Sun shines warm on my eyes; it's that perfect, contrasting warmth to the crisp fall air that surrounds, hovers on the skin so everyone smells like the outdoors. I open my eyes and see above me bright yellows and reds, and their middle ground, orange. I breathe in and taste the expectation in the air, the scent of the incoming cold, its smoky tendrils already wrapped around the outgoing heat of summer.
I sit up on my arms and see that I'm on a blanket of brown plaid. It's soft beneath me, faded from use and the sun. I lie back down, content to just be, just exist in the peace of the day. But a shadow falls over my eyes and footfalls crunch the leaves in front of me. I lift my hand, fingers spread, to shade my eyes and see who has not-so-quietly crept up on me. But he's--the shoulders, broad, and hips, narrow, reveal his sex--cloaked by the glare of the sun in the sky, high behind him. He extends a hand down to me, to help me up, and for some reason, I'm not afraid, not even worried. I grasp his fingers, warm on mine, and am suddenly on my feet, staring at a chest; whoever this guy is, he's tall.
"Been looking for you," he says, his voice soft. It's familiar, but like a sought-after song title on the tip of my tongue, the reason for its familiarity slips further away as I chase after it. But then hands lift my chin and before I have time to see anything, lips close over mine. The touch is gentle; his mouth catches my top lip and squeezes playfully before is tongue asks permission, which I grant readily.
I part my lips and taste the unmistakable spicy heat of cinnamon. He parries well, moving in and out and around the curves of my mouth, He releases me with a long, chaste kiss and pulls me into his arms, close so I smell his deodorant and natural scent. I breathe deep, taking him into my lungs, trying to keep him there as a memory in my cells.
"Who are you?" I ask, my words muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt.
"There's no time," he replies, his voice vague. I open my mouth to ask him what he's talking about, but before a syllable can cross the threshold from my mouth to that crisp air, his arms are gone and so is he. I stand, alone, in a forest of trees with bare branches.
I turn around, try to find my bearings, but I'm grabbed from behind, my arms pinned to my chest. I kick my legs up, scream to be let go, but my words float away, a visible mist in the air.
"Found you," A voice says from above. I'm spun around, pivoted so my gaze is anchored to the barren forest floor, and--
I gasp, awaking from a dream that leaves me soaked against my dress and the sheets underneath.
"Fuck," I say, and it comes out like the sound of a knife scratched across burnt toast. I realize I'm sitting up, my hands in front of me as if to counter an attack. I bring them to my damp forehead and push my sweat-slicked bangs back. My body aches; it's all I can do to get out of bed. and when I do, dizziness disrupts my stability. I lean against the post of the bed until I feel like I might make it to the bathroom. Once there, I turn the shower on and collapse into its warmth, though I don't stay long. Leaving my dress on the floor, I walk slowly into the bedroom and open a drawer of the bureau; clothes have been folded neatly into its depths; I pick out plain underwear and sweatpants, along with a tank top. I dress quickly, sliding the clothes over my still-wet and aching body. When I look back at the nightstand by the bed, I see that I must have slept through Mary's second visit. The breakfast is gone, replaced with dinner, along with a stack of books and an alarm clock.
It's 3:00 pm.
I sit, feeling weak, still unable to make myself eat, and thumb through the books. The Road, A Call to Arms, A Moveable Feast, The Great Gatsby; my favorite classics are all there.
I pick up Gatsby and begin to read, but the flippant attitudes of the rich in the novel remind me too much of my current situation. I put the book down as heat travels through my body, waking my mind up.
I will not sit and play captive. I will end this situation one way or another, and if my hand is forced, so be it. With strength I don't possess, I get up one more time. I find what I need in the bathroom, though I have to disassemble it to get to what I really want. It takes me a few tries, and a few cut fingers, but I return triumphantly from the bathroom and sit on the floor, my back in a corner, content to count the minutes until Eric arrives.
***
The heavy door swings open at 4:56. Eric enters, smelling of a warm, embracing cologne, and asks me why I'm sitting on the floor.
"It's comfortable," I smile, the words rolling out easily. He squints at me, tries to assess this odd front I'm presenting, and leans against the bedpost.
"Starting to go mad, huh?" He asks, with a gleam in his eyes. He crosses his arms and I notice he's dressed up today, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and black slacks.
"No, silly," I say, silently giddy over the incredulous expression that flickers across his perfect features.
"I see the clothes fit," he changes the subject. I nod. "But why are you wearing sweatpants, Elise? It's still day."
"Am I going somewhere special?" I deadpan, earning a chuckle.
"Listen," I begin. "I'm going to give you a second chance to let me go."
