A Requiem For Modern Romance
Illness - A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship; the emotion of sex and romance. Love - Poor health resulting from disease of body or mind; sickness. So often I find that people confuse these two words; it's probably because they have such similar meanings. Love is an illness that affects us all at times, eating away at our flesh, slicing through everything in its way before snapping our hearts as if they were useless pieces of dirt, and yet we can't get enough of it! I for one am addicted, I for one am sick, I for one fall in love too easily, as you will soon find out. You see, I am truly, deeply, emphatically in ‘poor health.'
Many a woman has felt the full effects of my illness, many have suffered the consequences, but that said, I do not think any of them actually did suffer. No, no they didn't. Just ask any of their frozen faces whether they are suffering and their eyes will gleefully inform you of their eternal happiness. For evermore those eyes will tell the story their colourless cheeks will not.
Enter Rachel, the virus of my latest desire; the last love. I knew her from working down at the morgue; she was a doctor you see. After a week or so of following her home, smelling her subtly as she passed - a challenge at which I have become quite the master - and watching her from afar, I popped the question and got the same answer I always get, a resounding ‘yes.'
I requested that we meet at my usual haunt - ‘The Gilded Heart' - that romantic little restaurant that's tucked neatly away from the rest of the high street's hustle and bustle. As per usual, I turned up nice and early, about seven-thirty nine and forty six point eight seconds I think, but thankfully, it was already dark. In fact, it was a perfect night for what was in store for Rachel, with thick, black clouds shrouding the few stars in the sky and ensuring that the moon was hidden away where it couldn't see me. I slipped behind a nearby shrubbery and waited. It felt like hours that I was behind it for, scrutinizing the odd passer by; leering out like a gargoyle perched atop the highest pyre on the tallest chapel, not making a sound for fear of being found. I thought back to the previous times I had crouched in that very spot, but the only thing that could keep me sane was the thought of Rachel's impending arrival. Then, she came. She sauntered right into the very spot where all her predecessors had stood, the exact spot where I had just stood, right in front of the bush that I cowered behind. Still I did not stir. I did not move a muscle. I did not make a sound. Instead I ogled her voluptuous form from the abyss, breaking all the known taboos known to man, violating her with my mind. I watched her for what seemed like only three minutes, but the cruel mistress that is time told of a different reality, a reality in which almost an hour had passed and her glimmering smile had faded and shrivelled to a sulk of pure heart break on the thought of being stood up. By now I could tell she would love me, but still I did not stir. I did not move a muscle. I did not make a sound. She had grown increasingly weary of my tardiness and her heart crushed by my absence; she hung her head, her looks not radiant now, but sprinkled with half tears and she sullenly slipped out of my sight, a full tear now tearing at her angelic cheek. Now I stirred. I crept out from the darkness and ran to her, feigning fatigue. I told her a lie about having to work late at the morgue and her deceitful eyes told me that she didn't believe me, but her curvaceous figure informed me of a different story.
I took her by her soft, feminine hand and kissed it gently, like I would many times when it had grown cold and stiff and unable to grasp my own, and like magic, a blush rose up from inside her. I grew jealous of that blush as it was exactly where I had dreamt of being for so long, but I put my envy aside, and I led her into The Gilded Heart as she had lead me into her own.
Inside, we engaged in thoughtful and deep conversation, well, she did as I pictured her in that kinky little number I had bought for her the previous weekend - that's right, the glass case in which all would be able to see her glimmering smile. Of course, as per usual I had to flatter her with the routine comments about her eyes and her dress to see her different reactions and window shop for the colour of cheek I wanted, which for once was an actual challenge as I despised the dress and couldn't wait to get her out of it so the fun could begin, but it was at that point that something most unusual happened. Upon commenting on the beauty of her neck, she gave me a most peculiar look, a look that now hangs on my wall like a masterpiece, that look that still fills me with exquisite agony, that look that still possesses me to collect the heads of those who look her way.
The lacklustre meal was quite frankly a disappointment when compared with the evening's earlier escapades from behind the bush, and I was still hungry, so I offered to walk her home for some sweet, sweet just desserts. Everything was going to plan, just as I had imagined in the sleepless nights leading up to the joyous event. Her hair was radiating in the moonlight and her skin looked good enough to eat, her features in prime condition, not too old, not too young, but ripe for the picking. So upon reaching her front door, I wasted no time in getting to work, I gently leant in and kissed her before affectionately moving round and sampling the delights of her neck, feeling for the sweet spot that would come in handy later as we shuffled inside and into the nearest room, which just happened to be the kitchen I had pictured whilst dreaming. Needless to say, I knew my way around and I sat her up on the cold, marble kitchen top. She kept saying something like ‘It's too fast, it's too fast,' but to be honest - as I always am - I wasn't paying much attention to what she was saying, meaning of course that I did not yield, after all I had never yielded before, so I proceeded to kiss her neck gently, working my way up before reaching out with one hand to the nearby knifeboard, my other hand softly caressing her inner thigh as I playfully nibbled at her ear lobe, then, with passionate precision, I took my medicine, and severed her head. Now she does not stir. She does not move a muscle. She does not make a sound.
© Copyright 2016 November. All rights reserved.
Poem / Romance
Short Story / Horror
Poem / Religion and Spirituality
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