Author's Note: Story was inspired by Evanescence's song "Lose Control." Lyrics were installed into this short story and full credit is given to Amy Lee's genius.
You don't remember my name;
I don't really care.
I stood at a distance, being just a silhouette smudged against the horizon to those that I watched. My eyes were trained on two lovers seated on an oaken park bench, the one who I had come to love having his arms tangled about a lovely brunette's waist. They were lost in themselves, completely and wholly one. It was a combination of true yearning, of fairytale love and movie romance; drawing their souls unto one with shackles, as if soul mates were not a thing of your imagination.
My love leaned forward, cradling the woman's chin in his hand to lift her face to his; he kissed her once, a sweet, tender lush kiss reserved for those you loved. There was a temporary blaze of sinister yet indefinable sentiment in my emerald eyes captivated on the beautiful duet, causing my sylphlike fingers to curl inward and collect into quivering fists. Chills ran up my spine, almost reminding me of where I was and to maintain my wits.
Spiraling on the sharp tip of my stiletto, I turn my head to seize a glimpse once more at the one I cherished who was interlocked with the one he held closest. My thinly chiseled eyebrows were furrowed, forcing a tremor of melancholy to befall my wan face. Trying to push all these emotions that dared to surface, feelings of trepidation, heartache and, the most strongest, sheen animosity back down into my core, I forced my tears back into their ducts and turned from the sight. They had become tangled, his hips rocking rhythmically between the warmth of his new blossom's thighs.
Can we play the game your way?
Can I really lose control?
My name is Autumn Horizon. For years I have loved Michael Ravenblayde, but we have never met eye to eye. The reigns of his heart was pulled by larger infatuation beyond my offerings, things that I could not supposedly fulfill. Even though it was made pristinely clear that we would never become something, he left me death perfumed lullabies of promises and set-up pathways of self-destruction for me to toil upon.
You could consider me a delicate flower; you could consider me something much more than that. But this desire that pulls beneath my surface, daring to shatter my flawless façade and wrought powerful gales of fiery malignance upon my crystalline fake make-up; daring to expose who I was beneath this flesh, daring to expose my insanity and my deepest, dirtiest secrets.
Then again, we're all a little insane.
Just once in my life I think it'd be nice just to lose control, just once;
With all the pretty flowers in the dust...
I went to see Michael the next day. I couldn't resist the temptation. I wanted to know if he would tell me about his new icon of adoration or if he would try to keep it underwater. I mean, if he hid it from me... that mean he cared for me to some extent, right? If he bothered to waste his breath with lies, then that must meant I meant something to him... right?
I couldn't tell you to this day if it was hardened disbelief and the refusal to let go of denial that made me visit Michael. I couldn't tell you either if what happened had already been planned in the subconscious of my mind, that somewhere deep down inside I knew what my genuine intentions were.
Love can be a beautiful thing, a beautiful thing of fucking beautiful madness. It can drive people into wholesome euphoria or into the bowels of hell. It could provide salvation or damnation. Michael was my Heaven, my Hell. He was my fucking everything. He was the razor blade that licked my skin, staining the floor with my atrocities. He was the reason why I woke in the mornings, the reason why I dreamt at night. I love and loved him so very much, so very, very much.
The thing about love that most don't realize is how it can be one-sided. I like to believe that if you love someone so much that it's only probable that the love was given back, but that, my friends, is a fucking lie. A little white lie that most do not dare to acknowledge.
Just once in my life I think it'd be nice just to lose control,
Just to lose complete control.
I knocked on his door once, twice and then thrice. I was semi-patient with waiting for an answer but dread knotted my stomach when I was standing still for minutes. Maybe he had spent the night at the brunette's house, or perhaps they had fallen asleep on the park bench with him still inside her...
Goosebumps covered my arms (ones of fear or of disgust, I do not know) when I noticed snow-white curtains drawn to the side, offering Michael space to peak. I couldn't see his reaction, which I wish I could have, and next thing I knew he had opened the door and welcomed me inside.
We chatted lightly at first, seated at his mahogany table that complimented his living room of light pastels. We went over the basics ("How are things?"; "How's work goin'?"; "How's the family?"; "Got any plans for the weekend?") until finally the question that had been on the tip of my tongue was asked not by me, but him.
