Posted by Verity Chastain on June 30, 2001 at 08:44:57:
When Don got home he caught the smell of cooking from the living room upstairs. It didn't seem too appetizing, something frozen most like, but he smiled nonetheless. Rounding the stairs he could see Lucsha with a Stouffer's chicken dinner and a couple of pieces of bread and butter in front of her. She grinned her hello around the bread. He guessed she'd had a toke or three before he got home by the way she was eating. He put his keys and junk on the bookshelf and sat down by her. She swallowed a big drink of coke and told him Hello. He reached for her as he answered, trying hard not to notice how bony her shoulders had gotten.
"Good day today princess?"
She pushed the chicken around a little and he sighed inwardly. She had eaten maybe five bites, and from the looks of it that was all we were going to get tonight. But she smiled that smile, the one that had gotten him that first day in the debate room, the day she kicked his ass and they both fell in love.
He remembered so many of those smiles since then, ones from the car next to him when they got happily lost on some back road, when he came home to find the living room coated in obsidian shards and her in shorts on those shapely short little legs and a T-shirt over full breasts but no damned safety goggles on her green eyes. She'd had a hammer whanging away at a big rock on their hearth so she could make mosaic pieces to cover a mask with and of course she couldn't wait to get the right equipment, or put on long pants and sleeves, would he mind going away and coming back, he might cut himself? He could see the blood from a hundred little cuts on her, but oh no, she was only worried about him. So he'd crossed the living room, the very one they were sitting in now, and picked her up, hearing her squeal, feeling the splinters cut him, and put her down on the kitchen table where she yanked off her T and shorts and he opened his pants and he spread her cunt with his hands and fucked her hard, not waiting for her to get wet, knowing she'd love the pain, and licking the blood from every little wound he could find.
And she'd smiled that smile, when she wasn`t screaming with ecstacy.
Some days that smile was about all that was left of her now, now that the cancer was metastasizing and she was losing ground. The doctor had said there'd be good days and bad, but more and more a good day meant she'd eat a little, she'd maybe sculpt something for an hour, and she'd sleep the rest of the day. They'd fuck if she felt like it (and she did, as she said, she was sick, she wasn't dead) but he couldn't stop himself from making it gentle, tender. And he'd known since they were nineteen and she'd smiled as she handed him a letter-opener with a sharp little point on it and told him how things were with her, how they'd always been, and he'd spent about ten seconds considering running screaming back to his dorm room and his nice normal life and his conception of how it'd always be and then he'd taken the letter opener and looked into those eyes (Gods those eyes) and he'd held it to her throat and said "Get on that bed, bitch, or I swear I'll cut your fucking throat. Hell, I may anyway."
She said years later she knew right then she'd met the man she was going to marry. Their wedding day was perfect, all the standard fights beforehand between the traditional parents and their own increasingly weird sensibilities, but on that golden morning the old and well-dressed got along fine with the young and the pierced, and his groomsmen had dragged him into a room and asked him if he was sure he wanted to marry a woman who not only could beat him in a debate but also was the best fuck any of them had ever had. And she'd looked like a fairy princess with just a hint of slut in her eyes as she walked down the aisle, and everyone had cried, even the dominatrix (dressed in what she called "priest drag") who married them had cried.
There had been a lot of good years since. A child not conceived of but certainly pretty quickly conceived. A wonderful child who looked to be nothing like either of them but stellar in her own way. He'd had his novels, she'd had her projects, a number of which had sold more than he'd made off his writing. They'd had their bad times too, a few fights when one or the other of them had a lover that got a little too close, or when her deepest desire got too close to the surface and he'd wonder if she was going to find someone to kill her and take her away from him, from their family, and they'd scream about it when their kid was asleep, and he`d consider leaving, but he`d known deep down that even the worst times with her would be better than the best without her.
And there'd been that seemingly nice artist/writer who recognized what she was from one of her collages and who'd become her lover. And then he'd become scarily obsessed, and then when she told him she wouldn't see him anymore he'd become really frightening, making threats, slashing tires, stalking them and their daughter as well. A warning from a cop friend seemed to help and the prick had been quiet for a while, but Lucsha wanted revenge and often talked about various plots when things had cooled off. Don worried that the guy would start back up again some time and wished they could afford to just move and forget about it. And then the cancer and neither of them really cared about what now seemed like such tiny, silly problems. Still, Don thought the guy would never really forget about her.
Hell, he knew he never would.
