabric cradling her body. She unpinned her hair and let it spill around her head. She spread her legs apart. Gilbert placed his hand between them, fingering the hem of her dress. "Tell me about it." She asked him.

"It's about a girl whose brother is murdered and she goes to kill that man who did the murdering." Gilbert explained, lying next to her. He placed his head by her shoulder. His hand moved from her legs to her stomach, where he knew her womb, warm, lukewarm, dim was. It could never wield children.

"Read me part of it." She asked, staring at the ceiling. Gilbert nodded. He stood and lit a candle. Its sweet smell filled the air. He took the book off the couch and read to her the first passage.

"It is arguable that music inspires greatness or that music happens to be heard at the moment that greatness was sure to ensue: a sort of coincidence. For me it occurred while listening to a violin concerto in the darkness of the concert hall. The musicians were but vessels, tunnels, or trains to transport to beauty of the piece to my ears. At the time I had reached the year of four-and-twenty. This was the first concert of any form I had attended in my lifetime. Next to me my brother sat with his wife. They appeared to be enjoying themselves, but I could not tell in the darkness. Instead I turned and closed my eyes, allowing music to swallow and consume me. My heart raced and I knew something had changed within me."

Gilbert watched her for a reaction. She only offered a faint smile. "I don't understand most of it, but it sounds very nice."

"I suppose that's true." Gilbert said.

He replaced his red bookmark in his spot, near the end of the thick volume. The cover was a picture of earrings, which was a running motif in the story, as far as Gilbert could tell. He set it aside and returned to her. She engaged him with her lips and tongue, like two snakes creeping around each other, escaping the earthy prison of after-rain soil. Gilbert undressed her and she undressed him. He rubbed her bare breasts and went to kiss her neck.

She kicked her shoes off. "Don't you have a brother?"

Gilbert nodded.

"You know I sleep with at least five men a night, don't you?"

"I know that." He said impatiently, trailing his kisses down her body.

"Aren't you jealous? I could be sleeping with your brother."

"No. It's useless to be jealous."

"Oh?"

"I know that at this moment you are unquestionably mine and I am yours. We made that pact with paper money and our bodies. I work only to make money for you. Your dreams are my dreams."

She frowned, having trouble understanding what he was saying. Her body shivered as he touched her gingerly. "You love me?"

"Of course, my darling."

"And you know I sleep with many men… So do you think I love you?"

"I would like it if you did, but I don't care. I've never loved anything or anyone so much."

"Oh…" Her brows contracted, trying to understand him.

When they finished, she placed her head on his chest. She played with the chain that dangled from his neck, a lithe, black figure. "Where did you get this?"

"My grandfather gave it to me." He said. "He gave one to me and one to my brother."

"I don't know if I love you." Her legs were around his, her hair dense against his thigh. She ran her toes along his ankle. "But I think I do, kind of." He could feel her thinking, hard. She could figure anything out once she decided to put her mind to it and she never gave up. Gilbert knew. It took time. Most people were too impatient to wait for her answer and gave it to her, making her annoyed. She would never show it, though.

Gilbert kissed her temple. "Tell me next time."

"What time is it?" she asked, reminded. She rose from the bed, the covers falling from her chest and landing at her belly. Gilbert looked at his watch.

"It's nearly one."

"I need to go see another man. He's rich. I think he'll give me that final push!" She balled her fists and shook them, miming a push as she saw it.

"All right," Gilbert said, feeling green jealousy leak into his veins. "Good night, love."

She kissed him, brightly, lovingly, and collected her belongings. This wasn't the first time she had been invited to a rich man's house, but Gilbert knew this was a special chance. She was nearing her goal, slowly but surely, and then he wouldn't see her anymore. When he saw her next she could be dressed in a suit and walking smartly across the street, a clipboard to her chest and an idea in her head. She would make a great architect. Gilbert rose from bed, watching her pull her dress on and adjust her hair in the cracked mirror by the pale moonlight.

"I may not see you again."

"You'll meet another one of me." She said quickly, her eyes bright with excitement.

Gilbert nodded. She stood, standing before him. She was a tall woman. He wrapped his arms around her and embraced her. Now he did not feel her body as a sexual factor but rather as a human organism, one with a heart and brain. She could feel the swell of love not brought on by lust through some sixth sense and hugged him back. She placed her chin on his shoulder. He rubbed her back and let go with a small sigh. He kissed her cheek and then her lips and then her nose and then her forehead.

"Good bye." He said.

"Bye-bye." She went to the door, but stopped just short. Her shadow was pale and thrown at an angle. "When I become an architect I'll come here and fix your room free of charge." She said with a broad smile.

"I'd love that."

She shut the door behind her. He listened to her heels click against every last step of the seven stair cases.

