The Collar for the Cunt- A
Stigmata Fanfic:
It was hard. Too hard for her to deal with anymore. Frankie took a deep breath and sighed. She could see Andrew sitting at the small laquored table in her kitchenette. He'd been sitting there, writing, for almost an hour now. Probably to the Cardinal Houseman he spoke of before. A chill ran through her and she shuddered, rubbing at he goosebumps that prickled down her arms, down to where her wrists were bandaged with white hospital gauze. Her wounds, this supposed stigmata of hers, had started to heal. Her wrists were the worst of the three she had. Frankie thoughtfully ran her fingers over the deep gashes on her forehead. Sultry music flowed out of her stereo but she couldn't remember turning it on. Andrew's back was to her, dressed all the way in black. She wondered...
Standing, she slowly made her way to Andrew, moving with the music. The movement stirred up a scent of flowers, rose. Sanctity.
Frankie walked to the fridge, taking out a beer
for herself. Andrew briefly looked up for his reports before bearing down onto
them with more ferver when Frankie pulled out a green vinyl chair and sat
across from him.
"What'cha doin'?"
Andrew didn't look at her. "um... some reports, for the council. it's
really quite boring."
"Oh, hmmm, you want a beer?" She tipped her bottle in his direction.
"Mmm, alcohol."
Andrew chuckled. "Yes, great."
Frankie pushed back her chair and bounded
happily to the refridgerator and pulled out another beer. Andrew dropped his
pen onto the mound of papers, plucking off the bifocals perched on the end of
his nose. He stretched back but stood as Frankie handed him a bottle.
"Thanks." He began to cross the loft apartment, to the big paned
windows that looked out onto the street. He sighed, relieved, grateful for the
break.
"No problem." Frankie smiled, finding herself once again staring at
his back. The back of his hair was twisted in spikes from him running his hands
through it and pulling at it all the time. Against her better judgment she
walked towards him...
"You know the view is much better from the roof. I'll have to show it to
you sometime. Sunrise is best." Smooth, she thought as she drew
nearer to him.
"... Yes, um, sometime..." He knew damn well where this was going,
and where it would end. He could've left but, distance wouldn't solve this...
and he couldn't just leave Frankie, what if she receives anymore wounds...
So he stayed, just staring out the window until the inevitable occurred.
Frankie whispered, barely breathed out, "yeah... sometime..." before
she was behind Andrew. Lightly she rested her hand on his shoulder. Andrew
closed his eyes and ironically, blessed himself. He didn't move.
"Frankie..."
She didn't answer. Her hand slowly trailed down the center of his back and
encircled his waist. He could feel her lips, soft and warm, through th starched
shirt on his shoulder blade.
Temptation. Sin. Sex. Love. The Calling. It all flashed through his mind before
he turned around, facing Frankie. The soft light played against the pale blonde
hair on her head. It gave the illusion the she was glowing, haloed. She leaned
in and kissed him gently, sliding her lips against his, giving him more in that
kiss than he could've ever imagined. Reluctantly he pulled back.
"Frankie... I can't..."
She closed her eyes and put his hands on her waist. "Shhh..."
They kissed again, Frankie gently pulling him away form the window in the
process.
She laid on the bed, leaving him to stare down at her...
He was, after all, a man... and a weak one at that. It had been so long... He
had already made the decision though. When he stood at the window, knowing what
was going to happen. He should've left then. A good priest wouldn't have put
himself in this situation in the first place. These feeble pleas had only been
some ploy. One last grab at humanity. It was as good as done before it began.
Andrew stared at Frankie in awe and disbelief. She was there, ready and
waiting. She was real and he felt something that he never had before. At least
nothing that a woman could ever stir in him. Call it love, or something just as
fucked up. Love or God.
"Andrew." She called to him. Maybe she was an angel underneath. He
knelt at the foot of the bed and she sat up to meet him. Her wrists, from which
she were crucified were bleeding, soaking through the gauze and slowly dripped
onto the sheets and onto Andrew's clothes. But he didn't notice.
In blood and God we fall...