TIL MURDER DO US PART: concept
Day 2 of Charlastor AU Week: 1920s
A/N: it’s a nice one shot on its own but this is a deleted scene. Unfortunately it’s a kill your darlings situation. Think of it as concept art!
The possibilities of passing a murder while toddling down a street are high. Now the possibilities of passing a serial killer, a bit slimmer. Old folks do say that a person walks past three serial killers in their life. However, marrying one out of those three serial killers? Almost impossible. But unfortunately someone had to make those odds happen and that person happened to be the mayor’s darling little princess: Charlotte Morningstar.
New Orleans was never dark even when nightfall fell. The twinkling lights of the slanted buildings almost seemed to lean over Tom Trench as he strolled down the street. Jazz floated down the cobbled stone streets, the tune dragging tantalizing circles in the sticky night air. Tom whistled along, straightening his sharp blue suit when meeting the eyes of a pretty brunette and bowing his head to a respectable balding man.
It had been another long night at the radio studio. Tom came to a stop, kicking a stray can onto the road as yet another pristine car whizzed by. He leaned against a flickering lamp post, waiting for the cars to cease and cross. Yes, a long night. A delirious grin crossed his face and a boy in a cap gave him a curious look as he passed by.
Katie Killjoy. His co-anchor. Whenever her viperous green eyes raked over his face, the spinning world stopped for a moment. He idly crossed the street, his fingers twitching at his side. Often, in his last waking moments before slumber, he would wonder how soft her ivory skin was. However, she was tough, ruthless, perhaps it would be as thick as a snake, or she would slither out from under his grasp.
His hand pushed open the bar door, stumbling into the buzz of conversation and the smell of that tart liquor. Tom collapsed on a bar stool, weariness tugged at his eyes, and he knocked his limber knees against the table. The bartender was a sturdily built older man with dark skin and sagacity glimmered in his eyes. A wiseness only a bartender could manage with a few quiet words and a liquor bottle. “Whiskey, Tom?” His soft baritone voice rolled over Tom in waves. Tom found a sort of comfort in it, no wonder he still came to this dingy dive bar.
Tom traced the scratch marks on the weathered bar top and glanced up, “Yeah, thanks, Husk.” There was a clink of a bottle and the glass slid into his folded hands perfectly. His almost too bright blue eyes glanced into the rusty gleam of his whiskey.
“I know that look…” The bartender said. Tom looked up at Husker who was shining away at a dirtied glass. “...wife troubles?” As soon as he said that Tom’s heart clenched, squeezing away anything left of his dignity. He drank, hoping to flood that feeling, drown it in his rib cage and cage his heart. “Oh…” That knowing eye raked over him, shattering through any wall he had so carefully raised.
“Uh huh…” Tom said, a shaking hand wiping over his mouth. He dodged the bartender’s gaze as he took glass after glass. The clock had long ago been broken, speeding at a rapid pace, running from itself seemingly. Someone was yelling, someone was crying, it was a typical Wednesday night in Swingin’ Spirits. A band played in the corner, a few lost lads in a sea of skyrocketing jazz, trying and failing to tame the din.
Husk didn’t ask. He never did. Never pried about sickeningly sweet feelings like some people did, for example Tom’s wife: Clara Trench. Tom was counting, counting each sip but after a while he stopped. What was the point? Drunk or drunk out of his mind, he was going to stumble back home to a fussing Clara. A Clara that would shower him, drown him in suffocating clinginess.
You’re pathetic. Tom knew it. He always knew it. He was a shell of a man and a man built to be nothing more to be a punching bag. Someone everyone would tread over, a heel always digging into his side.
Clara. His fingers were soft on the glass. Katie. His fingers dug in, his grip threatening to shatter it. Time was ticking by, he knew it. The shouting was beginning on the street, the desperate cry of the drunks and the homeless, perhaps both. The bar was beginning to empty itself out, weariness pulling folks to the exit, drunk moths to a four lettered light.
Tom didn’t know how long he sat there, pondering. It may have been minutes, hours, days. He didn’t know, he never glanced up from the brown sky underneath his fingertips, always remaining full. A sky that never emptied, never had its answers written in the stars of its small bubbly world. He sat still, very still yet his mind was tearing through, ripping itself apart bit by bit. Every perverted and dirty thought chipping away at a bit of his sanity. You’re disgusting. Tom knew it. He was. A man driven by a pretty face and curves to move mountains. Impure heat burning away at any self-dignity and pride, the disgusting world scorching any of his innocence from all those years ago.
