If you wake, you will not remember me. You will not remember you. You will not remember anything. So allow me to inform you on the subject of the autumn that has passed, though my memory is still hazy. Where to begin? The day I witnessed the unspeakable? The day I found out that man had died? The day my curiosity got the better of me and I met you on that hillside? The moment we kissed? The day you stole me away and I found a home.
My obsession with you began some short time ago when I saw what you did. I was both horrified and intrigued by it. I had never seen anything so awful and so wonderful as I did that November night. I remember standing that night looking into the mirror in my bathroom. The screaming. It never stopped. It just continued to ring around the fragments of my weakened confused mind until it was both past, present and future. All my thoughts, shattered by a great ugly scream that tore the blackness of that night to pieces that lay broken open the pavement intermingled with red river that had run over the concrete until it pattered away into the gutter like fallen rain.
A slight trickle of blood from my left hand brought me back to it. Back to that moment. Shouting; the flash of your blade; his scream; that thud as he fell to the floor; the red river running to the gutter. A life, running to the gutter. Lost. As I washed the blood from my shirt I watched it diffuse like crimson paint into the cold water of my china sink. It hovered for a moment. Then the screaming had continued.
Then, as I pulled the plug, it too ran down into the drain into the gutter like a watery crimson river.
Over the days that followed, you were still in my mind. It was not only the man that had fallen that permeated my every waking hour but also the man that did it. I use the term loosely of course, for I was not sure that a man could even do such a thing. But you did. I wondered what you had felt in that moment to perform such a horrible act and then my thoughts turned to a question that ever bothered me; what had I done to be unlucky enough to be walking past at that moment.
It was a day after that that I got a phone call from the police who told me that they understood I was a witness to the act and that they wanted to interview me as part of a murder prosecution. Then I realised that the man had died. They told me you - Phoenix Quillion - was under arrest. Phoenix Quillion. Maybe if I had known that name would haunt me day and night I wouldn’t have walked home that way. It was after that conversation I knew I needed to meet you. I needed to understand who you were. I needed to understand why you did what you did. And now I do. So I refused to pick you out from the line up. They let you go. And as thanks to me for setting you free you wrote to me and told me to meet you on a mountain road. I met you. You were so handsome, long flowing hair to your shoulders. Black. Like your eyes. I wonder what you’ll look like after this, if you wake up that is. If you ever read this.
We talked for a while. Standing out on that mountain side. You were so kind. I couldn’t believe you’d murdered a man. It was then that you saw your moment. You grabbed me softly and pushed me into the boot of your car. Blindfolded. After hours of meandering, wondering lanes, pathways, and tracks, which you drove along at such a speed, I wouldn’t be able to catch a glimpse of our location. I just remember the soft gentle rocking motion as you drove the car up high into the mountains in circles until I couldn’t remember how many twists and turns we had made. You talked to me along the way. Told me what was going to happen. I just listened. Lost in a deadly pool of my own thoughts. I was drowning. Now I am surfacing. When we finally parked, your rough hands were soft and gentle as they grabbed me and dragged me from the warmth of the velveteen boot of your Mercedes. You brought me inside the cabin, sat me upon a leather chair, and bolted the door hurriedly as if you assumed I was planning some sort of daring escape. How could I be? I’d never been to the cabin before. Silly boy…
You gave me a cup with a liquid inside as I asked you when I would be allowed to see again and you informed me that you would permit my sight as soon as I’d finished the drink. I began raising the china cup to my lips as you softly ran your strong hand through my raven hair and let it rest around the nape of my pale neck so its movement was confined. Gently you took the cup from me, and raised its smooth china to touch my dry ruby lips and ignited an unblinking, unyielding spark within me, reaching every part of my brazen body. I drank the thick tasteless liquid deeply and your hand tightened around my neck so your fingertips reached my jaw bone. Lightly, you caressed it. Loved it. Needed it. Lowering the cup, you stayed true to your previous promise and undid the black satin blindfold with one hand and allowed it to flutter, with the sweet grace of a butterfly, to the wooden floor.
I looked up at you.
Your eyes met mine and the fiery spark within me grew ever stronger. The blue of your eyes was the electrifying blue of a summers’ day. I wanted to caress you. Love you. I needed you. And in an odd way, I still do. You gave me a strange knowing smile that seemed to glance right through my soul and I found myself smiling back. I did not want to smile back but something within my soul compelled me to. Of course, it was the spark.
You continued this for days or weeks or maybe even months, the concept of time is always forgotten in the end. All I remember was when you brought me upstairs, locked the door, and bent slightly and our waiting wanting lips made desperate loving contact for the first time since you’d taken me away. Since you had given me a home. Since that first kiss, we could not stop. We were addicted. At least I was. Not that I would ever tell you.
So allow me to fast forward, every day you had given me another cup of thick, frothing liquid which I drunk gladly, as a child, nourished by warm milk. And as I drunk, I began to grow weaker in my memories. I could hardly remember the drive, or the feel of the leather chair or even the soft kind love in your rough touch. But that day felt different. I was troubled. Something was about to change. Someone was coming for me. After our morning kiss, I heard it; sirens. The brutal deafening sound, so loud it reverberated around my brain until what little comprehension I had depleted. I told you we had to go and despite your refusing, I grabbed you and dragged you out of the cabin. I couldn’t have you get caught simply for loving me. I grabbed your keys and started up the car engine. The sirens were getting louder more deafening. I drove as fast as I could up the trailed and tracks and pathways further until I could not remember where I had started.
Then it happened.
My foot slipped.
Me, you and the silver Mercedes flew until the side of the rough mountain. All I saw was your brazen body slumped against the dashboard. Still breathing. Then I was gone too.
So I confess. Perhaps there were no sirens. Perhaps I’m out of my mind. Perhaps I tried to kill you. Perhaps I have succeeded. Perhaps I will wait here, staring into the mountains forever, dreaming of the possibility of jumping into the unloving depths of the beyond. I press charges against me. A life for a life. I cannot live in a world where you do not love me.
Until we meet in paradise,
Your Killer, Your Lover