He cuddled her in his arms and looked at her, looked close. "You ate a bit there, have anything else today?"
She nodded and snuggled into him with a purring noise. She was feeling pretty good then; this was usually a lead-in to something more passionate. "I had some cream of wheat this morning, and plain pasta with a little piece of cheese for lunch and kept it all down!" She sounded so thrilled. It fucking killed him to have her like this, when eating something with protein in it was an achievement. For one such as her, this was so utterly wrong, it was as if the very rock one stood on could turn to sand in an instant. She had always burned like a flame, soared like a hawk, never slowing down, never resting, even at the beach you couldn't keep her on a towel for more than about ten seconds. And now the burning wasn't the positive flame of her, who she was, it was rust, the rust of the fucking cancer.
He made himself let that thought go. It looked like his plans had worked, something had finally gone right for them, and he wouldn't have to cobble shit together and make it another night.
It would be tonight.
"I'm glad baby. Baby look at me, Lu look at my eyes..." He turned her and she pressed her forehead against his and then drew back a little. He stroked her reddish-brown hair, short but not even a little thinned, she'd gotten lucky with the chemo. "What's up, my Lord? Huh?" She never could call him "Master", it always made her giggle, so they'd compromised.
He just looked at her. He'd have so few chances to see this face with this much animation in it again, ever again. And he just looked. And looked. Blue into green. He knew she'd know, she knew him so well, always had, since before they met it sometimes seemed.
Her eyes widened and she shifted against him. He could see the knowledge in her eyes. But then she pulled back. " Don, no, look I'm a little stoned; I think I`m missing it..."
He grinned widely and narrowed his eyes. Over the years she'd learned what that meant very well, that the part of him that had held that "blade" to her throat so long ago was coming to the fore, that he was thinking of hurting her and doing more than that, taking what she'd promised him so long ago in their private vows taken in secret before that public wedding. "You didn't miss a thing, Lu. You never do. You made me a promise. Specifically, you promised me that I could take your life 'any time I so chose.` He tilted his head and made his voice hard. "You going back on that promise, my little one?"
She shook her head quickly and her breathing quickened. He'd have to watch that, he needed to make sure he didn't tax her fragile body so much in this early stage that later wouldn't mean anything. "No, Don, that was real, as real as our marriage, as real as anything we've ever been to each other. But I know you don't want to and-"
Out of the blue, he slapped her. Not too hard but enough to sting and to get her attention. "Princess. Never presume you know what I want and what I don't. I thought we were over that a long time ago. My reason for wanting this is not because you have always wanted to die at the hands of a man. I want this for me. It's unfortunate you have a problem believing that, but sorry, little one, it's not going to get you out of keeping that promise."
She had one hand up at her cheek and tears in her eyes. Slapping her always startled her so much, the sudden violence, the pain so near her eyes, her "self", perhaps, that she usually cried a little, even if the pain wasn't that bad. "I'm...I'm very sorry, my Lord. I really am. May I speak, though, without your hitting me? I need to, please?"
He nodded and she went on. She took a few deep breaths, clearly gathering her words. "All right. I'm sorry I implied that you didn't want to...to take my life from me now. But we talked about it when I got sick, and you said then that you wanted me with you, didn't want to lose me, as long as possible."
He pulled her close, his head on top of hers. "Exactly, Princess. As long as possible. But you're losing the fight, and pretty soon you won't be 'you` anymore in any case. You don't want that, I know, don't want to die in a hospital bed, or with me feeding you little handsful of pills, or any of that fucking nonsense. And I don't want to lose you before I lose you, have my last sight of you be some thing that's just a shell of you, not you at all."
He felt her nod under his chin and felt her shiver a bit too. He pulled the rabbit fur comforter over her. Her voice was soft but certain. "All right. All right, I can't say I haven't thought about this, well, dreamed about this when it got too bad, but Don, we've talked before, we can't be sure, not positive, that you won't get caught. The police will think of you first, and we know all the ways to dispose of a body and deal with fibers and things but it only takes one bit of evidence, or even none and some prosecutor out to get you...especially with the novels you write..."
He smiled out of her sight. They'd both made rather a good living out of their mutual desires. In his, women often died in attractive, erotic ways. Feminist groups demonized him, said he was making serial killers hotter than Hannibal Lechter. There'd been more than one copycat case, and more than one case where the copycat killing included a willing victim. And if he liked his fictional killers enough, no matter what he'd planned for them in the beginning, they wrote themselves out of the traps he'd set and got away. Yes, the novels he wrote would be a problem.