"So have you met anyone?" he queried, leaning back as if to emphasize his nonchalance in his baritone voice. Michael continued to stir his coffee with his spoon, focusing on the porcelain cup as if he had not even asked a thing from me.
"No," I responded quickly, almost automatically. The next was added with wearisome undertones, undertones that I don't believe he was able to detect: "And you, Michael?" I too stared down at my cup of coffee Michael had gotten me.
"No," he too responded.
Fucking liar, I hissed in the corridors of my mind but said, "Oh really now, Michael? Come on, someone as gorgeous and perfect as you must have thousands of women lining up the block just for a taste." I added soft, silver peals of giggling to accessorize my statement, almost flirtatiously.
I can't find the words to explain exactly what happened next. I could feel him staring at me, sizing me up and absorbing every detail of my profile -- violating me from inside out, giving me some kind of sickening satisfaction from this mental rape.
Looking up at him, no surprise felt in seeing his wicked dark eyes fixed so intently on me, my body, my soul and my mind, I exchanged the same steady, soul-piercing stare. There was a long silence and I could feel his intensity baring down on me, so strongly that averted my eyes elsewhere.
I didn't hear him rise to his feet. I didn't hear him approach me, but I felt his hands coming down on me. And I loved the sensations it birthed inside me.
Mary had a lamb, his eyes black as coals.
If we play very quiet, my lamb,
Mary never has to know.
My finger traced across his jaw, savoring the bittersweet warmth of his flesh. His eyes were vivid with lust, a clear desire for me -- not his other who completed him, but me. His palms raised to cup my hips, drawing my front close against his to, at first, gingerly let his lips brush against my full ones of roseate. Soon enough he was forcefully against me, his robust fingers clutching my small wrists and pinning them to the wall; his hips were between my thighs, violently pressing up to cause my mouth to depart with an "O" of pleasure and a wisp of a moan.
Using his left hand to keep my wrists bound, he shifted his right beneath my bottom and lifted me as I wrapped my legs tenaciously about his waste. Our lips were locked, my tongue penetrating into his mouth to hungrily scale the roof. He carried me upstairs, pausing here and then to slam my back against a wall, savagely grinding only to lead me to his bedroom.
First he fucked me and then he made love to me.
If I cut you down to a thing I can use,
I fear there will be nothing good left of you.
He turned his bare back to her, offering a limelight moment of vulnerability. It was all up to me, all up to me right now. If I sat up and just wrapped my arms around his neck, I could rip out his fucking throat; shower myself in his crimson and feel like he was truly mine, mine forever and not just pretending for a while like we were now.
The day continued on. We spent a great amount of time in his bed, exploring each other's bodies with our hands. Finally he said he needed to take a shower, gave me a kiss on the forehead and headed off to his bathroom. The door shut and I heard not moments later the water drumming against the ceramic floor of his tub.
It was one or two minutes into his shower that I heard a knock at the door. It was a soft, barely audible sound but I heard it. I stood up and gathered his blankets to cover my body, tiptoeing quietly to the window in his room and drew the alabaster (just as they were downstairs) curtains to the side and craned my neck to see who was at his door. In the farthest part of my mind I knew who it was, but a dwindling hope inside me tried to drown out my paranoia.
It's her, it's her, it's here, I thought, even screamed, in a whirlwind of panic. It's fucking her.
Hastily I snatched up Michael's large, white button-up t-shirt and threw it on, idly only fastening the first two. With nothing else I ran downstairs, rummaged through his kitchen and, once finding something suitable enough, went to the door.
I opened it with delight, pure fucking delight. I could see the mixture of shock, hurt and bewilderment that tore asunder the girl's just moments ago jovial, beautiful face. She looked at my face and then to my clothes, eyeing my bare legs and taking more than notice to the fact that not only was I braless in Michael's shirt, but also without panties. Offering a slight smile, I quickly fell into character.
"Oh, I'm sorry..." I could hear myself saying, but it wasn't really me saying it. Or was it? I hear myself laughing, but it was so distant, so far away. Rage, undeniable rage was boiling inside me.
"I-is Michael here?" asked the pretty brunette, stammering at first but re-collecting herself. She too was playing a different character. She was acting as if they weren't an item, as if she was just a friend. She even managed a slight smile, a smile that was all but too counterfeit.