A laugh crawled from the pit in his stomach and rolled out into the jazz filled air. “I’m fucked, aren’t I? The missus will kill me! Me! In love with another woman! Hah!” The words spilled forth like an endless waterfall, falling out of his mouth out of control. His fingernails dug into his pants leg, scrunching it up into his hand.
Husker let out a long sigh, propping a glass on the shelf lazily with the others lined up behind him haphazardly. “Look, man, I’ll say this,” He settled his burly arms flat on the bar, waving his hand around to the no-good fools chattering or snoozing off in a corner. “...I’ve seen this plenty of times, Tom. And well, do you love your wife?” Husk arched a bushy brow.
Tom nodded quickly and took another gulp from his glass. The tart taste soothed the sickeningly sweetness piercing any sense in his head.
“Alright…” Husk continued, his eyes darting down the bar line. “I say…don’t feed it. Ever. Let it starve and die. And I say this with complete conviction,” The bartender raised a finger. “It is not a fantasy or an escape. It is a danger to your marriage.”
Tom swallowed, hard. He had a sudden urge to spew the settling alcohol all over the bar counter. Tom clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails digging enough into his skin to draw clean blood. His eyes darted up to the serene eyes of Husker, “And…what happens if I can’t let it starve?”
Husker’s eye twitched and he said slowly, in a voice of perception, “So…she’s a coworker?”
Tom fingered the inside of his glass, swirling his digit along the rim and said quietly, “She’s my co-anchor.” Husker blinked and his usually narrowed eyes went wide. Tom sucked in a much-needed breath, “I know. I know. She’s fucking crazy.” His elbows slammed into the counter waking up a lazy drunk at the end of the bar. He dug his fingers into his scalp, tangling them in his blonde locks. “B-But…I’m in love with her. Husker…” The bartender took a small step back, “Husker…I can’t just get out of it. I’m stuck!” He squeezed his eyes shut, “I’m stuck…”
“That you are, my man…” Husker’s rag dragged along the dirtied counter. Tom peeked at the bartender from the crevices of his fingers. “But…Katie Killjoy?” Husker rolled his eyes, “Come on, Tom. She’ll eat you alive.”
Tom drew his hands away from his face, “Is it bad I kind of like that?” he said quietly.
Husker shook his head, the grey streak in his hair shimmering under the dingy lights, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tom.” He pressed his rag into the counter, trying to scrub away at a particularly nasty stain. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”
Tom let out a long sigh, “You know what, I got an idea.” He chewed the inside of his cheek and looked up at Husk. “I’ll figure something out.”
Husker let out a grumble, “You know that’s not damn good enough.” He pointed a finger at the disoriented radio star collapsing right in front of him. “I’m gonna give it to you straight. Clara’s a good woman and Katie Killjoy will never live up to that. You’re lucky you have her, Tom.”
“I know. I know,” Tom mumbled, “I’ll make it up to the missus. I’ll make extra good love to Clara tonight and take her out to dinner tomorrow” He took another hefty swig of his glass, slammed it on the table, and laughed, “Hell! I’ll even give her a baby. That’ll do it. That’ll make me fall back into my normal groove. Back in love again.” Tom grinned, “Katie Killjoy will be yesterday’s news.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Tom,” Husker simply said and glanced towards the back of the room. “Be careful out there.”
Tom Trench gave Husker a little wave, slammed down a few dollars and hopped off his bar stool, “Good night, Husker! Thank you, old bud!” He waded through the crowd making his way to the back door. God’s eyes were on him, piercing through the weathered shingles and countless chattering heads in the dive bar. Yes, Tom would make sweet love to her under the moon, the only witness to his redemption. He knew dear Clara’s skin, tantalizing yet not electrifying, not in the way a single brush of Katie’s skin would make his brain go haywire. Fry all his circuits, rip out his lungs and sever his vocal cords.