But he had the perfect solution all wrapped up. So to speak.
"It's okay, little one. It's taken care of, I swear to you. No one will ever suspect me, much less try me. I'll be safe to mourn you and take care of Dara and move on, it won't be easy to move on without you and I won't much like it, but it's going to be that way anyway, so sweetheart..."
He grasped her shoulders, hard, allowing himself to cause her pain as he grinned a wolf's smile. "Lu, I'd rather take your last breath from your mouth and the last blood from your body myself, be the last thing you see and my body and my knife the last thing you feel, than lose not only you but all of those fantasies of ours too."
Her breathing was still quick but her face looked ecstatic; she licked suddenly dry lips. Then she got that tough look, that "You can whip me all you want but mentally I can kick your ass around the block" look and said "Time out on all of this...I won't be seduced into this until you can prove to me that you can get away with it."
He grinned. "Tell you what, you stay in your pajamas and I'll bundle you up in the rabbit fur and take you down to the car. There's something in the trunk I want to show you."
Mack looked comical, trussed like a turkey with duct tape and more of the same over his mouth, his glasses on but askew, lying on a double-thickness of plastic sheeting thoroughly lining the bed of their old mustang. Don had chosen their "fuck 'em all" car, as Luscha called it, over the sensible sedan because the sedan was so sensible it had an interior trunk release and the back seats could be kicked out easily. There was enough duct tape to turn ole Mack into a mummy, but he wanted to do this perfectly.
Besides, his Princess liked to drive and that last drive should be in this car with the top down.
She didn't say anything at all for the longest time. Mack's beady eyes darted between the two of them, seemingly trying for "furious" but projecting "scared as shit" instead. He apparently had finally decided "Mmmph mmmffff" noises were beneath his dignity, which was a relief. When she finally said something it was characteristic.
"Hey, Mack. You look a lot better than the last time I saw you, lost a little weight?"
Don barked a laugh and the noises started up again from behind the tape just before he slammed the trunk again. She turned and rested her pajama-covered rump against the trunk of the car and looked at him speculatively. "Okay, Mr. Author, what's the plot?" She had that evil grin on her face, even better than the sunshine smile.
"Oh, baby, it's such a tragedy. Since you've been ill, you've been so weak, and Dara has been away from home with relatives a lot, because she has a hard time handling her illness. And even though I long to be with you full time, well, I've had to do those well-publicized local book signings, you know, like the one I had tonight? And to get home, dashing up the stairs to my darling wife, only to find the house busted into, signs of a struggle, drops of two different types of blood, hair that belongs to neither of us, and the bunny-blanket and you both...gone...oh, sob, sob." He put his head in his hands and then peeked at her through his fingers.
Her grin had widened. Sometimes his Daddy used to say something about foxes and wire brushes that came to mind but it was a little crude for her, so he just laughed with her. "You're evil. All those books, all those reviewers you've fooled, you're no Stephen King, you're Jack the Ripper with a penknife."
He shook his finger at her. "Bad joke, ten point penalty. Now, we need to get a move on, Lu. There won't be a problem with the timing of my being gone and his kidnapping you, here in the canyon the neighbors are far away with no view of the place. Besides, Jack drove a dark grey car by a couple times earlier and parked on the street and sat for a while."
She looked upset. "Dammit Don, you're better than that, you told Jack? You know if anyone knows, the chances of our being caught..."
He held up one hand. "Princess, please assume I know all this at least as well as you do and that I'm not getting 'blood-simple` here. Jack not only knows about this, he suggested it five months ago. He helped plan every aspect. He loves you, baby, he hasn't been our friend and lover since college without growing to be a part of who we are, you know?"
She still looked terribly troubled and she sighed, deeply. "I love Jack too, Don, but what if he has to trust someone? I mean, he's in a couple too, and if one night he has to give it up to Steve..."
"Jack's kept plenty of secrets from Steve, ours, his, a combination. And besides, hon, he's Dara's Godfather. He won't jeopardize her, you know that." He moved to press his body against hers, knees between hers. He wrapped his arms around her and when the car rocked as Mack got ambitious in the trunk they both started laughing. He recovered and spoke first. "You need to trust Jack. And more, you need to trust me. From now on, for this to be right you need to give up the planning and let go. You need to let yourself be sure I dotted my 'i's and crossed my 't's. It's your Lord`s plan, and your Lord is always right. And now, you need to stop being my partner, just in that way. You need to be my-" He pulled the hair off her neck and put his lips to her ear-" prey."
