Title: Lover’s Deception

Author: Eáránë Serágon

Rating: PG-13

Summery: His source of love … His source of hate … His source of life … His source of death … His source of salvation … His source of pain. All leading to one final act. Short story.

Peeves: Botched up spacing. Again. As well as Italics that don’t quite work. _

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Idly his footsteps echoed, ominous in his own ears, yet muted to the persons around him, had there been any. Darkness encased his entire form, for even the stars seemed to cower in fear at his presence. Glossy brown eyes darted this way and that, a certain precaution and awareness alight in their chocolate depths.

As his shoes pounded and his heart mirrored its intensity, vaguely he halted, his eyes once again darting around the baron streets, in fear of watching eyes. Waving branches, tumbling grains of brown, sticky dirt, and the overall sounds of the night greeted his now overly sensitive ears, consoling him, and yet leaving him unexpectedly over-alert.

His body swung swiftly back in the direction he had been heading from, his feet moving on their own accord. His mind raced as it fully comprehended, for the first time that evening, the ultimate horror of his actions on this night. It was only then did he allow his eyes to travel down his own tired body, widening after every inch that he was able to witness. His formerly white shirt was red, blood red; though he would swear on his life he had not spilled a drop. The thin fabric clung to his skin, pasted by a strong, sticky liquid that his mind was too disgusted to comprehend.

Wearily, he held up a shaking hand, feeling a chill run down his spine and a gasp leave his lips at the sight before him. His hands were stained a horrible shade of scarlet, leaving his eyes wide and horrified as he struggled to hold down the burning bile that rose into his throat.

He felt himself begin to tremble, rap and violent, so strong that he felt himself become immobile for a few short moments. His mind desperately tried to recall the events of the night that he was about to leave behind; however, it appeared he had recovered a case of amnesia after the events, as well as a disheveled mind.

His eyes finally allowed themselves to leave his hands, sticky and caked with the hardened liquid of death, though he would swear once again he hadn’t spilled a drop. There, in his vision, less than a mile ahead, was a forest, cast and dark and excellent in itself. The darkness gave the trees light, yet caused their shadows to be luminous, dominating him and laughing at his obvious pain. Together they waved and mocked him, their branches reaching out in union as though to punish him for his dastardly deed.

His deed. His mind began to spin as he thought these words. It appeared it was coming back to him, slowly and carefully, but indeed, the images were coming back. In his right mind, he wasn’t quite sure he particularly wanted to remember, but there was no way he could stop his thoughts.

~ It was a stormy night, lightning striking with a spooky air. Two figures were wrapped together in one another’s arms, silhouetted through the curtains by the sporadic lightning. ~

He shook his head, desperately trying to escape the images of that night, turning on a dime away from the view of the forest and beginning to scurry hurredly in the opposite direction, towards his destination. Where his destination was, he was not quite sure.

~ A man, standing, aghast and heartbroken, his eyes fixed on he windows above him. His hand, holding a beautiful bouquet of the finest flowers that his money could buy, was trembling violently. The flowers were strewn carelessly on the flooded ground beside him, his hand shaking too strongly in shock to hold them up. His breathing appeared to have stalled, to the point where he wondered if he would ever be able to breath again, and he felt his heart ripping itself to pieces inside of his chest. ~

His breathing became heavy, and he hurried on, trying to escape the memories, as though if he walked fast enough, they would not catch up. However, such a thing was impossible. He glanced behind him at the empty street, his eyes paranoid and searching for anything suspicious, perhaps his memories would take physical shape to devour him, or a witness of his disgusting act.

~ A rock, large and destructive looking, seemed perfectly fit for his regular-sized hand as he clutched it. He was surprised it did not crumble to pieces in his rage. His blind rage did not offer condolences, but instead controlled his body, his mind smirking as he launched the rock at the forbidden window where his lover so willingly offered themselves to another. ~

He closed his eyes, muttering to himself to try to ward away the memories. They were of no use to him now, why on earth were they haunting him? He preferred to not remember, why would they not go away?

