A/N: All quotes in italics are from ‘Milagro’, written by Chris Carter.

Once alone in the comfort of her own living room, she realised that she had never even known who he was. A stranger to her, as if they had passed one moonlit evening on the streets of her home town but never ventured forth to say even one word to each other. His forthcoming nature had shocked her this morning, the way he had simply walked over, introduced himself, his words like poetry, his voice like some weapon of seduction trained to fire over and over without respite. She smiled nervously as she realised she had almost dropped her newspaper at the assured way he had approached her.

“All morning the stranger's unsolicited compliments had played on the dampened strings of her instrument until the middle ‘C’ of consciousness was struck square and resonant. She was flattered.”

She was confused. Evening had flown in fast as if she had willed it here herself and she sat alone in a crowded restaurant, watching the door expectantly, eagerly, hopefully. She waited alone and finally, just as she was about to leave, he entered the room. Her heart rose to her throat and she felt choked. What was she supposed to say to him? What was the purpose of their meeting? Had she felt herself bend to his will so easily this morning? She knew the reason, she had known all along.

“The stranger had looked her in the eye and knew her more completely than she knew herself. She felt wild, feral, guilty as a criminal.”

‘I love him’. The childish notion ran through her mind over and over again. She couldn’t think straight. They had only spent a short time together yet already she could feel herself falling deeper and deeper under his spell. The stranger smiled mysteriously, spoke of things she had never known – he knew languages, had lived overseas, his life was a union of all the things she wished she could have done but never had the chance to. Why was she here? She wished she had the energy to get up; to leave, but his mere presence had sapped her will like a vampire in the night. She had to stay, forever falling.

She woke alone, the indentation of his body still on the sheets beside her but it was cold. He had been gone for hours and feeling foolish, she allowed herself to cry. She was a foolish girl. She had fallen in love in a day and now she was reaping the repercussions of her heart’s seed.

“Grief squeezed at her eggshell heart like it might break into a thousand pieces its contents running like broken promises into the hollow places his love used to fill.”

The note fell from her hands as if she had lost all sensory capability. His words that had once curled up inside her, wrapped around her spine like silk now burned into her skin like acid. She had let him in, allowed herself to throw caution to the wind and let him in to her life, her heart… her bed. Now, he was gone and she knew nothing else. The stranger had somehow managed to conquer her entire being. Now that he was gone, she had nothing left. Nothing left to live for, nothing left…

The slice of the razorblade only stung for a moment and then nothing. She looked down at the bath water, watching as her life dripped slowly away, the water turning from rose pink to a deep red. Panic took over her, the realisation that it was too late to change her mind, too late to stop herself. She was fading away. She was falling… falling almost as fast as she had fallen for him. She wondered where he was now, wondered what he was doing, wondered why he had hurt her, wondered… wondered…

“… to have love was to carry a vessel that could be lost or stolen or worse, spilled blood-red on the ground. And that love was not immutable and could become hate, as day becomes night, as life becomes death.”

The stranger stood at the bathroom window, the inside cloudy with steam and condensation. He could still make her out. Her milk-white skin shining softly against the deep red of the bloody water, her head fallen backwards as if she were sleeping. His lips formed a cruel smile as though he had no feeling at all. Nothing could stop him from enjoying his handy work, he was proud. She had taken her own life and it had taken only a letter. His own blood coursed through his body, hot and bitter with lies and deceit. He wondered how many more women would fall victim to his charms, to his lies. He wondered… wondered…

End