Page 18 of Sangre
He stared hard at her for what seemed like an eternity then he finished buttoning his shirt. Walking toward the door, he paused, then turned around and shook his head. “Because I’m getting married after the play closes. It doesn’t have to stop with us if you don’t want it to.”
It would’ve been easier if he’d rushed up to her and stabbed her repeatedly in the heart. She was sure the pain wouldn’t be as acute as his words were. Dumbfounded, she just gaped at him—her mouth open and limbs trembling.
“So there you have it. I understand if you want to stop. I have to go. Think on it.” And then he was gone.
If I want to stop? How can I stop? Love isn’t something you turn on and off like a faucet. How could he deceive me like that? Did he ever love me?She fell back on the sofa where she’d just spent the last two hours in blissful ecstasy and stared at the wall. She couldn’t even cry. It was too unbelievable.
A soft knock and her heart leapt to her throat.He’s come back to tell me this was all a joke. He can be cruel sometimes.She slipped her cotton robe on and rushed over to the dressing table and sat down. Sharla didn’t want him to think she was brooding. She wanted to act casual and not let him know how deeply his cruel joke had hurt her.
“Come in,” she said, closing her eyes while she rubbed the moistened tissue over her heavily made up eyes.
The door opened and closed quietly. She knew he was there.He’s probably waiting for me to say something. Well, two can play at his game. How dare he play around with my heart.She kept rubbing the black mascara off her lashes. She heard the creak on the floorboard and smiled. He was coming to her, like he often did when she was taking off her makeup. He’d come over and pepper her neck with small kisses while he cupped her breasts.
He was behind her. She could hear his breathing, feel the light brush of his body against her upper back, smell—Wait… that doesn’t smell like Brad.Her eyes flew open, and she stared at the figure behind her in the mirror.That’s not Brad!
“What are you doing here?” Annoyance made the fine lines around her eyes crinkle. Each time that happened, she wished she wouldn’t have baked in the sun since she was twelve years old. At twenty-five, she was too young to have any lines. “This is ridiculous,” she mumbled under her breath.
The lamp on her dressing table fell down, breaking the light bulb and throwing the room into darkness. Then smooth, gloved fingers tightened around her throat, cutting off her airway. Frantically, she clawed at them, but they held on. Panic set in, and tears rolled down her freshly cleansed cheeks. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the dimness in the room, the only light coming from a large white sign lit-up from the church across the street. In the dimness something flashed, and she couldn’t quite make it out. When it was brought close to her neck, she saw it was a knife. In that one moment of clarity, she realized that she would never perform her role on stage. She knew her next performance would be a cold, rigid corpse in a coffin at her own funeral.
The knife cut smoothly over her neck, and she stared at her fuzzy reflection in the mirror, watching the life seep out of her.
