Noir

Part Seven

The sound was deafening, the sound reverberating through his heightened sense of hearing. He looked to the lifeless women beside him, the bullet hole seeping with blood. She looked serene in death, having not registered the gun in time for her eyes to widen, her expression one of admiration for the man beside her. His eyes instantly brimmed with tears as he took her into his arms, "No..." he cried calmly, reserved, "No..."

But when he looked in Julian's direction the man had that sickening smile on his face, satisfaction, his eyes shining with humor, as though he found Lucas' pain for the loss of a woman amusing.

Lucas dropped the woman, flying toward Julian and falling with him to the floor, "I loved her!"

Julian flipped Lucas off of him, turning so that he was now on top, his hand going to Lucas' throat, "How dare you bring a woman into my home and claim you love her!"

Lucas clenched his teeth, the hand on his throat squeezing, but not enough to keep him from speaking, "Stay the fuck away from me."

He pushed Julian from him, the prestigious man falling back, hurt clear in his widened eyes. The jealousy he'd felt had driven him to commit the act, but he hadn't thought for even a moment that Lucas would choose her over him.

Without saying another word, Lucas sped from the house.

He walked down the streets, the late afternoon air cold to match his freezing heart. He had been given a damned life from that wretched man who he called a companion, the fucker ruining any happiness he could find within it. He'd been Julian's lover the night before, but Rose had consumed his heart from the moment he saw her. And now she was gone. The turmoil consumed him as he trudged through the city, his undead heart pounding with rage. Rage that he needed desperately to release.

He needed retaliation, needed a way to expel the fury rising within his bitter soul. He thought of Julian's happiness, what brought him joy, the Menagerie. To kill again, it had been on his rotten mind, and now he had reason to.

He moved faster now, determination taking hold, he was on a mission for revenge. He sped toward the club, not caring if patrons could see his racing, cursed blur.

He entered the club, Julian's sharpened letter opener in hand, of which he had stole, already having had the intention of murder. The patrons were few and not expecting. He had to plan it so that not of them escaped. He immediately stabbed the first one he reached, piercing his gut. The next was slashed at the throat. He made a pattern, speeding from one to another, an array of stabs and slashes, killing everyone, the customers, the guards, the women on stage. There was one left by the time he had slaughtered them all. Keith, the host. The man cowered, too frightened to move, petrified by the carnage. Lucas strode toward him, and then he wrapped his arms around him, holding him close as he fed.

The body fell to the floor and Lucas fell upon his knees, releasing a deep, rage filled yell.

He could have stayed there, wallowing in his self pity, but he had to flee, as the danger of being caught was imminent. He moved through the streets once again, blood on his chin, a soothing cigarette in hand. He had nowhere to go, he would not go back to the dirt and grime that had been his former home, the thought of being alone in the dim dankness too bleak. So he decided on going back to the manor, even if just to feel the comfort of color.

Speeding through the house, as to not alert Julian to his return, he found himself at the desk in his room. His heart burned with hatred, but he could not deny what he had felt for Julian. He had adored him, praised his glory in the deranged. But he had crossed a line in which he could not go back.

Yet he could not help writing his heartbreak for the man, sure that he had lost him:

Take away my temptation
Turn a blind, cold eye from me
Remind me of my insolence
Show me without words
I am the fool

He sped his way to the library where he was sure Julian was residing, placing the poem onto his desk and speeding out to the foyer.

He sat in a chair, not too comfortable, tense. He was empty, gone. He had lost all emotion, vacant. And when Julian entered, the man found him expressionless.

The extravagant man moved slowly toward him, yet he was sure in his approach. He held within his hand a wet cloth, kneeling down to wipe it along the trails of dried blood on Lucas' chin, "Your writing. It is the work of devils, burning with passion."

Julian stared into Lucas's dead eyes, searching for any effort at showing life, but his eyes were hollow. He placed a hand atop the sullen man's, squeezing with sentiment, "I love you."

And with that, he left.

Lucas broke out of his catatonic state, forcing himself to stand. He couldn't stay in a chair for the rest of eternity. He needed something to do, but life was dull, there was nothing that could pull him out of the disappointment of losing something so precious. He should have loved Julian as he loved him, wished to the almighty god he didn't appease that he could. But Rose had crushed that possibility. Perhaps he would have been happy with the two of them, Julian and Rose by his side, the perfect relationship, two of the most beautiful beings he had ever seen, but Julian had been rash.

He went to the library, just to distract his mind from his sorrow. Although he had a passion for writing, he'd never so much as picked up a book. But he strummed his fingers across the spines regardless, looking to see if anything would catch his interest.

The row of books ended and what was left in front of Lucas' eyes was a sheathed katana on a mount. He stared at it, at the shining container, the engraved ivory hilt. What damage it could do.

Rage seethed within him once again. Bloodshed creeping into his mind. What had occurred at the Menagerie had not been enough. He should have sought revenge on the man directly.

He took the sword, unsheathing it and following the gleam of the blade to the tip. Magnificent. Perfect for what he now planned to do.

He dropped the sheath and, in blind madness, walked to the kitchen where he knew he could find Julian.

Julian sensed his presence, though he did not turn from his work at the counter, "My dear Lucas-"

But he had no chance to finish the sentence, as Lucas had swung the sword, cleaving off his head. The crown rolled across the floor, the body collapsing.

Lucas fell to his knees, and in a manner much unlike him, he cried, mourning the loss of his best friend. The severity of what he had just done dawning on him too late.

He was alone.