He felt her whole body relax, every bit of it, and she molded herself to him. "We fit", she whispered. "We still fit together, any position, any old way we come together."
He pulled back enough to look into her eyes and nodded. "And we always will, best-beloved. We always will."
Once they'd gotten onto the road, her driving but wearing his jacket against casual local sightings of the car, they had a few moments of discussion on where they were headed. He'd made it clear it would be some little motor-court motel someplace where you could park by the room and get the key through a night window. He'd taken a hat Mack liked to wear from Mack's car when he'd grabbed him; their leather jackets were almost the same shade of brown. The car they'd have to find a place to hide, or pick a different motel. Where to look was the current question.
"But I can't die in the Valley, baby! Dear Gods, imagine having to haunt that hell-hole forever, bleh!" He laughed a little.
"Darlin' I'm bringing any part of your spirit you don't take with you home. But point taken...hmm. I really have no idea, no, wait!" She looked at him skeptically. He'd always been a shitty liar, at least to her. "There is that little motor court up on Point Dume, nearly on the coast! Maybe we could try there!"
She nodded. "When did Jack get the key from the night window while wearing Mack`s hat and driving Mack's grey car?"
"About two hours ago, when I was in the middle of my book signing."
"You shit." There was a little pause filled only by Dick Dale's Fender Strat. "I adore you."
Driving up The One, as the locals called it, had always been ecstasy and beyond ecstasy, dreams of flying but with landscapes drawn from the dreams of angels. This time, in the night with the "Queen's Necklace", that semicircle of lights around Santa Monica bay from the flashing Ferris wheel of a priceless gem at one end to the trailing diamonds of point Dume at the other end, the whole thing was paradisiacal. It was the last. How many people could know it was the very last time? Had anyone ever tried to figure out the very last time they road their bike down that high hill, or the last time they had sex with the first guy they'd ever had sex with? But she knew and could plot and appreciate. For a moment it messed things up, ruined them as she tried to hard to be a data machine, registering every point of red, every curve of blue, but soon it all flowed as it always had with that added thrill. And as in all the best trips up this best of highways his hand was high, so high on her velvet-covered thigh. And they didn't need to talk at all.
Strangely enough, at the end of the sandy parking strip off Highway One, there was a patch of bamboo and fig at the North end of the lot that hid the car completely. She didn't say anything to him but she did note that it would be the work of a piece of cardboard and a few moments to erase the tracks of the car.
When they got out, she looked at him for a moment, open-eyed, that look that meant anything could pass between them without penalty. "Don, when they find him, they won't find the evidence they expect, they'll find the duct tape residue."
He let her finish, didn't try to cut her off. "No, Lu, Princess. They won't find shit. I swear that to you, by all our Gods, that no one will ever find Mack Vallejo." Startlingly to her, he got down on one knee. "Will you accept my oath, Princess?"
She inclined her head and fought her smile, giving him the solemnity that this deserved. "I do. I know what you tell me is true, I'm sure it's true, three times I affirm this truth. I won't ask you any more. I enter into our sacred bond now, love." And then she totally cracked up with laughter at the formality and courtliness of this, as he fell on his side, laughing, kicking.
They opened the trunk for a second, his hand on the lid, hers on the key. She smiled sexily, her too-full lips pouting. "You get your wish, I'm gonna die tonight. Right here, Mack, with you..."
The prick's eyes got so wide she wondered if they'd pop out of his head. Her maroon hair was a tousle around her head, she hadn't brushed it today. The illness brought out her high cheekbones and shrunk her stomach to nearly nothing, although her breasts stayed heavy, a bit droopy, a testament to a 36-year-old woman. She was wearing a maroon lace camisole, completely transparent, and black velvet pants, heavy, that draped around her rather heavy bottom and thighs. She didn't know it, and he couldn't tell her, but at that moment in the vaguely misty ocean dark, she was Guinevere, Helen, Joni Mitchell. She was something beyond human, a woman more desirable than any.
Perhaps because he knew he'd never have her. Don spoke. "And think of this, Mack, I've got you strapped well enough to the trunk so I can leave you conscious for this part. I'm going to kill her. Slow. Sensual. I'll fuck her while I do it.." Mack's eyes were steady and moist, it was his dream coming true, both his observers could see.
