And so I let you go...
And I hear from time to time how it takes your breath away when the sun comes over the mountains on the horizon. And how pure each new day feels when you see the sun dip below the water and come up so fresh and new.
But where am I, when we were supposed to be sharing these adventures together?
They all say you talk about me, but won't really ever tell me what it is you've said.
Do you think about me often? I do hope you think of me fondly.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pulling the blankets tighter around her, she shivered and opened one eye to the strip of sunlight that had made it past her curtains and fallen directly on her face. One day she'd remember to close the curtains completely. And one day she'd remember to put enough fire in the fireplace to keep warm till she woke. And it's not like she was always forgetting to do those things. She just forgot on the nights she tipped back the wine bottle.
Throwing the covers off and standing slowly, she made her way from couch to kitchen with every footfall sending jolts of pain to her temples. She groaned inwardly and gritted her teeth. Just a few more steps.... and soon the teapot was on the stove. She sat on the counter and watched the hands on the clock, getting lost in thought. It'd been one of those nights, where his memory haunted her and she did the only thing she could think of to get him off her mind. Where was he this week? Bora Bora maybe? Or perhaps another trip to Amsterdam. Their friends told her he had loved it there. Perhaps she would have loved it, too, if she had gone.
At first she didn't notice the whistling teapot, but as the noise got louder, it jolted her from her reverie and she removed the little kettle from the stove, pouring the water into her mug of waiting tea leave, measured and dispensed into their special infuser. 5 minutes later she was sipping the brew with neither sugar nor milk as she normally would, needing the strength to bring her back to life.
The cup of tea joined her in the bathroom, where she shed her negligee and stepped into a steaming hot shower to scald and scrub away all her past regrets and painful memories. In the back of her mind, a little voice mentioned that, perhaps she should have taken a few aspirin with her tea. But she had little time to dwell on that when she heard her phone ringing and that little voice wondered, could it be him? But no, as the answering machine picked up and beeped, it was Catherine's voice she heard, reminding her about lunch later because "if I don't remind you about these things, I end up sitting there all by myself for 2 hours thinking maybe this time you're just running a little late." She sighed heavily and let the water run over her face. If only she had taken a bath instead, she could have submerged her head under the water and not had to listen.
Several hours later, she was sitting across from Catherine at the local cafe, a little place all the hipster teens and "true individuals" frequented; where the coffee was over priced and the croissants were never as fluffy as they boasted. She nodded her head at the right times and made the appropriate responses when necessary, but her mind was elsewhere. They said that if you found yourself considering suicide as your last way out, you should do all the things you wanted to do but were always held back from. But there was nothing she wanted to do that she wanted to do without him. And living was one of those things....
"Annie? Annie! You haven't really been listening to a word I say, have you? I swear, I don't know what's happened to you, but I...." At first the strict force behind her name had caught her attention, but slowly she drifted away, blocking out the lecture she knew she was getting. Standing abruptly, she caught her friend off guard. "I'm sorry Catty, but I'm just in the mood for any of this right now." And with that, she turned on her heel and headed home, head held high for the first time in a long time because, finally she had a purpose.
At home, she looked around the house and smiled softly to herself. He used to do this for her, leaving little sticky notes all over the house for her to find, little love notes and reminders. But this time, it wasn't love letters and reminders. It was her suicide note. Several little ones. Apologies and explanations and excuses.
"I tried..."
"I'm sorry..."
"Tell him I never forgot him..."
Satisfied with the state of things in her apartment, she closed the door to the bathroom and approached the tub of warm water, slipping in slowly until only her head was not submerged. The water felt nice, almost reassuring and more comforting than any of her friends had been these past few months. She slid her fingertip gingerly along the edge of the blade, watched the red swirl out and dissipate in the water as she reveled in the feeling.... Yes, feeling. She could feel. And though it hurt, it surely did not hurt any worse than she had been hurting on the inside. Placing the razor on the inside of her wrist, she closed her eyes and in one swift movement, pushed and pulled the blade up her arm toward her elbow, letting out a little moan of pain but sticking to it until the red was no longer dissipating, but turning the water to it's brilliant shade. Her arm throbbed and stung, but she smiled and relaxed her head against the tub. It was all over now. Finally, she was erasing his memory. Finally, she was through with all this pain.
