Posted by Megaton on October 11, 2000 at 21:19:59:
They were making love, Megan and Gary, groaning in ecstasy in their bedroom. Gary touched her, fondled her,
whispered things to her that made her heart beat harder, her body more responsive to his expert thrusts. He wasn’t like
the other men she’d known; he knew that a woman needs more than sex. She needs attention, warmth, respect. Love.
Sex with Gary was better than she had believed possible. So much more than the mechanical in-and-out that the other
men had given her. Sometimes she wished Gary had been the first. She had her eyes closed; now she opened them just
a bit, just enough to watch him in the pale moonlight. He had his eyes closed too, making little noises deep in his throat.
She liked that. She remembered Charlie, the way he had stared down possessively at her, like he was somehow in
control.
She actually thought she loved Charlie once. She was so lucky Gary had come along.
There was a flash that lit the room, a bang that shook the walls. Gary suddenly cried out, a strange yelping sound that Meg had never heard him make before, and arched his back, drove
himself so deep into Meg that it hurt. She opened her eyes wide, said his name: watched in horror as blood bubbled from his
lips, dripped onto her face and neck. He shuddered, coughed a nasty, gurgling cough, and collapsed across her, his warm
body heavy and hard on top her sexy, small white form. His eyes stared out, wide, seeing nothing.
“G-Gary! Oh my God!” She tried to push his limp body away, felt her hands slip in the blood that poured down his firm,
hard back. Looked into his handsome dead face, terror boiling in her guts. He was still within her, his hips still
thrusting, hard and strong. When we die, we die in pieces. Gary was dead, but nervous impulse carried on, mindlessly,
mechanically, driven by reflex.
Meg managed to push his body to one side, reached down to grab the thrusting hips, trying to pull his dead penis from
within her. Necro fantasies had haunted her since her youth; now, as the real thing took place, all she felt was revulsion
and terror. She cried out his name again and again, but he could not hear her, could not help her.
The figure standing in the doorway walked over to the side of the bed, looked down at the dead man, at his struggling,
frightened lover, and spoke. “Hello, Megan.”
The voice scared her more than the murder had. “Charlie!” She saw him there in the moonlight from the window, saw
the pistol in his hand. The pistol that was pointed down, between her ripe, round breasts. “Charlie, no, please,
PLEASE!” She fought to sit up, to get out from under her dead lover’s body, to break free and run, run away, save
herself from Charlie, the crazy killer. Charlie, the man she had almost married.
The gun roared, deafening in the confines of the tiny room. A giant’s fist hit Meg in the chest, slammed her against the
bed, shattered her sternum, ripped a hole in her terrified heart. She looked down at her chest, saw the dark fountain
spurting up between her quivering, heaving breasts, a crimson geyser numbering the beats of her dying heart.
Charlie chuckled, a cruel smile on his features, eyes filled with hate as he watched Meg twist and writhe beneath Gary’s
body, watched her press her small hands to the wound, moaning as she tried to stop the bleeding, sobbing weakly as the
blood spurted out rhythmically from between her fingers, from beneath her hands. She gasped, snapped at the air,
managed to fill her lungs. Choked out her last words: “C-Charlie, why?”
For answer, he pulled the trigger again. The bullet dug a hole through Megan’s left breast, plowed through heart and
lung, stopped somewhere in the muscles in her back. She threw her head back, cords standing out in her white throat,
and screamed. Slowly she turned her face to look at Charlie, accusation in her eyes. Then she turned away from him,
concentrated all her ebbing life on Gary, the man she loved.
Charlie stepped back and watched, annoyed. Why wasn't she fighting, pleading, trying not to die? He wanted to see her struggle, wanted her to know what happened to people who betrayed Charlie Harold.
But for Meg, Charlie wasn’t there, he no longer existed for her. There
was no more fear, no more shock, and the pain didn’t matter. She knew she was dying; she wanted to die loving Gary.
Slowly, with intense effort, she put her arms around Gary, pulled him back on top of her. His hips were still working,
beginning to slow down now, as death flowed through his body. She held Gary to her with all her might, her fingernails digging into
the flesh of his back. If he had been alive he would have cried out in pain and ecstasy; dead, he mutely endured her
dying grip, his eyes staring into hers. She clung to him, kissed his mouth with final, fiery passion, pushing her tongue into
his mouth, tasting him for the last time.
Dead, he continued coitus, ever more slowly, ever more shallowly. Her heart weakly throbbed, coating her breasts and
his chest with her blood. Her eyelids fluttered; her eyes rolled back as she felt herself dying and coming at the same time.
A final ecstatic shudder swept through her soft, white body as she followed Gary in death.
Charlie continued to watch until Gary’s hips were finally still. Then he turned and left the way he came. They found him
the next day, sitting behind the wheel of his car, a bullet in his head. The hasty scribbled note seemed to make no sense:
“I KILLED THEM BOTH. THOUGHT I COULD TEACH HER A LESSON.
I WAS WRONG.
EVEN IN DEATH, SHE WAS STILL HIS.”
Still his. Always and forever.