there’s a skyline in oklahoma

title taken from the Common Rotation song Oklahoma.

you fall asleep to country music—folk, you keep telling yourself firmly, since you’d never be caught dead listening to country, even out here—curled up on your beat-up couch, an indian blanket around your shoulders. your book slips out of your hands & falls to the floor; it’s so soft from being read that it barely makes a sound. dorian’s picture remains untarnished.

the old grandfather clock tick-tocks at the other end of the room; gorgeous old wood like the entire house. the blinds shudder lightly against the windows. the bookshelf creaks. you still sleep, your tea sitting cold in a mug on the low coffee table.

you’re awakened by a shot. two shots. three. you scramble up, knock your tea over. there’s a banging on your door.

“open up!” a gruff, loud voice shouts, shatters the stillness left behind. you’re filled with panic, but still remember to grab your pistol, hide it in the folds of your sweater. you open the door, trying to calm your shaking hands.

“why, sheriff jones,” you say, sweet as a southern belle. the lawman’s not fooled. as he steps closer, a figure materializes behind him.

“alex.”

“hello, princess,” a sneer & a drawl & your breath leaves you in a swirl of fear & rage. you raise your pistol, aim it with steady hands, but the sheriff, alex & all the little lawmen they brought to take you down raise their weapons. you look through the faces; jt, the butcher’s son; matt, who bakes the best bread for hundreds of miles in his daddy’s shop; alyssa, the only woman allowed, who always has her nose stuck in a book.

you remember why you first picked this place, this little town of nothing; somewheresville, midwest, usa.

“hannah underwood, i’m here to place you under arrest.”

everyone knew each other, but they didn’t ask questions. you told them you was a runaway & they didn’t press for more; well, except missus hall— the widow—the town gossip.

the people here—the ones at the library who hired you; the ones you regularly bought things from; your “friends”—they knew you jessica linderman, the barely-legal lady who knew more of history & literature than anyone in town. you were an unknown, with just enough charm to capture everyone’s hearts. including alex’s.

you went into the local bar looking for food & perhaps a little poking & prodding at the town gullibility. you left with a buzz & a number.

you wonder now, as you stand at an impasse, if you’d given alex the scent of your past by confessing to a secret. under drink, you cried on his chest as he held you; you told him you’d done some bad things.

“everyone has.” he was calm, but puzzled. he’s one of those figure-it-out types, you know now.

you look at him now, eyes hard, hand twitchy on his gun; you step until you’re face-to-face. he’s breathing heavy; he’s so far beyond angry, you recognize.

“je t’aime,” you say softly; you wilt; almost drop your gun.

“jess,” jt reaches out to you.

you turn smoothly & shoot him through the head. your heart vomits as your finger clutches at the trigger.

there’s a silences as his body crumples; alyssa cried once, then stiffens her upper lip & holds her gun tighter; the sheriff stares in disbelief.

alex is the only one who shows his emotion. he utters a sound, loud, hurt, betrayed. predatory.

(you almost think you can hear a werewolf beneath.)

in quick succession, you shoot the sheriff the same way as jt; matt gets a bullet in the chest; alyssa, her eyes wide with fear & wet with tears, falls clutching her stomach (you made sure that one wasn’t a fatal shot).

only alex is left.

“hannah,” his voice snarls your real name. you shiver. you always did like it when he got angry.

“alex,” of course, it’s different this time. his anger, righteous & not at all pure, is directed at you. the woman you pretended to be; the woman you are; the criminal you are.

“so what’s it gonna be?”

“you or me?” you laugh. “you always did watch too many westerns, dear.”

“don’t—” he stops, teeth clenched so hard you can hear them clicking together.

“well, now it’s time for the villain to make a speech,” you say.

“where she talks herself to distraction & the hero gets a shot to kill her?”

you snort. “yes, exactly. no, the one where she tempts the hero into joining her.”

“that’s never gonna happen.”

you quirk an eyebrow. “you sure about that?”

“pretty damn sure.”

“d’you wanna hear what my life was like?”

“not really, no.”

“i lived like john wayne. well, not really. his characters’ morals were close to the morals of society.”

“but not yours.”

“it depends on the laws that stood in my way.”

“what laws did hannah object to?”

“oh, come now, alex. it’s still jessica here.”

“how’d you come up with her? that persona?” he doesn’t give an inch. your hand’s getting tired from being coiled against the gun; you’re both still aiming for the other’s heart.

“she’s a part of hannah. part that hasn’t been used much, but it’s still me.”

“how old were you when you made your first kill?” a snarl.

you answer honestly (truthfully), “seventeen.”

“ten years ago.”

“yes.”

it’s rapid-fire from there.

“how many people have you murdered since?”

“it’s hard to say.”

“gimme an estimate.”

“i really don’t actually know.”

“how many?”

“ten?”

“liar.”

“you’re right.”

“your sheet says more.”

“then why ask?”

“i wanted to hear you say it.” a pause. “make it real.”

“you really are a sap, ain’tcha, alex?” a shot whizzes by your head; takes a bit of loose hair with it. you grin. this is what you were raised on; that adrenaline as you dodge death’s grasp. alex stares at you, eyes wide & burning.

“you’re really crazy,” he says. he’s sad, you can tell; sad about losing jessica & gaining hannah.

“alex,” you say softly. you’re jessica again & he recognizes it; falters.

“don’t—” again. you take the opportunity, the chance.

“just come with me.”

“no.”

“take a week off, see how i live. try my world on.”

“why?”

“because you’d like it.”

“but why would i go with you?”

“because i’m inviting you & you’re interested.”

“why invite me?” he doesn’t deny he’s interested.

you inhale deeply, prepare for something you’ve been grappling with.

“because i didn’t lie when i said i’m attracted to you.” you stare beyond his form. “i’d go so far as to say i love you.” your voice cracks, breaks. hannah rebels against this show of emotion.

“wow.”

you shift focus to him; he’s staring at you. disbelief floods his face. hope? you smile tentatively; lower your eyes for a moment to keep yourself together.

“you really think i’m gonna fall for that shit?”

your eyes snap back t his face. he’s got that sneer on again. you see he’s lowered his weapon in his incredulity; the better to look upon you as the common criminal he thinks you are.

“i—” your brain shorts; there’s no way to resolve this if he won’t believe you. but he won’t shoot you.

“you,” he grins, predatory. raises his gun to your forehead. “goodbye, dear.”

“goodbye,” you whisper.

there’s a shot.

- - - - - - -

five months later, you’re in an airport in belarus.

a man wanders over to where you’re sitting; he’s so conspicuous that you find yourself giggling softly. you control yourself as he sits down at the bar & orders a wine.

“you are she?” his heavy eastern european accent is covered by the noise of the television. the news is on. there’s been a “terrorist attack”—a bomb—an explosion. a murder.

“who else would i be?” you reply; you sip at your cosmopolitan. you grimace at the taste & order a martini. the man chuckles, nods.

“this is for you.” he slides you an envelope that was once bright white & official but now has wine & cigarette ash mashed into it. you wrinkle your nose, but take it anyways.

her name is katanya & she’s very pretty. she’s also very young. she’s also the daughter of a very powerful man. you pocket the information & down your martini a bit too fast.

“pleasure doin’ business,” you murmur; hold out your hand to the man. he takes it with a sweat palm. kisses it with what he obviously thinks is a roguish grin.

“luck be with you.”

“merci,” you say lightly. you rise & take your single bag & walked off without a glance back. you don’t pat for your drinks.

this is your life now, this inside world of meetings & money & murder.

you’ll never give it up. you can’t, anyways; it’s a part of you. it follows you, in the wake of the dawn.