She had once known that she lived for something, and it had been him. Now that she no longer had him, she no longer had reason to live. She no longer had any purpose. Her final purpose, to end her existence, was coming to a close. And somehow, this felt just like she imagined each new day felt to him when he saw the sun dip below the water and come up again so fresh and new. It felt pure
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Twist Of Fayte
She took a long drag from the cigarette held aloft between the middle and index finger of her left hand. She was, in actuality, right handed, but had been told that to do things with your non-dominant hand would cause you to perform the action slower, and with more thought. She applied this theory to eating and smoking, and swore it was her secret to keeping off the weight that plagued the women in her family.
Smoke billowed and curled from her lips and nostrils, and from behind the gray curtain, heavy-lidded eyes peered up towards the arms he'd crossed over his chest. She knew without looking that he was glaring at her, could feel it. The impatient tapping of his foot was like a persistent muscle tick, grating on her nerves. But she kept her demeanor disinterested as she swung her right hand over to the table and grabbed her drink, while in the same movement looked up into his eyes and smirked. She sipped her gin and tonic casually, holding his gaze, and when she moved the lipstick-stained glass from her mouth, she licked her lips and answered his unspoken question, "Yes, we can leave now."
The dim lights caught the sequins of her floor length black dress, and though she hadn't said a word to anybody, all eyes were on her as she sashayed from the room, cigarette still held between those two fingers of her left hand. The world stopped when Fayte chose to stop it, and more often than not, even when she didn't. She was not in love with her husband. Nor was she in love with his money. She was his trophy wife, and she was the one always watching quietly, watching life pass her by while she dreamed and schemed on the day she would get out of this Hell and live her own life. She had time, after all. 19 years old, carrying on as though she were another one of the middle aged wives of her husbands business associates and so called "friends".
In the car, she watched the people on the streets, created their stories in her mind. The weight of her long black hair piled elegantly on top of her head was giving her a migraine, and she ached for the moment when she got home and could release the tangle of curls, brush it out to it's full silken glory. When her hair was down, and her makeup removed, and she was down to her black satin nightgown, she would look all of her 19 years. But the mind behind those piercing, perceptive eyes was wise beyond her meager life span.
Before she turned in for the night, she checked the phone and found a missed call and the voicemail light blinking unfeelingly. She pressed the button and listened to the automated bullshit before she felt her heart turn to stone.
"Fayte, it's Uncle Dane. Your mom... we tried your cell phone... call me back as soon as you get this. And hurry..."
The machine beeped to signal that there were no more messages, and with the final words from her uncle, she felt the last remnant shards of hope slip from her grasp.
Without a word to Dominic, she slipped into a pair of jeans, red flats, and a black sweatshirt and raced her maroon PT Cruiser to the hospital where her mother had been spending more and more time as of late. She didn't noticed she was holding her breath in the elevator until she let it all out in one heavy exhale as the doors slid open at her floor. Fear almost rooted her to the spot, but the need to know pushed her on. The hallway seemed to stretch out in front of her as if she were living in a horror film, and the sense of dread on her heart only made the walk ten times more painful. She almost closed her eyes when she turned the corner, afraid of what she might see, but before she could, she saw Dane crouched on the floor; head in his hands and body shaking with the sobs that contorted his voice and probably his hidden face.
And she ran. Past the nurses, past her uncle. Into the room where she knew what she'd find, but had forgotten to prepare herself for. Her mother lay still, her eyes sunken in and her hair, so thin, fanned out on the pillow beneath her skull. Her lips were barely parted, and though Fayte stared hard, waiting on her breast to raise with an intake of oxygen, no movement happened. She stumbled, unfeelingly, to the edge of the bed and laid her face to her mother's hand, where she allowed herself to break. Hot tears poured from her tight shut lids, and she screamed, screamed for all the pain and anger and loneliness filling her otherwise empty heart and soul. The nurses ran to stop the commotion, but Dane provided a physical barrier between the emotional torment in the room and the doctors anxious not the alarm the other patients and visitors until she had calmed down.
These last few years, her empty marriage, all the medications and surgeries and tests, were all for naught. And when she finally left the hospital, escorted under the tender arm of her husband, she was not actually there at all. Though her body went through the motions of riding in a car, being comforted, and laying down to sleep, she was elsewhere, in her own little world away from all this bitterness and trying to process it. And when she fell to sleep, it was not a restful sleep, but one devoid of dreams and damn near utterly pointless.