Tom remembered the days when his heart would race under Clara’s gaze, now twice the more under a scathing glare from his co-anchor. No, he knew all the ways to touch Clara, to make her sigh, moan and scream if he wished. She was soft spoken and tame, leaving him thirsting for a wildness that would leave him breathless. Yes, he’d fuck her gently, softly as he always did, always remembering to keep that slumbering beast in check. That beast that wanted her to scream at him, pull out his hair, beat him until he bled, until he begged for her love, and she would smile, whispering a soft dirty thing in his ear. And he would look up, no, not to see Clara’s soft brown eyes but venomous green, a sea of poison he wanted to drown in.
Tom stumbled, clutching his chest. How far had he fallen? He was vile! Dirty! Unbelievably perverted! He dared not think of what his dear mother in Heaven would say if she could flip through his dirty thoughts, gasping at each depraved fantasy racing from nerve to nerve.
Tom stopped short, his eye catching the rustle of a pinned-up paper nearby on the wall. No, several papers nearby were pinned up. Tom spun on his foot, pressing the heel of his hand on the wall to steady himself. The thoughts were threatening his balance, such vile things promising to topple himself from his dignity. His finger tranced the fresh ink on the papers, warped stoic faces glared at him as if they could see his thoughts: Missing Persons. That’s what they were.
Tom grumbled as another thought of Katie Killjoy flicked through his mind. Yes, he remembered talking about these missing persons today. However, he soon found himself drowning under her face, clutching onto any word that spilled from her plump lips like a lifeline. Idle words had fallen from his mouth, dragging on the conversation, picking up her little clues scattered in their mingled breaths.
Murders in New Orleans. A laugh escaped him. My, that had been the farthest thing from his mind. Love, lust, and lies had taken over any vision of bloodied bodies. The red of blood had transformed into the red of her lips. The pale skin had become her soft ivory skin. Tom almost felt his stomach drop yet the thoughts of her kept him afloat. The conversation dragged him back into his memories of their little radio show together.
“A serial killer is rampant in New Orleans, folks! The police suggest not to stay out after dark if you don’t want your guts scooped out! Hah!” Tom let out a sigh as he thought back to her voice. That voice which was rough, yet he was sure she could sing, sing wonderfully like a chirping bird in a swaying forest. A morbid voice full of insults left and right yet perhaps they could belittle him. Belittle him when he is on his knees for her and begging for her affection.
Tom pushed the back door open, stumbling out into the dark. Something scampered over his feet, and he hissed. The rat burrowed itself in a tin can nestled at the side of the building. Tom spat at it, spit mingling into the dirty alley. The door slammed behind him, the bar light grazing the brick wall which dully stared back at him.
That buzz of the alcohol was wearing off replacing it with a yawning hole in his stomach. An emptiness that gnawed away at him and crawled on his skin. He blinked, fumbling with the pockets of his jacket. Tom licked his lips, yes, a smoke would ease the nerves. Clara rather hated the smell in the house.
He dug a box of cigarettes out of his pocket and hissed as he rummaged around in his pockets for a lighter. His fingers dug deep in the corners to no avail. “Damn…” Tom gritted his teeth.
“Need a light?” A charming voice said from the shadows.
“FUCK!” Tom stumbled back, grabbing his hat and staring around into the shadows. Finally, he spotted the owner of the voice. It was a man leaning against the brick wall, his glasses reflecting in the moonlight. The street was quiet at this hour, an occasional flash of lights. All Tom could see was the man’s silhouette, a phantom of the night. The only trace of a human could be seen by the cigarette’s feeble light: a light which revealed the man’s glistening smile.
“Now that’s hardly a way to greet someone, is it?” The shadow laughed, a puff of air coiling from his lips. “Now…do you need a light?” A lighter glowed in the dark, sun kissed hands holding it out to Tom.
Tom chewed the inside of his mouth, glancing down at his unlit cigarette. “Fine…” He stalked over to the shadow and snatched the lighter from his hand. Swiftly, he lit the butt of his cigarette, clicking the lighter open and raised it to his lips. A wave of euphoria danced on his tongue as he inhaled the wispy smoke. Tom handed it back to the outstretched hand and said quietly, “Thanks, man…”
“It is my pleasure, Tom Trench…” The shadow replied with that very steady voice.
“Yeah…” Tom took another puff, letting the smoke mingle with the humid night air. Then he blinked, once, then twice, and turned towards the gleaming smile in the dark. “How do you know my name?”
“Just a fan!” The voice replied. The smile was all too glistening and white, teeth snipping every word into pieces. “You’re Katie Killjoy’s secondhand man, hm?”