Don reached for the trunk lid "And you'll never see it, you prick. Next time you see me, I'll be on my way to kill you. You'll get fucked, just in the head, boy, not the way you want. And the only place you'll see my Princess' death is in your dreams in the next couple hours or so." Don laughed harshly, it sounded like eucalyptus branches rattling against one another in a Santa Ana like this one.
"Suffer."
The sound he heard was Luscha's low, seductive laugh.
They didn't have any suitcases; Luscha was surprised. But it was clear Don was in control and even more clear that Luscha wanted it that way. The room had been "prepped" to a certain extent; Luscha could see that a deep, blood-red cloth that matched her dyed hair had been thrown across the probably wildly ugly beach-style bedspread. As she looked more closely in the light of only one lamp, she noticed three candelabra, about four feet tall each, holding a thick black taper each, set in an equal triangle around the bed. The room smelled of Nag Champa, incense she associated with pleasant death because of a friend's store, Necromance, where all the books and objects carried that scent for weeks after one bought them. She didn't see any incense; apparently Jack had really done some work for Don here, as he probably was at their house right now.
At some point she realized she was in a closed space, alone with her murderer, with no defense beyond some flimsy pajamas and a blanket of bunny skins and acrylic. When she turned and saw him, his back to the door, his eyes sparking light that wasn't in the room, she first got very quiet, feeling the quiver through her body, even her cunt, getting weak, getting, wet, and then she started to laugh, a giggle at first but then so hard she had to collapse on the bed where he joined her, offering a glass of wine that either he or John had prepared for her.
But they both laughed just as hard.
"I...don't know...what Ms. Manners would say...about what you should first...say...to your killer, you know?" she gasped out.
"And I'm not really sure what the anniversary gift is for They laughed themselves down and then she looked at him. "I know, dearest love. Traditional or final, at twenty, for us, it's steel." She smiled wryly. "I don't suppose you remembered our anniversary....oooh, I suppose you did, then."
For Don held up the one thing he'd been careful to bring; an eight-inch dagger he'd had custom made with the blade very thick towards the cross-shaped guard and maroon leather-wrapped leather hilt, and then narrowing sharply. The point was sharp as a needle, and one side of the blade from about halfway down was laser-sharpened, a millimeter thick, if it touched her skin she'd be cut and never know it.
But she'd sure as shit be cut.
She took only a moment in the dim light to look at it with the proper reverence before she touched his hand on the hilt and used it to bring the blade towards her. At last, close enough, she kissed the flat about halfway down and finally, her eyes on his (his eyes on hers), she licked the blade near the tip. Instantly the red appeared, the merlot that only her body could make. Without volition he drank from her mouth as he would from a golden cup and he realized with a thrill in his veins that it was what he'd dreamt of. This wouldn't be him but them (or even THEM). And then he saw in her eyes that she understood as well and through the kiss they smiled.
He held her head to his while he reached beside the bed. He pulled up another of the slender, very slim crystal white-wine cups like her own and then he put the blade to his own tongue and to hers again and held the empty cup to their mouths. She opened her eyes to watch his, pressed her still-lush body on his, and rubbed her tongue on his. The blood flowed from them both into the lovely, paper-thin glass as they watched each others eyes, exchanging feelings, simple love and desire and pain, but more, I-want-to-hurt-you-because-I-love-you, I-desire-pain-because-I-need-you, and much more that couldn't even be articulated in human words.
Drops ran into the almost empty cups, thick and so catching on the edge, but perhaps eleven or sixteen or twenty-three drops fell in that fashion. They really weren`t in any state to count. When the cuts had for the most part closed Don she drew his head to hers with one hand, sucking hard, her sharing the pain, and the other hand adding another fluid from a bottle he`d brought. In the moment their mouths were apart she smiled; she remembered when they`d made this elixir and what concoction he`d just made. She laughed, thinking of the magick they were practicing. _You know, that wine should be rose._
He glared at her. _Twenty point penalty. Besides_ he poured some of the fluid into her glass and some of the Calloway Chardonnay into his _now it is._
They drank, eyes on each other`s as always in this dance, and then went back to kissing, mingling all the fluids together and drawing fresh blood as well.
Finally after all their sucking and licking she pulled away and he looked at her, worry in his eyes. "What?" he asked before she could speak. "Oh, Princess, forgive, I forgot how you need the music..."
At the touch of a button Steely Dan's 'Aja' began and as she sank against the cushions she realized were all goosedown, all eight of them. "Ahhhh....another reason I married you, you always do thing of every little thing."