Smoke billowed and curled from her lips and nostrils, and from behind the gray curtain, heavy-lidded eyes peered up towards the arms he'd crossed over his chest. She knew without looking that he was glaring at her, could feel it. The impatient tapping of his foot was like a persistent muscle tick, grating on her nerves. But she kept her demeanor disinterested as she swung her right hand over to the table and grabbed her drink, while in the same movement looked up into his eyes and smirked. She sipped her gin and tonic casually, holding his gaze, and when she moved the lipstick-stained glass from her mouth, she licked her lips and answered his unspoken question, "Yes, we can leave now."
The dim lights caught the sequins of her floor length black dress, and though she hadn't said a word to anybody, all eyes were on her as she sashayed from the room, cigarette still held between those two fingers of her left hand. The world stopped when Fayte chose to stop it, and more often than not, even when she didn't. She was not in love with her husband. Nor was she in love with his money. She was his trophy wife, and she was the one always watching quietly, watching life pass her by while she dreamed and schemed on the day she would get out of this Hell and live her own life. She had time, after all. 19 years old, carrying on as though she were another one of the middle aged wives of her husbands business associates and so called "friends".
In the car, she watched the people on the streets, created their stories in her mind. The weight of her long black hair piled elegantly on top of her head was giving her a migraine, and she ached for the moment when she got home and could release the tangle of curls, brush it out to it's full silken glory. When her hair was down, and her makeup removed, and she was down to her black satin nightgown, she would look all of her 19 years. But the mind behind those piercing, perceptive eyes was wise beyond her meager life span.
Before she turned in for the night, she checked the phone and found a missed call and the voicemail light blinking unfeelingly. She pressed the button and listened to the automated bullshit before she felt her heart turn to stone.
"Fayte, it's Uncle Dane. Your mom... we tried your cell phone... call me back as soon as you get this. And hurry..."
The machine beeped to signal that there were no more messages, and with the final words from her uncle, she felt the last remnant shards of hope slip from her grasp.
Without a word to Dominic, she slipped into a pair of jeans, red flats, and a black sweatshirt and raced her maroon PT Cruiser to the hospital where her mother had been spending more and more time as of late. She didn't noticed she was holding her breath in the elevator until she let it all out in one heavy exhale as the doors slid open at her floor. Fear almost rooted her to the spot, but the need to know pushed her on. The hallway seemed to stretch out in front of her as if she were living in a horror film, and the sense of dread on her heart only made the walk ten times more painful. She almost closed her eyes when she turned the corner, afraid of what she might see, but before she could, she saw Dane crouched on the floor; head in his hands and body shaking with the sobs that contorted his voice and probably his hidden face.
And she ran. Past the nurses, past her uncle. Into the room where she knew what she'd find, but had forgotten to prepare herself for. Her mother lay still, her eyes sunken in and her hair, so thin, fanned out on the pillow beneath her skull. Her lips were barely parted, and though Fayte stared hard, waiting on her breast to raise with an intake of oxygen, no movement happened. She stumbled, unfeelingly, to the edge of the bed and laid her face to her mother's hand, where she allowed herself to break. Hot tears poured from her tight shut lids, and she screamed, screamed for all the pain and anger and loneliness filling her otherwise empty heart and soul. The nurses ran to stop the commotion, but Dane provided a physical barrier between the emotional torment in the room and the doctors anxious not the alarm the other patients and visitors until she had calmed down.
These last few years, her empty marriage, all the medications and surgeries and tests, were all for naught. And when she finally left the hospital, escorted under the tender arm of her husband, she was not actually there at all. Though her body went through the motions of riding in a car, being comforted, and laying down to sleep, she was elsewhere, in her own little world away from all this bitterness and trying to process it. And when she fell to sleep, it was not a restful sleep, but one devoid of dreams and damn near utterly pointless.
Tragedy
All at once, the air in his lungs was forcefully pushed from betwixt his quivering lips, as though some unseen force had directed a punch straight into his gut. The whine started in his head, and worked it's way through his body until it followed the exhaled carbon dioxide as a scream, gaining strength as it encompassed the silence that had torn through his nervous system, causing him to investigate. And the smell; He could feel the bile rising up in his throat. That wretched smell that permeated the room and curled it's vile fingers under the door, motioning for someone to come see. But to come see what? Oh, he had to be curious.