~ A sickening crash of glass and wood was heard throughout the street, and the sound of two startled cries rang out loud and clear. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to throw another, but instead turned and retreated at a brisk pace, the sound o f his former lover’s cries echoing after him, calling his name with such an anguish that it caused his eyes to tear with sorrow. ~

He remembered all too well…

A picnic, it had been, a Saturday evening picnic. Here he had invited them, to talk out their differences. He had also invited his love to watch the sunset, as an apology for breaking the window. He believed, however, he was not the one whom should be apologizing, however if he did not apologize, he would carry his deed to the grave and beyond, with his guilt holding him to the earth through eternity.

It had been awkward, the meeting, for this was no doubt. However, they would not have expected it. Neither of them would have. Indeed, he appeared to be quite accepting, perhaps too accepting, considering his position as the partner whom was left behind.

His callused hand felt its way to his pants pocket, and despite his horror, and guilt at his own doings, a small smirk flittered to his face as he thought. He hoped the one chosen above him was miserable; he dearly did, for if they were not, he feared it would be them he would have to go after next. In his anger he did not care of the light of judgment, or the imaginary passersby that littered the streets. All he cared for was revenge, sweet revenge that would get him exactly what he wanted. Absentmindedly he stroked the knife in his pocket, pondering and picturing exactly what could be done to his victim…

In one split second, he felt the knife pierce his finger. Cursing, he quickly pulled his hand from his pocket, immersing his finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding on impulse. He could not think, and in that split second his mind scrambled, his thoughts jumbled together in a large pool of words and memories he desperately wished he could forget.

The small pinprick his weapon of choice had enforced was indeed a large wake up call.

He had killed his lover.

The one he cared for more than life itself.

The one he lived for.

The one he would die for.

Hastily, he snatched the knife from his pocket, his breathing ragged and his eyes frantic. His ision took in the hand holding the knife, stained as though he were wearing gloves of evil and violence, before moving up his arm, splattered with remnants of the final hit. Finally to his shirt, formerly white but now dyed a hideous shade of wet, sticky scarlet.

Ahead he spied a puddle, small and insignificant, yet placed in a rather large dip in the concrete road. His source of salvation … His source of truth. He tripped over his feet clumsily as they carried him to the shimmering pool, his desperation to become clean of his deed overpowering his instinctive urge to look graceful.

He gazed at his reflection in the shimmering water, unable to suppress his gasping sob as he saw the unbelievably noticeable specs of blood covering his normally relaxed, carefree face. In fact, he looked nothing of his normal, fun self, as he examined in the mirror-like surface. Dark circles encased his eyes, practically swallowing them, and dark shadows covered his features, causing him to look much more devious and disturbed than he had enough sanity to ignore.

He felt tears dripping down his dirty, blood-specked cheeks, leaving clean tracks that shone brightly through the darkness of the night. His tears began to drip, sending ripples into the small puddle, and he imagined that the small surface was indeed crying with him, and he was not alone with his pain in the world.

But he was. He had killed his soul-mate, murdered in cold blood. He had never fully comprehended the meaning of that phrase until this very moment. Oh, how cold his lover’s blood felt against his skin, chilling him to the bone and turning his skin to ice under its’ guilt-filled spilling. He was not one to mourn; if it had not been for him, his love would still be amoung the living.

The knife, the bearer of all this pain on this night. He steadied himself with his shame-stained hands as he turned to search out the glistening, beautiful weapon, his eyes as sharp as a hawk’s in his own mind, and his heart giving him a steady drumbeat of encouragement.

Spotting a glisten of silver on the sidewalk, his breathing hitched, and he could feel the comforting yet frightening drumbeat come to a halt. His eyes fixed on that glistening blade of salvation, and he knew what he had to do.

His breath came out in shallow gasps as he crawled, on his hands and knees, towards the knife. It was the knife in which his love’s blood had been shed, an image of perfect helplessness. And here he was, the perfect image of a desperate man. Indeed, it appeared they were the same, in ways his panic-stricken mind could not quite put together.

Now is the time, he assured himself as he grasped the knife once more, Different intentions, but altogether, it is the same.

Together, that was you and I … He cried mentally, aware that his dead lover could not hear him. And together we will be again …

He held up the knife, and, without hesitation, pierced it into his chest. To the passerby, a clean man, in a bleached white shirt, no outer signs of the murder that had been committed. To himself, a cold-blooded killer, drenched by the blood of his victim and the guilt of his deed. His gasp of surprise, shock, and pain mixed in with his final breath were muted altogether by his one, last thought.

… In death …