The moon was melting away into the breaking dawn; he looked at the body lying on black silk sheets as he licked still warm blood of his porcelain white fingers. The woman was covered in crimson and her brown, unseeing eyes still held the lust for him, as if saying ‘I want to play’. He was repulsed by that look, he was not a toy – he was Death, and you don’t play with Death. He carefully cut her heart out, he wanted love, but the dead cannot love, he kissed the cold piece of meat and closed his eyes. He was beautiful like a wildfire and just as destructive. His waist-length hair was like the darkest night and his eyes were a thick morning mist. His broad shoulders tensed and when he opened his eyes they were burning white flame. He touched her lips, softly and kissed her. She tasted of blood and desire.
It was 4 a.m. and he was standing in the doorway, watching. Tongues of fire were licking the naked body; he was admiring the view. He found it fascinating of how the flames were embracing the girl, as if making love. The smell of burning hair was strong and bitter; the heat, breathing in his face was overwhelming, so he turned around and left. He fought the urge to glance back at the purifying act between the flesh and blaze, but he just kept on walking.
The world was dead and utterly silent. The silence shattered, when he heard heels clicking on the black asphalt and the next thing he knew he was holding a woman in his arms, another victim. He watched her face as it started to burn, he saw her plump lips moving, but he was not listening. For a moment he was deaf. He looked into her eyes and saw oceans and summer skies; he was drowning just then. She saw him too. She saw him as a man and as a friend. She saw his soul. And in that moment, he realised that he will not bathe in her blood, he will not kiss her heart and tonight the ocean of her eyes will be left alone. He let go of her warm skin and watched her walk away from him into the night.
He was leaning to a wall, tasting his whisky; he stood there naked and looked at a new woman on the bed. He watched her as she writhed, bewildered by the pleasure, he gave her. He watched moonlight dancing on the surface of tiny droplets of sweat on her forehead. He enjoyed the view and hated the woman. She would get up and go back to her life, leaving him here, like a forgotten toy; you had your fun and now you don’t need it anymore. It hurt him; it made his heart ache and his lungs burn. She used him. All of them did. ‘You don’t play with Death’, he thought and laid his glass on the nightstand. He climbed on the bed and on the woman. His hands were caressing her stomach, sliding over her breasts to her neck. He kissed the soft skin and his hands wrapped around it. Her green eyes flew open, the playful smile leaked away from her face, she was afraid now. He smiled softly down at her and looked into the green. But it was not emerald he saw, it was topaz. He saw the ocean again and could not play Death anymore. He thought of so many ways to end her life. He thought of kissing her heart with a silver blade, he had in the drawer. He also thought of his hands on her delicate neck, just a bit tighter for a bit longer. He couldn’t, devil knows he tried to bring himself to do it and couldn’t. There was an ocean in his way. You can’t kill the ocean, you can ignore it, you can swim to the other side, but you can’t kill it. He screamed and let go of the woman. She left, just as he thought she would. He pressed on his eyes, trying to erase that blue out of his memory. He had to end it, he had to kill her.
How do you find something you can’t see? You look harder. And he did. He sat in the dark alley and waited. He will be patient. He will wait for her. She will come, he knew.
She saw the way he saw her, the way every man saw her, she couldn’t help it but imagine her iron blade sliding across his muscular chest, drawing precious blood. She couldn’t understand why so many people are disgusted by blood; blood is life and life is blood. You need it to live, he needs it to live and she will be the one to take it away. She will call mother Death for him. Death is her best friend. Death doesn’t care if she’s beautiful or not, Death loves her. No man can see past her beauty, no man can look into her eyes and see her. No man wants her heart; they only want her alluring shell for a night or two. Only Death wants her, truly wants her.
He didn’t see her, he felt her. He looked up and there she was, dancing around like she didn’t just rip his heart out and fed it to him. She looked at him with Siren eyes and bit her velvet lip. She stopped and her golden curls broke the dance around her pale, almost translucent face. For a moment he couldn’t move, he was enthralled, he just sat there staring at her, empty headed. She had a face of an angel, but what he didn’t know was that she also had a heart of a demon.
He took a deep breath of sweet vanilla of her hair, a smell he will always remember, he will lock it in a dark place in his head and when he’s thirsty he will taste it like he tastes wine. She ran her fingers over his cheek, the softest touch, almost like it didn’t happen. He smiled at her. Somehow he was pleased with himself and with her. She lay there for hours with him, not begging for more, not praising his allure, not talking, and just being with him. He didn’t want the sun gone from her eyes; he wanted to see life in her oceans. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel lonesome anymore... He felt the burning sensation in his chest and then he saw it, tiniest blade sticking out of his heart, white, delicate hand around the admirably carved handle. He got the last glimpse of her eyes, before he drowned in them.
She watched life abandoning him and Death creeping onto his, now stiff, body. She saw Death embrace him, but not once he showed fear. She watched life slip out of his eyes, but he did not flinch, not once. She drew out the blade; it was warm with his blood, his essence. She licked the blade, then stood up and hugged his glass of bourbon. She stood next to the window and watched the moon, pale just like his eyes. She gulped down her drink and poured herself another glass. She was beautiful and she was alone. She never loved and no one ever loved her. How can you feel love, if you have never been loved yourself? You can’t. No one needed her, no one cared for her, but she knew, that at the end Death will be there to catch her fall. The moon was beautiful.