His hands, once limp at his sides, now unconsciously made their way up to grip his head as his knees turned to jelly and buckled beneath him. He tripped, stumbled forward, and gripped her legs, tears spilling hot over his face and blurring his vision. He screamed her name, clawed at her dangling legs, finally righting himself and lifting her so he might slip the rope over her head. The dead weight of her limp body in his weakened state caused him to fall to the floor, cradling her cadaver against him as painful sobs wracked his body and he cursed at the top of his lungs whatever entity dared let her be taken from him.
His clumsy hands brushed her hair back, touched her face and lips. He laid her down gently and pressed hands to her chest, pumping as he had been taught. Her lips were cold against his as he breathed hard into her body, trying in vain to give her his life, to bring her back. Swiping ferociously at the tears streaming down his face, he scratched at his eyes, the weight in his chest threatening to break out right through his skin.
Leaving her body on the floor, he made his way on unfeeling hands and knees to the couch, fresh tears and blood curdling sobs contorting his face. Crawling onto the couch, he took her head in his hands and shuddered at the feel of the blood coating his palms and his fingers. His lips pressed hard kisses to her face as he pulled her to him, holding her tight while a chorus of "no" was exhaled roughly. His fingers left bloody prints on the picture frame he picked up from her lap, a picture of the three of them several years ago. His daughter, so young, before she went off to college and came back with a drug habit. His wife, before the miscarriage. And himself, before the other women.
Prying the gun from her cold hand, he laid on the couch, curling his body into the fetal position, before putting the barrel of the gun into his mouth. Closing his eyes, squeezing out one more tear, he pulled the trigger.
"Click"
His hands, once limp at his sides, now unconsciously made their way up to grip his head as his knees turned to jelly and buckled beneath him. He tripped, stumbled forward, and gripped her legs, tears spilling hot over his face and blurring his vision. He screamed her name, clawed at her dangling legs, finally righting himself and lifting her so he might slip the rope over her head. The dead weight of her limp body in his weakened state caused him to fall to the floor, cradling her cadaver against him as painful sobs wracked his body and he cursed at the top of his lungs whatever entity dared let her be taken from him.
His clumsy hands brushed her hair back, touched her face and lips. He laid her down gently and pressed hands to her chest, pumping as he had been taught. Her lips were cold against his as he breathed hard into her body, trying in vain to give her his life, to bring her back. Swiping ferociously at the tears streaming down his face, he scratched at his eyes, the weight in his chest threatening to break out right through his skin.
Leaving her body on the floor, he made his way on unfeeling hands and knees to the couch, fresh tears and blood curdling sobs contorting his face. Crawling onto the couch, he took her head in his hands and shuddered at the feel of the blood coating his palms and his fingers. His lips pressed hard kisses to her face as he pulled her to him, holding her tight while a chorus of "no" was exhaled roughly. His fingers left bloody prints on the picture frame he picked up from her lap, a picture of the three of them several years ago. His daughter, so young, before she went off to college and came back with a drug habit. His wife, before the miscarriage. And himself, before the other women.
Prying the gun from her cold hand, he laid on the couch, curling his body into the fetal position, before putting the barrel of the gun into his mouth. Closing his eyes, squeezing out one more tear, he pulled the trigger.
"Click"
The End
The pretty wallpaper he'd put up for her benefit had taken a beating from misuse and the hard erosion of time and ugly neglect. She sat on the bed, arms folded tight across her chest as she tried to hold herself together while she watched her world fall apart. The wallpaper was peeling, exposing the garish truth hidden beneath the lies she'd tried so hard to hold up.
This was it. Never before had the end felt this final. She watched him pack, without a word, as sobs racked her body sporadically. If she were to be truthful with herself, she'd seen this coming, even felt it for quite some time. But for whatever god awful reason, she'd held on so tightly to the very thing that cut deeper the harder she squeezed to keep it in her grasp.
There were no physical marks, but she looked at her hands anyways, to see if she'd been cut right through or if she had opened her hands and let that rusty blade slip from her grip before it severed her completely. And she knew the answer, as heavy as it sat in her chest.
She was going to be okay. She didn't have any choice. All those times she swore she'd never breathe another breath if she had to live even a second without him, all those words were bittersweet lies. This was the end, and no matter how hard it hurt, she was still standing. And she would continue to stand.
