The Stolen Kiss

He delighted in the fact that she shrank away from his touch. With every step he took towards her, it pleased him to see her try to bury herself deeper into the wall that she was already pressed up against. He fancied her as a small mouse, trapped with nowhere else to go, no form of escape. A tiny little mouse trapped, whose end fate lies solely in the palms of his hands. He shook his head in amusement as he undid the top button of his white shirt, a small smile playing on his cold thin lip; hasn’t she learned that to resist was futile? He was so near now, that all he had to do was reach out and her soft supple skin would be under the mercy of his fingertips... He could smell her perfume, the whiff of it mocking him coyly. Mixed with the fear that emanated off her shivering form, it was enough to make him lose control.

The rage that pulsed inside him was one that terrified even he himself. It was one of unspoken vengeance, one of repressed hate. Too long has he kept it to himself. Too long has he been denied of what was rightfully his by birth. Too long has she teased him, always giving him merely a glimpse of that that he so badly needs, only to promptly draw it back after she’s got him hooked. Tonight, he was going to set things right.

He stopped two feet short from her and shut his eyes when her plea for mercy once again came to his ears. He hated it when a woman cried, when she cried. The smallest flutter of sympathy fleeted across his heart but was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He knows not the weight of emotions as such, of empathy and forgiveness. He stopped feeling – for her, for anyone at all – the day she had ripped his heart out, fed it to the dogs and helped them wash it down with a glass of the finest red wine.

He always thought she had beautiful eyes. With the thick eyeliner she favoured so much and lashes impossibly thickened and lengthened with coatings of mascara, he had always been helpless whenever she turned those pools of gray to look at him. Her gaze burned into his soul, warming the dark and dank prison that was his heart and mind without her even having to utter a single syllable. Even now, when her usually precise and clean eyeliner were smudged and running along with her tears cascading down her cheeks, he couldn’t help but still be blown away by the command those eyes of hers have over him. It pained him that the new addition of fear and desperation present in them were by fault of his.

But he had not meant it to be this way. He had never meant to hurt her. To hurt her was the last thing he wanted to do. He loves her.

Her whimpering sobs echoed around the dark cellar, a jarring cacophony that was too harsh on his ears for his liking. He winced. Her grace and soft-spoken ways had always been her main attraction to him, just before her intelligence and wit. The way she was choking on her own tears and saliva now was so unlike her, it was getting on his nerves. Why wouldn’t she shut up and go back to her silent and quiescent ways? Was being in his mere presence torturing her so? He means her no harm, doesn’t she know that? He loves her.

He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes. She withdrew, as if his touch had seared her. Did his touch disgust her so? Was her hatred and repulsion so pure reserved solely for him? He couldn’t help feel another bout of loathing bubble within him as he thought of the many other men who might have touched her while making love to her; had she yearned for the touch of those other men then? Had she cried out in pleasure for it then? He raised his hand and slapped her smartly across her right cheek. No other man could have her but him, can’t she see that? He loves her.

Suddenly realising what it was that he had done, he hastened to undo the damage. Still feeling the sting on his finger, he cupped her face in his hands. He loved her. He couldn’t bear the thought of her hating him. He hadn’t meant to hit her; she had made him do it. She and her sly, conniving ways, always playing him for the fool. Brushing her smooth flawless skin with all the tenderness he could muster, he whispered a hasty apology; please don’t hate him, he didn’t mean to hurt her, he never had. He loved her.

He was so close to her now he could feel the faint beating of her heart against his own chest, the soft mounds of her breasts. He inhaled deeply the scent of the shampoo in her hair, how it smelled of early morning sunshine on a bright cloudless Sunday morning. She was still crying; why was she crying? He was here, he was going to make sure she was alright.

He wiped away at a tear with his thumb. Everything was going to be alright, he was going to make sure of that. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. He loves her, so much.
He felt her stiffen and struggle against his embrace. It was going to be alright. He loves her, that is all that matters. As her hands pushed against his chest, his hand brushed the length of her jaw line before snaking its way around her throat.

Her pulse beat hungrily under his touch. He pressed himself against her as she began to push harder against him. Her struggle excited him. He loves her, doesn’t she get it?

His finger wrapped himself around her throat and he began to press. He watched as her eyes widen in trepidation as she soon realises what was going on right before her very eyes. Her hands stopped heaving against him and they came now to claw at his arms. However, every scratch her nails made on his skin only fuelled him press harder instead.

With a shudder, he watched as her lips parted and a silent cry escaped them as her lungs choked a last attempt for air. He kept constant the pressure he applied to her throat. Finally, when she was struggling no more, he let go. Her arms fell to her side, like dead weights.

Even in death, she had beautiful eyes.

He scooped her in his arms and wept into her hair. She smelled so pure, so pristine. Of early morning sunshine on a cloudless Sunday morning.

He held her close and wept.

He loves her.

So much.

Doesn’t she get it?