Disbelief crosses his face, as does a smile. "Oh, you are?"
"Yup."
"Well," he drawls, those foreign fricatives playing with familiar words, "I'm going to regretfully decline your offer." His smile is cruel in its control, in its amusement. He sees me as a child, and though I am, comparatively, he doesn't know the stakes of the game I've drawn.
"If you have a downfall," I say, "it's your experience. You've seen everything there is to see, know every permutation of actions ever taken, right?" His eyes narrow again. He wants to know where I'm going with this.
"I told you," I slip my hand behind me, retrieve a single blade from the razor I took apart earlier. I hold it to my wrist for a moment, watch his eyes go wide before drawing it deliberately, vertically up my arm.
He tenses. The hollow of his neck jumps out, highlights the veins there. His lips part, those sensuous lips, and I watch his teeth elongate. He takes a step forward, engrossed by the life dripping across my skin.
"You can't have me." My voice is deadly, though nowhere near his level of intimidation. "If you drink from me now, you're no better than Gray, and you'll know that forever." I see the acknowledgement in his eyes, the quick realization of the truth in my words.
"Why are you--" He starts, his eyes glued to the ceiling, away from my blood. The color of his irises have darkened, become the sky before a deadly storm. He's standing stock still and not even his chest moves. I'd noticed he didn't seem to need to breathe, but did for the sense of smell, I guess.
"Because I will not live on your terms. You let me go or I die. Simple."
"I told you--you know too much! If I let you go, who knows what will happen to you?" His fingers dig into the wood, leaving similar marks to those on my palm.
"What about Mary?" I ask, my voice filled with victory.
"The maid?" He's still not looking at me, but he scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair so it falls over his face, shields his gaze. Inside, I laugh. He can't hide from this. I doubt he can even take a step back.
"I know for a fact she leaves this house--she slipped and told me herself when she asked if I wanted any books. " I nod towards the stack, and he whips around, looking for the offensive objects.
"Idiot." He mutters, shaking his head, turning back toward me.
"So you could let me go," I accuse. "You just choose not to." My wrist begins to ache; the blood pours steadily, pooling on the floor like spilled wine. Though my hand is weak, I drag the razor across the other arm. The fresh cut spills blood's scent into the air. I'm repeatedly poking a slumbering bear.
"Look at it," I dare him. "Look at me, you coward." He does, his jaw clenched so tightly I wonder how he doesn't cut himself. "This," I say, "is what you've done. You're responsible for my death, for an 'innocent,' as you called me." I reach up for him; he kneels quickly, throwing off my reach. My hand smears across his shirt, leaving tracks of blood like a live-action watercolor. I correct my aim and grab his hands with my own He grasps my shoulders so hard his fingers bite the skin, leaving instant bruises.
"My blood," I tell him, "is on your hands." The red is stark on his pale skin. He pulls my wrist to his lips; the blood hits the floor audibly now. But he doesn't drink from me, doesn't bite. Instead, his kisses the wound, coating his lips with red liquid. Then he pulls me into him, wraps his long arms around me and touches my cheek carefully. The sensation is odd, something like being stroked by a tiger.
"I wanted you," he says. "I wanted you more than anything I have in a long time." Then his mouth and my blood are all over my own lips. It feels like rain on a summer day, cool and light, crackling with electricity. Both his hands are in my hair now, wetting the strands so they stick together, stained red. His mouth moves easily with mine and recalls the dream; he was my mysterious lover--and attacker.
He holds me like that, and I imagine being enveloped by a statue. All the while, my breathing shortens and I feel my heart pound and flutter. Warm sticky-wet coats my arms and soaks through mine and Eric's clothes. The familiar feeling, being carried away by a current, washes over me slowly and I realize my mind is beginning to haze. Eric's lips are still on mine, but then he shifts, drags his cheek past mine so it feels like light sandpaper moving down toward my neck.
That pinch, familiar and sharp, resonates through my body, which jerks out of my control. I try to lift my hands, but they're too heavy. Before I lose myself completely, I slur a question.
"What are you doing?"
He answers, but I'm already drifting away, alight with pleasure that washes through every cell I have. I don't fight it this time because it's my choice, my way out. But as I fade in and out of a solar system of light and color, I hear the beat of a failing heart; mine, I realize. My sense of touch begins to fade. I can't feel Eric's still chest, or his mouth eagerly taking my life into his body.
Before losing myself entirely, his words make their way through my failing stimuli receptors:
"I'm letting you go."
But it doesn't matter, really. I'm, content, somehow. I breathe out one last time, let the air go with a wistful sigh.