The Voyeur

Flirtatious laughter permeates the stiff air of the cheap hotel room. Faded striped wallpaper of yellow and green clash against the nude palette of the furnishings. I sit in a single plastic chair, seated at a lone table in the corner of the room. Franklin has lured another beautiful young woman with promises of stardom and fame. The years have made him a master predator, preying on the aspirations of the women who come to this city. I watch the two of them dine together.

His pinstriped suit exudes an image of wealth and experience, everything a girl like her is looking for. He's handsome, with his dark hair slicked back, perfectly in place. It's what every girl he's brought here was looking for. Underneath Franklin's easy smiles and saccharine charm, however, the subtle lines of age are beginning to show, cracking his fine mask one line at a time. His time is short and he knows it. I can practically smell the desperation on him with every girl he brings me. He wants the same thing as everyone else. He wants to escape the inevitable.

He wants to escape me.

Franklin takes a sip from his wineglass. The girl twirls a perfectly coiffed curl of blond hair around her slim finger, a coy smile on her lips, glistening red with gloss. Her hand drops to finger to the gem of her necklace, which sits atop the swell of her breasts. Franklin's eyes drop for a moment and her smile widens.

The prey believes itself to be the predator.

The sun sets behind them, bringing the patio aglow with an orange and violet brilliance. Stars begin to shine just outside of the sun's reach. The girl drains her glass and motions to Franklin for more. He reaches over and tips the bottle over her glass, emptying the contents. The rich red wine swirls at the delicate stem, not enough to fill her glass. Franklin smiles at her and raises his in the air.

"A toast," he begins, "to longevity and blissful ignorance. May the cold fingers of death never grasp at the tender flesh of man."

The girl arches a slender brow. "That seems a little dark, don't you think?"

Franklin's eyes shift over to meet my gaze. "No, my dear. Death always lingers near." He looks back at her, his gaze dark. "When you get to be my age, mortality settles on your shoulders like a lead weight with no escape."

She giggles and drinks from her glass. Franklin sets his down, still full with wine. She is relaxed and at ease, missing the look he casts over her. Missing the clues. She reaches out and covers his hand with hers.

"Forget death. I'm all the company you need."

Franklin lifts her hand and presses his lips to it. "Indeed you are."

They stand together and step away from the table. Franklin twirls her around the patio in a mock waltz, their shadows dancing across the ornately lain bricks. He gently nudges her to the open doors and into the room. She giggles again as Franklin shuts the doors and draws the curtains closed.

She backs up against the bed, keeping Franklin in her sights. She toes off her red heels and reaches behind her back, fumbling for the zipper of her dress and pulling it down. The black fabric loosens and she shimmies it down, pooling it on the floor and stepping out of it. She reaches up and runs a hand through her blond curls, posing with a sway from the wine, presenting herself to him in her white lingerie.

Franklin smiles at her and motions for her to turn around. She turns from him, biting her lip in anticipation as he stands behind her. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her. The manufactured smell of her shampoo, the flowery scent of her perfume, and the musky scent of her arousal. When he opens his eyes again, he's a changed man.

He pulls a slim knife from his pocket and flicks the blade out. He reaches around her like a striking serpent. Her eyes open wide in panic and she screams. He pulls her close and raises the blade to her delicate neck. The noise is muffled through his large hand clamped over her mouth. Tears roll down her cheeks as she flails, trying to escape the solid body restraining her.

With one fluid movement, Franklin draws the blade across her tender flesh. Skin parts obscenely and blood drips down in thin rivers, flowing over her gemstone necklace and seeping in to the white of her bra. He releases her and she drops to her knees. Her hands come up, gripping her neck, as she makes choked, wet gasps. She's determined, but it's too late for her. In minutes, she lies motionless on the floor, her blood spreads out around her as though it were a dark halo.

Franklin sinks to his knees and flips her over onto her back. He raises the knife and brings it down. The gleaming blade sinks down into fair skin, tugging it open. Franklin grunts with exertion while he opens a jagged hole in her chest and forces his hand into her, pulling back layers of flesh and exposing the stained ribcage. He drops the knife and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, smearing red across his skin. His perfect hair is unkempt and hangs in his eyes, thin strands damp with sweat.

Franklin rolls up his sleeves and digs both hands into her open chest. He grunts and forces his hands up further into her chest. Her skin rises with the indents of traveling fingers. A cold spark enters his eyes as he wrenches both arms out. He pants and clutches her heart in his palms.

He rocks to his feet and stumbles over to me. With a tired grin, he drops the heart onto my lap.

"Another flame extinguished. What was she worth?"

I don't answer him. He doesn't like the silence.

His fingers twitch and he takes a step back, "Is it enough?"

I stare at him. He already knows the answer. His face contorts with a mix of anger and disappointment as he paces. His fist hits the wall.

It always ends like this.

"Please," he begs, dropping to his knees. "Please give it to me. I've done so much for you! I've killed so many! I deserve to live forever!"

He crawls to me and buries his face in my lap. I reach out and run my fingers through his hair.

"I don't want to die. It's too soon."

He cries for recognition. I give him none. These are his sins. None of it impresses me. I've seen it all before. For millennia, I've held audience to men like him, driven to the unthinkable in the face of their own mortality.

He isn't the first man to court death.

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This is just a short story I wrote for a school assignment, but I like the way it turned out. 

I encourage legitimate and constructive criticism.