Twilights child hangs bows of light on my window panes, lighting the dew on the red flowers outside my window. The breeze sways the trees and flowers to and fro calling to me. Telling me it's time to rouse my sleepy head and go into my day. I've been up for hours --actually I avoid sleeping all together-- but it doesn't mean that I'm awake. I'm coming back into my awareness.
Pushing the window open, I reach out to touch the red petals of the flowers right outside the window. I never could resist a rose. They were Patty-Patch's favorite and therefore remind me of him. My heart deepest joy and fondest sanctuary. Which makes him off limits from my life. He's too dangerous to my life. And I'm too dangerous to his. But I given to the feeling of the rose petal against my skin, closing my eyes and letting a sigh escape my lips.
An ungaurded release, one of few that will ever be noted about myself.
Opening my eyes I have to take in the color of red on my fingers against the petals. It's not the bright crimson of the petals I'm stroking, but deep maroon, mostly dried and crackling. I can't even forget that it's smelling of iron. My senses are too acute to be able to lock it out. The room smells of iron as though someone smoked it into the air.
But no one has been in this room save me for five hours.
Perhaps thats not entirely true.
Over my shoulder and across the room there is a bed. On that bed is a well mutilated and now very dead body of an aged man. He's got four children, three boys and one girl, ages seventeen, fourteen, ten, and three. They'll be getting up to go to school now thining nothing of the fact their father hasn't returned yet. After all he travels a lot and stays away from them for business even more than he travels.
He is a double crosser and dirty player. He likes to think he can play both sides of the feild and not get caught. My kind of man. I might have even liked him had I met him without a mark. But he reached no such luck when the mark was handed to me. He's lucky that his mistress, or whore, left early, or I would have been greatful ot kill her, too. She would have gone quickly and scared him into submission. I liked it more that he struggled.
I got to torture him for the information my employers wanted to know. First went the digits on his pinky's on both hands, and then on both feet, and inward from there. Sadly, he passed out three times, which meant I actually had to dirty myself on bringing him back. The digits are strewn on the floor wherever they fell when I cut them. I don't really care so much about the mess because the maid will come to clean in three hours or so and find the body and mess.
But I can still feel him inside my head and, perhaps, thats why I haven't left the room yet. I can see the faces of his children, his wife, his whore mistress, his friends, his colleagues, inside my mind. Memories of all sorts floating inside my already so cluttered mind. This is a torture of a sort, but I submit myself to it.
Patric would call it guilt, but Patric hates to admit to anyone but himself when he's alone in the art gallery that I could be anything but his pretty angel and most cherished being. Even Jenaveave will never be loved by him the way I am. We share a mind, a heart, a soul. It is my most prized possesion, and my deepest bane.
I look to the mess on the bed with regret now, because of the dreams I know will plague him. I don't want him to see this part of me. I want him only to see that part of me that he says resembles the truth that was our mother long ago. I don't want him to see what he will only make out as a cold blooded killer and enemy.
I admit to being a murderer, but I am not a killer.
To murder is to take a life, but to truly emply the art, to truly kill, is to watch them, watch that light as you snuff it from their eyes, their being, their soul. Till there's nothing left of them to leave this life and continue on. I've gone there before and I don't want to ever go there again. I will be a murderer for hirer, but I will never be a killer. I'm sure few will ever know the true difference, but those who do, you can see it in their eyes.
That dark shadow that came back with them from the plunge to the other side and the fight back to this one.
Dawn is coming though. Bright beauty of morning, mother of daytime, and life. She sears me as I stare toward her glory, knowing I have stolen life from her world. She does not shine happily upon my skin, but I do not draw back from her bite upon my skin. A gentle golden light mixing with the faint blue glow that surrounds my pale skin that burns me into my core. I stand and tremble, but don't flinch nor run from the burning light of day.
Reaching out to touch the petals again, I feel the emptiness inside my stomach that always comes. That oblivion of transcendant joy and the lack of feelings thta accompanies it. This is just a job like any other. I follow my orders and rule book. I get patted on the head. I get paid. There's very little more to it.
But I know there's more to me that this....this destruction, even as the rose crushes under the clutch of my fingers over the entire bud snapping it from the branch brutually.
I know because he told me, because she whispered of my future. Well this is what I've made of that bright future. This is what I made of her dreams. This is what I've made of his hopes.
A puddle of blood drying in the dawn's breeze under a tepid, half disected corpse in a dirty motel room with crumpled rose petals strewn on the floor.
Thats all I see inside myself.
Maybe it's why I stopped owning mirrors. Current Mood: empty