Femme Fatale.

The clock struck three.
The dark night stretched into the horizon,
Barely mitigated by the nearly absent orb of the new moon.
The bedside lamp created dancing shadows of art against the wall,
With the assistance of the curtains,
Fluttering in the cold, winter breeze.

She’d spent the evening drinking whisky
And dancing in the arms of the love of her life,
She now lay, enveloped in his strong embrace,
Gazing at him as he lay asleep, peacefully unconscious,
Like an innocent child, she thought.
She lightly grazed the back of her hand along his cheek.
The alcohol had intoxicated him with pleasure,
Flowing through his veins, making him weak,
Just as he did to her.

She loved him with a fierce passion,
And abhorred its consequences.
Her mind was no longer her own,
For it belonged to the “us”
That she had created with him.
She was clouded by his presence,
As he had comfortably nestled into the home he had built,
Of her own accord, in her thoughts and her individuality.
Although she was assured of his loyal reciprocation of the same,
Dependence was not a pill she would swallow.

She traced his lips- red, warm- with her thumb,
And gently eased her own onto them.
He opened his eyes for a brief moment, as their warmth mingled, but shut them, meekly,
As she ran her hand through his burgundy locks,
And with a deep sigh she straddled his waist, wrapping her palms around his neck.
She lowered her face to his ear
And whispered terms of endearment
Before resting against his chest, cherishing the melody of his heartbeat.
A few moments passed and she straightened herself.
She then transformed her love into force and channelled it to her hands,
Increasing the pressure around his throat.
His deep brown eyes flew wide open- shock, terror, pain and confusion flashed across them,
As he looked into hers- cold, emotionless.
He was too weak to protest effectively,
His hands wrapped around hers in a futile attempt to wrench them off.
“Hush, baby, it will be over soon.”, she whispered.
The very next second she grabbed his face and twisted his neck,
Cackling as she heard it shatter.
A wave of calm contentment took over her
As she watched the life escape from his eyes, while he lay under her,
Peaceful, unmoving, dead.
She kissed his lips, now cold, one final time.

She loved him with all her heart but she liked herself far more.
Too selfish to keep him, too possessive to make him leave.
She wanted nobody to have him, none but herself,
For he was hers, and hers he would stay.

She sliced off the finger of his vena amoris,
Which she would keep to herself- a souvenir, a prized possession;
Then dragged his lifeless body and laid it down
In tub they once shared, on their first night together.
She bathed him in sulfuric acid,
And locked the door behind her as she left.

Months later she stood by her mantelpiece
Fondly gazing at the transparent jar of sludge,
As she stroked the finger bones in her necklace.
She was just another widow,
Reminiscing about her loving husband.

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