"Yeah, he's in the shower. Care to come in?" I pushed the door open further, making it more than obvious she was welcome. My slight smile had turned into a mocking ear to ear one, each syllable escaping my mouth drenched with tugs of a smug, "I fucked your man" sort of touch.
She said yes and came in.
We were sitting in the living room, just as Michael and I had been, except now I was in his seat. We chatted for a bit and I learned that her name was Lillie Croft and she worked a fulltime job as a secretary for a Real Estate company. I asked if she wanted coffee and, when she declined, I insisted and she gave in.
In the kitchen, I grasped the smooth handle of a butcher knife that I had so carefully chosen from a wide selection of options. Coming back into the living room, holding the knife behind my back, I took a few steps forward to Lillie.
Lillie seemed somewhat baffled by the fact that not only did I not bring the coffee that I had so strongly insisted on giving her, but also had my arm hidden behind my back. I don't think it was a kind of baffle that lit fear in her heart, for she remained so calm that it deserved applause. Perhaps she, unlike Michael and I, could not read body language or sense a dramatic change in the atmosphere.
Drawing my arm out from behind me, I showcased to my one-person audience what I had for display, for use and more. Its scintillating, serrated edge was held level to Lillie's eyes, this itself breathing enough fear into Lillie.
didn't have enough time to run before I acted. She had begun to say
something, perhaps something to try to reason with me, to try to
rationalize my irrational actions, but I didn't bother listening. I
remember grabbing hold of her silken tresses, faintly thinking about
how Michael must have loved the heavenly smell of her perfume, when I
jolted her head back to place my lips against her ear and say:
"No one's listening, save your cries."
Without saying anything more, I took my knife and ran it to create an errorless incision across her throat. The carotid and jugular were slashed, forcing both geysers and slow-paced, liquid fountains to spurt from the neck in an explosion of red. At first she struggled violently in my grasp, but very quickly did these futile attempts of self-protection end. She slumped in my arms, her heartbeat hammering from adrenaline only to die down to almost non-existent. I discarded her nearly lifeless body on the floor and only took a fleeting notice to how the white floor beneath her dying, feeble form encircled her in a pool of her own blood.
I've never realized how much blood there was in the human body until that day.
You can be my cradle,
And I your grave.
Walking upstairs, I knew what I had to do. My hands and arms were drenched in Lillie's blood, Michael's once white shirt now looking like a deep maroon as the last traces of his beloved dried.
When I reached Michael's door, I could tell he was out of the shower because I no longer heard that pitter-patter of water against ceramic. Easing his door open, I leaned against the white frame. I wanted him to look over at me and question what was going on, but instead he kept his back turned as he searched through his drawers for something suitable to wear. He was wrapped up in a white towel, showing off the steely muscle of his body.
he mumbled, continuing to fish through his drawers. "Who was
that at the door?"
I didn't answer and it didn't seem to bother him. I snuck up behind him, letting my hands run up his back and slip to his shoulders, kneading against his soft skin to massage at stiffened sinew and joints.
"Sit down, love," I cooed, guiding him gently backward to let him fall into the cushion of a seat placed near his bed and dresser. Leaning down, I pushed my lips against his earlobe and said, "Close your eyes." He did.
Pushing my hand around the curve of his neck and letting my fingers rise to his lips, I caressed his lips with my index and eased it carefully in between them. My opposite hand slowly rose; clutching the butcher's knife in my grasp as it slowly -- and shakily -- neared the opposite side of his neck.
I think it was when he suckled on my finger and tasted the metallic of blood is when he knew something was wrong, something was indeed very, very wrong. His secondary lids flashed open in the blink of an eye but it was too late.
My knife cut deep into his throat, causing a gasp to escape his lips while my other hand cupped his jawline. Gently, so very gently, I drew his head back, showering his cheeks and the bridge of his nose with kisses as I drove my knife in deeper, deeper and then deeper. Just as with Lillie did the blood came in seemingly endless tidal waves, soaking into the cushions of the chair, his ivory towel and spilling in sweeping, devouring curtains of vermeil upon his floor.
Unlike Lillie, he did not violently jostle in my grasp but perhaps it was because I held him like a breakable, fragile doll. I held him like he was my love, my only love and my last love, for that is what he was. I held him so closely, so carefully and so gently.
He was so beautiful and this was so beautiful; he was mine, forever mine. I wept.