Last One Standing
by Elaine Martin
Rating: R
Author's Notes: 29th May 2002 - Second year of college all finished!!! Four months
of hols!!! No more bastard exams!!! Excessive drinking!!! Free holiday
paid for by boyfried!!! (include own happy thought and add a trio of
exclamation points)!!!
- As always, SWAY SLAYER - FICS - READ THEM!!!
- And of course, to Star aka Saoirse aka owner of Taz and puncher of Tilly.
Feedback: On a plate!!
She's wearing cut off tracksuit bottoms and a white tank top, her blue sports bra visible through the sheer material. She slows her pace, jogging as she stands, gulping greedily from a bottle of evian. It's 8.02 am. Right on schedule.
She wipes the sweat from her forehead, trying to act inconspicuious as she waits for him. Yeah right, good try. Here he is, as predictable a time keeper as her. Tall and handsome in that oh so conventional way, he beams when he sees her. She responds by revealing perfectly symmetrical white teeth. His shelty yelps excitedly, tail wagging as he battles against the restraints of his lead, vying for her attention. She giggles, kneeling to pet him. The man watches, stares at her, a mixture of lust and affection. Damn, he really wants her.
They speak for a while, the dog eventually settling into a semi placid state, tongue lolling against his mouth, his eyes fixed upon her with the same steely penetration as his owner. She laughs, the sound reaching my hiding point. He gesticulates wildly, his hand settling on her shoulder for a moment too long. I stifle the urge to scream, to sprint over there and tear the offending body part from his arm. She doesn't seem to care though. In fact, she seems to have liked it. She's smiling slightly, eyes fixed upon his.
8.25am. Time to go. She reluctantly checks her watch and offers her excuses. His face falls with dissapointment, and he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a card. She accepts it, and I watch as he fumbles through an obviously rehearsed speech, her head nodding vigourously in assent... it's his damn phone number!
Again, I struggle to restrain myself. She's watching him as he walks away, her face painted with a goofy grin. Finally, she turns, slugging from the remnants of her water. Her grin remains. She's gonna be floating on a goddamn cloud all day.
A branch snaps in my hands and I glance at it distractedly, the sap coating my fingers. She turns towards the noise, eyes wide with curiosity. My heart freezes for a moment... she's staring right at me. Her face is just the same. Every contour as I had memorised it, albeit aged eight years. She's thinner than I remember, bronzed arms lacking their previous muscle definition. But she's still beautiful...angelic face masking the reality...
She looks away, and I exhale a silent relief. She's jogging again, discarding her empty water bottle into a bin as she passes. What a good little citizen. A good little citizen who doesn't give a fuck about those she hurt. Especially me.
I fight to control my temper, one which has steadily worsened over the years. The prison years. It's almost been a year since the release. Not a word. No phonecall. Not even a fucking postcard or a "gee, sorry about all the shit, maybe we can work it out." Not that it would have mattered. I still would have laughed in her face, then punched it until unrecognisable. The thought cheers me up, her pretty little face permanently bearing the imprints of my fist. Maybe then she'd give a shit.
I trail her at a distance, careful to keep behind the shubbery. She exits the park, and I merge with a group of tourists. She continues on, pausing outside F.A.O Schwartz to watch a juggling performance between two rainbow clad clowns, clapping delightedly with the assembled children when they finish with an exaggerated bow.
She turns on Oak Street, pulling her keys from the pocket of her sweats. Her apartment block is high rise, directly overlooking Bloomingdales. Twenty-fourth floor, apartment 108, studio.
I hesitate... stare at the building for ten minutes. A middle aged man offers me a grin, and I glower in return. He hurries on, possibly sensing the inevitable....We've always known it would end this way.
The entrance door to the building swings open, betraying the caretakers apathy. I take the stairs rather than the lift, adrenaline motivating my hurried ascent. Her apartment is at the end of the hall. The door reads 108, a bronzed informant. I kick it open, steel toed boots chipping the heavy wood.
She's in the shower, singing on off key rendition of some old Frank Sinatra crap. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and I slip past it quietly. She obviously wasn't expecting company.
Despite the fogged partition, her form is visible. Full breasts give way to a defined midriff, tiny waist accentuating long, sunkissed legs. My breath catches for a moment as I savour the sight. A final memory for the vault.
It's now or never.
I reach inside my leather jacket, a gift from a vamp who didn't need it anymore. The steel is cool against the heat of my palms. It's the same one... poetic in a way.
I pull it out slowly, savouring the moment. Her eyes remain closed as she lathers shampoo into her hair.
"It's been awhile."
Her eyes shoot open, shampoo dripping down her face.
"Jesus Christ!...."
She grapples for a towel, eyes wide with shock. She hasn't seen it yet.
"I always dreamt about what you looked like naked. I have to say that the reality wins out."
"How did you...?..." and then she sees it. RECOGNISES it. Her eyes look set to pop out of her head. I laugh at the thought. She's looking at me as though I'm crazy, and fuck knows, maybe I am. This makes me laugh even harder.
She's out of the shower now, still toweless, water dripping from her shivering form. I decide to do it now, easier to clean in the shower. The mayor was always a stickler for cleanliness, this is how he'd want it. Again, it's all so poetic.
So I plunge. The blade slices through her with ease, performing as though it hasn't been on a hiatus of 9 years. She falls back into the shower, clutching her stomach, blood coating the tiles. Her legs give way and she sits for the last time. Her parting word, although soundless, is gratifying. The last thing she thinks of is me. She mouths it silently as blood spills from her mouth. It's a question.
"B?...."
And then she dies.