Gilbert plumped down on his bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

…

Gilbert threw his mouth open and screamed. He clutched his head and sat in the back corner of his room. He skipped work. He didn't even look outside. It could be thundering or peaceful for all he knew. He screamed and stamped the floor of the abandoned building. He brought his fists against the wood. The newspaper at his feet he glowered at. He grabbed it in his hands. Hot tears streamed down his face. The dam of disbelief and denial had shattered.

Young prostitute found strangled at Blue Jazz Hotel. He read it a thousand times. He shook his head. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…

It wasn't happening. This was some other hooker who had been stiffed in a fancy hotel. The blood leaking from the wound of the woman, who was her, was not hers at the same time. It was a different woman. It was a Janie or Sunlight or Sparkle but not his love, his darling, his life. He shook his head. It shouldn't be her. She was so close to her dreams, too close for misfortune to turn her way. He forgot a similar thing had happened to him years before.

…

Anger, rage, the flames of madness rumbled in Gilbert's very spirit. He had been locked in his attic for days. His workplace contacted him and found no one, since he had no phone or any other means of contact.

Gilbert flew down the seven flights of stairs and stood in the concert hall. He panted and gritted his teeth. The chairs were stacked. Several dusty plates of fine china waited to be used on a wide wooden table. Cobwebs started to form since no one came by anymore. Gilbert ran to the chairs and grabbed them, flinging them behind him. They tumbled and gave a dull clatter. It was not enough. He turned to the china and picked it up, slamming it hard against the edge of the table. It shattered. A laceration appeared on his thumb and he didn't care. All he had to do was destroy. The flames were fueled but they gave him energy not totally unlike hope.

…

"Maybe if I didn't let her go…" Gilbert paced around his room, licking his lips. "Maybe if I had just beaten her once, to scare her into staying…" Gilbert mumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks and catching in the stubble that had formed out of neglect on his gaunt face.

He licked his lips and stared at the newspaper before him. A picture of her was cut out and in a picture frame now, next to a candle. Gilbert sniffed and sat on the floor, breathing hard.

The door swung open.

He didn't care.

"Oh, my love, the light of my life, the sun to my earth, the stars to my night, the reason my heart beats, the reason I worked so hard, the reason I even allowed myself to live… I could have saved you I should have… Or maybe I never should have met you."

His eyes watered over. He sobbed into his palms.

He recalled the first time he met her. He was planning to get drunk and spend the night with several whores, as he had put it, and as he went to the bar, he passed the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He paused and smiled at her shyly. She smiled back. He never would have guessed she sold her body willing. The courtesan approached him. Cars screamed past on the road. The city was alive with lights. People walked by them, laughing and talking.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and asked if he wanted to visit her room. He denied it and invited her to his place instead, drunk without having touched a drop. He took her hand and led to her the concert hall. When she stepped in he could hear her gasp. She looked around the wide room.

"Do you live here?"

"No, I live just upstairs."

The first time she trekked up the stairs she nearly fainted from exhaustion. He offered to carry her. She replied with an annoyed look that clearly implied she wanted a good pay. On the fourth flight she bargained with him on a price. He said a relatively high price and she had no objections. That night they made love three times and he fell in love for the first time.

Each night she returned. He paid her. Sometimes she stayed longer, connecting their bodies, moaning, writhing, and now she wouldn't do it again. He had moved there because he lost everything that was once his, including a girlfriend, after being wrongfully accused of some crime or other. Gilbert didn't pay much attention to it. All he knew was that his life had been reduced to a pile of debris.

"Gilbert."

"What?" Gilbert hiccupped. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently. Ludwig pulled him into a tight hug wordlessly until Gilbert stopped crying. "The angel…" he said weakly. "Never told a lie…"

Ludwig didn't need to speak. His presence seemed to help Gilbert, if only a little. Ludwig looked at the newspaper. Gilbert hadn't even unfolded it. He had read the first two sentences and came to a sudden, catastrophic halt. He had stopped after they described her name and age. He didn't even read who the suspected killer was. Ludwig picked up the newspaper, still holding his older brother tightly. He unfolded it and read through the article.

Young prostitute found strangled in Blue Jazz Hotel.

Carmen Samson was found strangled to death in the hotel suite at five in the morning on August 5th. Several cords had been fastened to her neck and her jaw had been broken. It is suspected that intercourse had gone too far. Carmen was a freelance prostitute and well-known amid the underground. "She was a real sweetheart," a fellow courtesan named Sunlace (19) tells us, "she was also so positive that really it made our jobs a lot easier." She will be greatly missed.

The man who rented the room is to be charged of homicide, debatably accidental. He is a businessman who had come to a meeting in our town. He vacated the hotel shortly after the murder, leaving only a first name behind and a flower Carmen had carried with her.

Ludwig gazed at the picture of the suspect with his name in bold print right below him. In the picture he was a well-dressed, clean businessman of sorts with a strong jaw and pale eyes. He read the name and crumpled the paper up. It was his own. Ludwig couldn't bare to have placed a burden on Gilbert, again.

I do not own Hetalia