He pounced on her, lording it over her like a mountain lion with his prey. "I told you...you'd have to let go, my...prey..." And he pressed the blade to her neck just as he pressed his teeth there as well.
He put his body above hers, one hand caressing her body. She knew very well and was very pleased where the other hand was going. He touched her as he'd touched her when she was sixteen and he nineteen, from the hairline down, all the way, nothing taboo and her body all fascinating, arousing, his. Sometimes the knife followed, sometimes it led, sometimes it lay on the bed and she caressed it as he caressed her. Even her toes were his to play with; the things shed normally say "no" to by preference mattered not at all this time. Her body would never be played with again, nor he ever touch her again. She would limit nothing.
So he spent some time, his head between her legs, tongue on her clit and labia, making a concession to her distaste by using the knife to trace her thighs, assuring her trembling, automatic to the knife's blade, and her wetness. He gave himself over to the pleasure of this, he`d tasted her like this so seldom, and never with her body so relaxed in all the right ways, tensed in all the right ways. And then he moved up, his lips to hers, and shared that wetness and felt her pleasure in that as well.
And the dance went on.
She'd gone beyond wondering where he would begin, where her blood would truly flow, when, his body against hers, crotch to crotch, breast to breast, lip to lip with passionate kisses, he traced the knife along her face. She had no fear, she knew he'd never mar her appearance. And then as the knife passed below the bone of her face it pressed and she was cut, Gods she was cut_ The edge made a line, to any coroner shallow but to both of them deep indeed, a quarter, a half-inch, almost randomly from the edge of her throat all the way along to the middle of her opposite, left breast and even below...but then he turned the point to her body and plunged it into her an inch, two. She was stabbed, it was begun, and she had been surprised, truly surprised. She opened her mouth for a little scream and she pulled his head back by his hair, then saw the look in his eyes and her wide lips curved in an eternal smile. _Very good m`Lord, victory to you._ But he could see the gratitude in her eyes, no woman had ever felt more pleasure from a gift from her lover, not in the history of the world. He had done what was right, not just for him, but for her.
Luscha had felt like life was at best half worth living until tonight. Now, she wanted to live forever and as she listened to the saxophone and felt her blood pool under her breast, run down her body, felt him drink from it, felt him plunge into her. And now, after all these years and all these experiences she understood the value of life. It was hard not to fight for it, but she could feel in her cells that in some sense "time" had been called. And the end of the bridge in the song 'Aja' told her completely as she relaxed and pulled his head to his. She belonged to him. It was odd, she'd belonged to him all that time, but had longed for death instead, for years and years, and now when she finally had her release, she almost wished she could stay with him, have another twenty years. And yet she could feel all that she was gaining in this death. She sang softly in his ear, trying to give some back. "Aja...when all my dime dancin' is through, I run to....yoooouuu.."
Don's knife at last slipped slowly deep into Luscha's breast deepdeepdeeper drawing the blood into her lung and a moan from her throat that brought frothy blood to her lips. He moved on her, the stab of flesh and the stab of steel together, so obvious, but nonetheless profound in this moment when it really, truly was happening. He didn`t ever take the knife from her body, merely (merely?) moved down through her belly where their child had been and slipping the flat past her cunt and brushing his own cock and thence to her thighs where the blood flowed so quickly, this is the end, it was that that set her free...as her body struggled to keep her conscious, to keep her there even as the blood loss began to take the strength from her whole body, even as blood in her lungs reduced the oxygen flow there making her whole body fight harder_but something beyond them both called to them, forced them to continue along this path.
It was far beyond two people and their own desires.
There was a moment, blue eyes staring into green as she bled to death, as he slid his body blood-slicked up against hers and said "Lu love" and she said "Don I will see you again I owe you I love you I worship yoougggkkkkghh" and the end trailed into a blood gurgle and her sexual release never came and his followed only seconds after 'she` was gone from him, came just as his tears did.
But perfection wasn`t achieved through things like that. They knew the purpose of what they were giving, and they were hardly the only (couple/trio/tetro) to give this up. What Don gave, and what Luscha gave, did not go unacknowledged.
Later a live one lay above a much loved dead one and looked into those eyes and wondered at how quickly they clouded over. Then he thought of that girl that was so much herself and had been so much a Mother and he pulled himself back from putting the knife right into his own stomach.
He at last opened the car trunk. "Spirits in the Night" was playing from the radio. Scared eyes looked up from above.
"You got a long night ahead of you, shithead", he said. There was no feeling left in his voice.
VC/06/30/01