Valentine’s

He picked me up at eight. When I opened the door he gave me thirteen roses; one for every month we’d been together. He complimented me politely on the dress I’d umm-ed and ahh-ed over for a good hour, a stylish silk number filched from the back of mum’s wardrobe. We held hands as he drove, his fingers brushing the promise ring I so proudly displayed. Our second Valentine’s. We’d made it past the “honeymoon” year, defied all the naysayers, the no-longer-friends, my parents. So what if Jay was a little bit older? He loved me.
The restaurant was perfect, as always. A classy affair with suited waiters who “yes ma’am-ed” and a server just for wine, who asked Jay to taste before he’d pour the scarlet liquid into my glass. God knows what we talked about, while I played with a caesar salad and he sawed at a steak, I was so distracted by those eyes of his, eyes that were somehow, unbelievably, only for me. Maybe we had a glass or two more than we should, but we found ourselves unable to control our laughter as we climbed the gates to the park. Jay mimicked pirouettes beneath the trees to the tune of my delighted squeals. I chased him across the bridges in the Japanese gardens, and we rolled together down the grassy banks, damp with evening dew, children again beneath the stars. We waltzed in the light of the moon to music only we could hear, and for a moment I imagined myself in white satin, and he in a tux, twirling in perfect grace across a polished floor. Out of breath, we lay in the grass, cuddled close against the night’s chill. As we gazed into the empty night he told me stories, his childhood, his life so far, what ours together could be. I revelled in his bitter-sweet scent, the dash of expensive cologne discolouring his shirt collar, the birthmark cradled by the curve of his neck. Muscles in his arms shifted and flexed as he pointed out a constellation, told me it was mine. Virgo. He pulled me closer to press a kiss to my cheek as he gestured to his, the archer.

When my curfew grew close and he reluctantly returned me home, he kissed me sweetly, wary of the disapproving stare of my parents behind the curtains. Afterwards, as I turned to go, he caught my hand, pulled me close to whisper in my ear, to promise me the world.
—-

I killed her at eight. Her blood dripped from my knife, blossomed into petals of gore on the concrete, stained white silk crimson. I took my pretty ring off her finger, for the next one, and laid her out across the back seats. Brushed the golden curls out of her peaceful little doll-face. As I drove to mine, I caught her eye in the rearview. My pretty little one. I’m taking you home.

Obsession

Rap. Rap. Rap. 

She isn’t answering the door. I trample the roses going round to the back to get in. The kitchen lights are on, the fridge hums but all is hushed. In the living room the TV mimes In The Night Garden. Creeping, cloying cold, a whisper in the dark. Evidence of her everywhere. A tap half shut. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Nudge it shut, welcome the silence. But it’s not silent, is it? Not so clean. The cacophony of scents violates my nostrils, the lingering bass-toned bitterness of rich coffee, the harsh clash of bleach. I follow the remnants of some flower-touched musk up the curve of the stairs. Her scent contaminates my pure, fresh skin. Let her noise intrude upon my silence, everything has its moment. 

Creak. Creak. Creak. 

The landing is long, stretches out like the red carpet she loves so much. Fawns for. Prostitutes herself for the stutter of shutters, bursts of pearly light, like a discharging machine gun. Mowed down by media tyranny. Conquered by the press. Displaying her back for the world so they too can memorise the constellations her freckles form. Movies. Advertising. Magazines. The door hangs open, an invitation. How did she know? Has she followed me as I’ve followed her? Darkness interrupted. The seconds blink into being, cast a green glow across her, encased in the warmth of bed. Catches the gold of her hair, the slope of her nose, the curve of a lip, a jaw, the expanse of a long pale neck. Counts towards the twilight hours. The beginning of a new world. My hand shakes as I crave to touch, reach towards those ever-tempting locks. Mine. Breath whooshes. I bathe in this moment.

“Mama?” 

Freeze. The door creaks where it was silent at my touch. Snatch my hand back as the knowledge of my intention burns. Feel my face cast a burst of heat across the room, feel her stir and shift away, repelled by the extra warmth. Light from the hall casts a shadow on the wall, clutching at a bear. Panic rises, catches in my throat, like a cricket rests on my adam’s apple. Chirps. Then comes the burst of previously unseen clarity. Breaks through the mud of my mind. Add it up. Add it up! Think. And then it slips into place, just as my hand slips into the space in my pocket where I know the chloroform will be. Buy one get one free. Only fun-sized. I can’t believe she hid this from me. Whored herself out to a vapid fan, no doubt. But I will forgive her that, once we are home together.

I love her. 

Forever.