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She was prettier dead, I thought to myself.
My mind whispered to me of her beauty while she still breathed. Tantalizing flickers of her face, her hair, her voice. The most glorious voice.
I wanted it all so bad.
I know, I am sure, that you understand. My mind is a wretched little thing, that should be thrown on the pavement and squashed underfoot. It was these twisted thoughts that possessed me, that wrapped my hands around her cold, clammy neck.
The neck, the voice, that sang so beautifully.
The voice that sang to me, and to you. Such a beautiful thing should not go unshared.
But my hands were much too shaky.
She screamed when I reached for her, and I had to let go. A voice like hers hurts when it’s torn to shreds that way.
“Dear,” I whispered to her. “Why don’t you come home?”
Her angelic face was marred with terror, and she put a hand to her chest, which rose and fell rapidly.
“You scared me,” She finally said, and I shrank with guilt. The cowering, sniveling gremlin I am.
But she loved me so.
“Not my intention,” I murmured, bowing my head. “I’m sorry. I just had a gift for you. I wanted to give it to you before the show.”
Her posture fell slack, and I took it as a sign that she was relaxed. Pulling aside the front of my long black overcoat, I unveiled a bundle of pink and purple flowers. She clasped her hands in joy, and I moved to put them on her shelf, but she shook her head.
“Put them on my vanity. I’ll take care of them later.”
She could be bossy at times- you remember. Demandingly, gratingly, so.
“Of course.” I set the flowers to rest, where she wanted them. I smiled graciously at her, and she returned it. Following the lovely aroma of the flowers, she sat at her vanity and inhaled.
I stayed stiffly where I was, still smiling.
She ran a hand through her pumpkin colored curls, not bothering to pretend to be interested in me any longer. “Does it look brushed well enough?” Then she waved a hand dismissively, answering her own question. “No matter. They’ll like it, or they’ll love it.”
“Yes,” I said mildly, tracking her hand’s movements. “They will.”
She coughed, before looking in the mirror to meet my eyes. “What a long way you’ve come, I’m flattered.”
“Well, you know. I adore you and your voice. Couldn’t miss this for anything.” I responded sincerely.
She laughed.
She was about to run a hand through her hair again, but coughed once more. “Oh, dear,” She bemoaned. “Not on the day of the concert.”
“Oh no!” I sympathized, static in my tone. “Well, just a small cough. They don’t last long.”
“You’re right,” She sighed, and I nodded in agreement. The pause was long and awkward for myself, but not for her. It never was.
When she turned from her mirror to look at me face to face, her eyes were bloodshot. She fluffed her hair, unnoticing as a wall.
“Get me a handkerchief, will you?” She croaked.
In a flurry, I hurried to the trunk and opened its heavy wooden lid. It was full of scarves, dresses, and stockings, so I grabbed a silken fabric of some kind. I remained bent over the trunk, subtly wrapping it around my mouth and nose.
“Do you have the handker-“ Her voice started with a rasp, and ended with a hacking nose. I finally turned to face her.
Her hands were spotted with crimson, and she was staring at them with glazed horror. Her head drifted up to me, eyes bright with tears. “I fear this is much more than a cough.”
Truthfully, I am glad I failed to choke her. Her throat would be much too damaged to be of any use.
I got up from the woman’s body, my hand full and slick with blood. Her voice was mine now. I almost cried at the beauty of it, caught in my fist.
It was time to leave. But something had snagged me, and wouldn’t rip free. Then I smiled, remembering. I am not sure why I felt I had to do this; perhaps as a final- my only- act of defiance. I took the flowers from where they lay, and placed them in the vase, just where she hadn’t wanted them. Something to remind her soul of the rest it would never have. You know of my disgustingly vengeful nature.