5 years of her young life, 5 years she could never get back or trade in or do over. Those 5 years were behind her now. And though they made her, shaped her, they could not dim the fighting spirit within her body that she often fought tooth and nail.
She dropped him off without goodbye, without a look back. She cried, oh how she cried. But she knew she would be fine, even if she didn't want to be.
This was it. Never before had the end felt this final. She watched him pack, without a word, as sobs racked her body sporadically. If she were to be truthful with herself, she'd seen this coming, even felt it for quite some time. But for whatever god awful reason, she'd held on so tightly to the very thing that cut deeper the harder she squeezed to keep it in her grasp.
There were no physical marks, but she looked at her hands anyways, to see if she'd been cut right through or if she had opened her hands and let that rusty blade slip from her grip before it severed her completely. And she knew the answer, as heavy as it sat in her chest.
She was going to be okay. She didn't have any choice. All those times she swore she'd never breathe another breath if she had to live even a second without him, all those words were bittersweet lies. This was the end, and no matter how hard it hurt, she was still standing. And she would continue to stand.
5 years of her young life, 5 years she could never get back or trade in or do over. Those 5 years were behind her now. And though they made her, shaped her, they could not dim the fighting spirit within her body that she often fought tooth and nail.
She dropped him off without goodbye, without a look back. She cried, oh how she cried. But she knew she would be fine, even if she didn't want to be.
Tenderness
It was always her laughter that caught him mid-moment and truly took his breath away. She had this amazing laugh, like a million angels exhaling softly to the tune of some sweet violin sonata. Gently he kissed those lips from which such music issued. Leaning his face into her hair, he inhaled deeply. She smelt distinctly of rich autumn nights and mischief. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he crept quietly out of the room and into the bathroom, letting the hot water rush over his body. He hissed sharply at the initial scalding torrent, but stood with teeth clenched as he waited for his body to get used to the blistering temperature. Once he had finally become comfortable, he grabbed the scrub brush and lathered it with soap before applying it roughly to his skin. Dead skin peeled off and his body was left red and raw, nearly to the point of bleeding. He made sure to get under his fingernails and behind his ears. Finally, he washed his hair 3 times with her cherry blossom shampoo. A smile turning up the corners of his lips, he stepped from the shower and dried off, wrapping the towel around his waist. When he opened the bathroom door, plumes of steam rolled over each other to disperse in the hall.
In the kitchen, he fixed a pot of coffee and munched on a cold bagel slathered with blueberry cream cheese while he waited for the morning brew to fill the pot enough for one cup. A deep drink of the black coffee was all he needed. He set the cup next to the remnants of his bagel to go back to their bedroom. His eyes met hers as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bathroom, to the tub he had filled after his shower, and he smiled softly into those baby blues. He lowered her gently into the water, no clothes to remove first. Lovingly his hands caressed her body and her scalp as he washed her in the cherry blossom scented water. Just as he'd lowered her into the water, he pulled her from the water and worried not about a towel. Water trailed as he carried her back to their room and laid her on the sheets.
He went to her vanity table, grabbing the sewing kit from the bottom drawer and bringing it back to the bed. Licking the tip of the needle, a habit he'd picked up from his grandmother, he threaded the eye and went to work, cleaning up his handiwork. He hadn't wanted to ruin her completely, so he had been careful with his thrusts. There were only three of them, then he'd held her in his arms and taken her as the breath left her body. The candles in the dining room burned down and out and the leftover food grew cold as he took her again and again, tears streaming down his face. The blood that trailed from the dining room to the bedroom dried as he laid beside her, spent and finally at ease.
Perhaps he shouldn't have laid her back on the blood stained sheets, her dead eyes seemed to say. He frowned tentatively before finally deciding to leave her be. There was much more work to be done. He had to clean the blood from the bathroom and the floors. He had to clean up last nights dinner, as well as the pictures of her in the arms of another from the kitchen table. And he had to decide what she should wear today. Something clean and white, since she was new born; his and his alone.
