|The Black Dahlia
Author: bittersweet.season PM
This is all your fault, he told her. And, oh, she screamed so loud that it was the epitome of bloody murder. just perfect for Hollywood.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Tragedy - Words: 979 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 06-02-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2370507
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
a/n: inspired by what I found out about the black dahlia, and in part by Herz, a piece of writing on FC.
His song was like Billy Joel's "Honesty"
Where as hers was more along the lines
of Rihanna's "Unfaithful."
The lyrics just spelled out –
d i s a s t e r.
"This", he accused quietly, " is all your fault."
She stepped back, scared at the tone of his voice.
"All your fault!" he screamed advancing. "Do you know that? Do you? DO? YOU?"
"Dawling, please. Please, what are you doing?" She backed up some more, half tripping over rocks. His eyes were black with anger, hair ruffled by the wind, jaw set. He looked like a killer. "We – we were having… a nice picnic, we were enjoying the wine. Why can't be just go back to that?"
"Yeah, Bets, a nice picnic until you told me, until you told me what you did! And you want me to forget about it?" he yelled. The words were spilling form him frantically. "You want me to act like you didn't just rip my heart out, and pretend like its okay? NO – Bets, no. We're not going back. We're not going to forget about it this time."
"Why are you doing this?" she screamed in terror, running behind the W of the Hollywood sign.
"Why?" he smiled, grabbing the back of her yellow sundress as she tried to evade him. He snaked his arm around her waist, other hand in her hair, like a lover. But she saw the look on his face, maniacal, and knew that this would not end with a kiss. "Oh, Bets," he sighed, almost wishfully, "honey, you know exactly why. You can't go around using people and not expect consequences, you cant always get what you want." There was pain now, guilt. The dark stubble of his strong jaw rubbed against her face, and the muscles in his arm twitched twitched. She could see in him now what she fallen for in the first place.
Using the tenderness of the moment against him, she slipped her arm into his hair, down his neck, and pressed down on his pressure point. He pushed away from her with a profane yowl. Clutching his neck, he yelled, "You wench! See what I mean! This, this is why!"
She ran from him, but not knowing where. In those heels, no doubt she would break her leg trying to go down the hills herself.
The moment of hesitation cost her. He grabbed her form behind, one hand tight around her neck, the other gripping her writs behind her back. He pulled her backward, away from the cliffs. "No, no, darling. It won't be that easy."
He turned her to him, so that their faces were centimeters apart. "We could have worked it out, baby," she said, now crying. Her makeup was smudged now, red lipstick off the sides of her lips.
"Not this one," he whispered, rubbing his face across her neck. His sweat pressed on her. "You've broken me too many times, used me. It can't go on." He looked her in the eyes, and they were unreadable.
"Then just let me go," she pleaded.
"So you can go and do this to somebody else? HUH? So you can go and USE THEM, too? No, I don't think so." He was crying now, too.
She stopped crying. Squared her jaw and said, "You know, you always were fragile. The others, they got over it, but you are just so breakable."
His eyes widened at this, and he pushed her to the ground. Pulling a knife form his pocket, he held her face and cut her mouth, from ear to ear.
She screamed. Oh, she screamed. Just loud enough so that it was the epitome of bloody murder.
"There" he said. "See if you ever use that mouth again. See if you'll ever kiss someone the same, or hurt them." Her eyes were drooping now, her hair stained with blood. "It's good to know that I was the last one that your mouth belonged to."
Her tears were ruby red, her nose running. "Oh, Bets, don't cry. Don't cry, yet, honey." Wiping away the tears, he frowned. "I'm just getting started."
When he was done, he couldn't help but laugh at the irony of the scene. The picnic basket and blanket were still perfect. Unused plates still immaculate, cutlery set perfectly, and the wine glasses were both half drunk. Her severed body was next to the blanket, mutilated and vulgar. He smiled, and then vomited, while tears fell from his eyes in torrents. His t–shirt and pants were stained and repugnant, and he took them off with haste, appalled.
A dahlia rested by her body, stained black by dirt and dried blood, swaying in his direction.
"I know!" he screamed at it. He stared at he blank eyes, and tried to picture them alive, but there was nothing, "Believe me, I know. But you did this. You didn't have to ruin everything, but you did and this is what you get for it. I did everything for you, broke all the rules. And now your dead, and I'm just as bad as you, because you just as good killed me, but I don't feel like this makes it better because now your just gone and I hate you for it, but I hate myself more. You could have had it all but you wanted even more, you stupid, arrogant, manipulative, beautiful black dahlia." And he wept at her feet and tried to shake her awake, but she remained severed and bloody and dead, and it hurt so bad when he realized that it was all.his.fault.