He gazed longingly at her, as she lay peacefully beside him. Like a beautiful phantom, she was there, yet not quite with him. Her beautiful dark brown, long locks were fanned out beneath her head, like an aura of perfection framing her flawless features. Her eyes were seductive, but now it lay hidden beneath her closed eyelids. Her lips were so naturally red, you would think that she only consumed cherry throughout her life.
She was all that he had in this world. She was his mother, his sister, his friend and the love of his life. But she didn’t belong to him. No, she belonged to another man: her man, her soul-mate, her truly wedded husband. All he could do was watch from afar as she locked lips with the man she called husband. Jealousy hits him like a hammer when he sees the husband holding on to her waist as they danced, the way he can never hold her. Bitterness shrouds his mind as he see them cuddling up through the night.
To her, he was a friend, a little brother, a play thing. Someone who amuses her, who flatters her and showers praises on her more than her husband does. She knows how he feels for her, she knows that he watches when her husband picks her up from work and that he lurks in the shadow of her garden to make sure that she’s save at home. She knows that if she never spoke to him, he’d be so depressed, he’d be able to take his own life, and yet all she did was hung on to his words, not promising anything.
He looked down at her figure lying down beside him again, lightly brushing her cheeks. Her breathing was shallow, almost none. He got up from the bed and went to the kitchen, dragging his footsteps heavily. He was almost unfocussed. On the kitchen floor laid a dark haired man. He gave one look at the man, and crossed over him. The man was lying in a dark pool of blood, the blood red so dark it was almost black. His body bore multiple stab wounds, and he was no longer breathing. He took a sharp knife from the counter-top, and without a backward glance, strode out of the kitchen into the bedroom, where the woman of his dreams lay.
He sat beside her, and lowered his head gently. He sniffed her, taking in her fragrance, and the scent of jasmine flower body shower that she always uses. He looked at the knife, contemplating his next move. He knew, he gave her many chances. He had tried talking her out of her marriage, but she wouldn’t listen. Didn’t she realize that she was with the wrong man? It was him that was supposed to be her real soul-mate, not the heap of garbage now lying in the kitchen floor. She said she liked him, she treated him nice and she even went out with him a few times. But when he asked her to be his, she couldn’t give him an answer.
He knew this was the step he had to take. He spiked her husband and her drink tonight, and after they were out, her slowly and deliberately stabbed her husband to death and left him lying in the pool of his own blood.
Now he was moving on to her. It was her mistake never to take him seriously, her mistake to make a game out of his feelings for her, her mistake for not giving them a chance to be together. Now she was going to pay the price for her ignorance.
If he couldn’t have her, then nobody will have her. He took one last look at her, slowly bent forward and kissed her full on her almost lifeless lips. Then purposefully, he took the knife and slit her throat in one clean cut. The clear red liquid trickled down her neck onto the bed-sheet, soaking them up all at once. She stopped breathing.
He looked at her and gave a ghostly smile, then took the knife and slit his wrist deep. At once blood started gushing out. He knew he would die too, only slower. He wanted to feel the pain, and he wanted to suffer the death. There was no use of him alive, if she was not alive. He slumped to the floor as the blood kept on flowing. He knew that by the time others found them, he’d probably be dead.
He closed his eyes as his vision started fading. I’ll be with you soon, he said, somewhere in his mind. If they couldn’t be together in life, then maybe in death they’ll unite.