In the kitchen, he fixed a pot of coffee and munched on a cold bagel slathered with blueberry cream cheese while he waited for the morning brew to fill the pot enough for one cup. A deep drink of the black coffee was all he needed. He set the cup next to the remnants of his bagel to go back to their bedroom. His eyes met hers as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bathroom, to the tub he had filled after his shower, and he smiled softly into those baby blues. He lowered her gently into the water, no clothes to remove first. Lovingly his hands caressed her body and her scalp as he washed her in the cherry blossom scented water. Just as he'd lowered her into the water, he pulled her from the water and worried not about a towel. Water trailed as he carried her back to their room and laid her on the sheets.
He went to her vanity table, grabbing the sewing kit from the bottom drawer and bringing it back to the bed. Licking the tip of the needle, a habit he'd picked up from his grandmother, he threaded the eye and went to work, cleaning up his handiwork. He hadn't wanted to ruin her completely, so he had been careful with his thrusts. There were only three of them, then he'd held her in his arms and taken her as the breath left her body. The candles in the dining room burned down and out and the leftover food grew cold as he took her again and again, tears streaming down his face. The blood that trailed from the dining room to the bedroom dried as he laid beside her, spent and finally at ease.
Perhaps he shouldn't have laid her back on the blood stained sheets, her dead eyes seemed to say. He frowned tentatively before finally deciding to leave her be. There was much more work to be done. He had to clean the blood from the bathroom and the floors. He had to clean up last nights dinner, as well as the pictures of her in the arms of another from the kitchen table. And he had to decide what she should wear today. Something clean and white, since she was new born; his and his alone.
Tender Virtuoso
I taste you on the wind,
The scent of warm October,
Dancing behind my eyes like little bubbles.
Kiss me in that simple way you always do.
Give me the moon on a string,
I'll hold it beneath my feet and wait to rise with Jupiter.
Take these thoughts,
Though they fray so at the ends,
And nurture them back to proper etiquette.
This
is
forever
falling
under
sweet
surrender
Wrap me up in ocean waves,
Blanketed in warped sea foam,
Salted and tended for longevity.
My tender virtuoso,
Sing me a smile to suppress despondency
And I'll paint you delight in words and phrases
The scent of warm October,
Dancing behind my eyes like little bubbles.
Kiss me in that simple way you always do.
Give me the moon on a string,
I'll hold it beneath my feet and wait to rise with Jupiter.
Take these thoughts,
Though they fray so at the ends,
And nurture them back to proper etiquette.
This
is
forever
falling
under
sweet
surrender
Wrap me up in ocean waves,
Blanketed in warped sea foam,
Salted and tended for longevity.
My tender virtuoso,
Sing me a smile to suppress despondency
And I'll paint you delight in words and phrases
Taboo Writing Prompt Entry; Necrophilia
When he entered the room, her long, lithe body lay calling to him on the bed. She was beautiful in all her angelic splendor. Long silken tresses of darkest black flowed over white satin pillowcases beneath her sweet head. Candlelight danced on her pale skin and cast shadows on the walls. His mouth watered at the sight of her, and he crossed the floor to her bedside quickly. Disrobing, he lay beside her and ran a trembling hand through her hair. No words were necessary as he spread her thighs and lay between them, capturing her lips with his and sliding his tongue against hers, which lay as still as the rest of her. His hands caressed the soft, lovely mounds of her breasts, teasing the soft pink nipples with practiced fingertips. Strong hands wandered, fingers spread, as he reveled in the feel of her skin beneath him. Carefully, with a lover's skill, he parted her folds and guided his throbbing member deep within her.
A mix of a sigh and a grunt escaped his lips at the initial sensation. She was so tight, so perfect. He held her close as he thrusted, taking in her scent with heavy breaths. As he rose higher and higher, closer to climax, he pulled her legs up to allow for deeper penetration. Finally, with a final moan, he spilled forth his lust within her, kissing her neck and cheek. Withdrawing his shrinking member, he rolled to the edge of the bed and left her exactly as he had found her.
When the police filed the death report, it was noted that there was evidence of sexual intercourse... post-mortem.
A mix of a sigh and a grunt escaped his lips at the initial sensation. She was so tight, so perfect. He held her close as he thrusted, taking in her scent with heavy breaths. As he rose higher and higher, closer to climax, he pulled her legs up to allow for deeper penetration. Finally, with a final moan, he spilled forth his lust within her, kissing her neck and cheek. Withdrawing his shrinking member, he rolled to the edge of the bed and left her exactly as he had found her.
When the police filed the death report, it was noted that there was evidence of sexual intercourse... post-mortem.
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