“Always nice to meet a fan,” Tom Trench admitted, and he leaned back against the brick wall next to the man. “Katie Killjoy…you know she’s so fuckable.”
The shadow beside him chuckled. “Yes, it's quite obvious how you talk to her.” His phantom loafer kicking a stray can out of the alley. My! What dirty minded things. Wonder what dear Clara would say.”
Tom’s heart dropped at those words, and he shifted to face the shadow man, shoulder pressing hard into the brick. He asked quietly, “What the hell did you just say?”
“Did I hit a sore spot with the dashing Radio Star?” the shadow man teased. Tom Trench shoved the cigarette in between his teeth and pulled up his sleeves. “No need for violence my good man…” the man assured, flapping a hand cloaked in darkness. “Let’s just…talk…”
“Uh huh. I doubt that my good man.” Tom Trench mocked. A nasty fire was burning at his rib cage, threatening to spill over any minute. Tom glanced over at the shadow man who was still leaning on the wall. His smile…it was strange…odd…it never seemed to rest. “What are you doing hanging out in a dark alley, creep?” Tom asked.
The shadow man let out a long sigh, a breath of smoke coiling in the air like a long slithering snake. “Why…I am so glad you asked, Mr. Trench…” The words slipped off the shadow’s tongue, slicing through the New Orlean’s night.
Hair prickled on the back of Tom’s neck, a thousand needles sticking straight up in the air. The streetlights beckoned him, a hand of light pulling him back into the arms of warmth. With an idle hand, he let his cigarette fall to the dirtied alleyway and with his loafer he snuffed it out. He took a step, adjusting his hat that smothered his blonde locks and said, “I should really get home. My wife must be worried sick–”
“No…” a command and a firm hand slammed Tom into the brick wall, hard. A hand was planted in his chest, keeping him there, trapping him there. Pain streaked up his back. Something screamed in the back of his head. The smile looked at him, sneered, whatever eyes were there were lost in the black of the Louisiana night. “I’m not finished with you.”
Tom Trench gritted his teeth, whatever pathetic child that screamed within him was shoved back down. The fire shoving its way up his throat and spilling forth, “The fuck is wrong with you?!” His leg shot out hitting the shadow flat in the stomach, making it stumble back into the dark from whence it had come. His fists clenched, powered with newfound fury, “You touch me again and you’re dead.”
“Temper. Temper.” The shadow’s finger wagged. “I thought we were going to have a civil conversation, sir.” A bite, something new, a bit of anger seeped into the voice. “I suppose not!”
Pain, horribly searing pain, enough to feel like the fires of Hell were licking away at his skin. Deep, it twisted in his insides. He screamed but nothing came out. “Did you fucking stab me?” he wanted to say. He wanted to scream. Nothing. Tom grasped at his throat, then a slickness stuck to the skin of his stomach. He tried to scream again, summoning whatever air he could yet nothing. A feeble gasp of air. He fell to his knees, pain streaking up his legs, disgust crawling on his skin.
A hand grabbed his chin, roughly, tilting him up towards the sky, to stare at that gleaming smile. “What did you do to me?” Tom wanted to whisper, scream, speak, say a thing. His mouth moved, his tongue too, nothing, not a single word.
“Shush…” is all the shadow said, “Save your breath. You only have so much left.” It let Tom’s chin go, letting him fall to the ground, gasping, begging for another gulp of breath. Everything in him melted, he was losing air, breath. What the fuck did he stab? “Do you know what happens when the diaphragm is punctured?” The shadow asked.
Tom was drowning in air, in the thing that had given him life for so long. He shook his head, slow steady tears streaming down his face. How long do I have? His palms fell to the dirtied ground. A rat snickered at him, scampering away with a bit of cheese. The street. The lights were beginning to blur. White into yellow and yellow into white and into the summer night. Heaven?
Get to the street. He dragged himself along, grabbing onto a trash can. It came tumbling down, falling over his pristine blue suit. Air. He wanted it. So bad. More than life itself. No, it was life. It was there…he could taste it…feel it caress his skin. A shaking hand reached out. Help. If only he could scream.
“The body slowly begins to lose air as I am sure you are experiencing now.” The shadow followed behind, taunting him. “No, no, no, sir. I don’t believe you can go out on the streets in this condition.” The shadow chuckled. Fingers hooked around Tom’s neck, raising him up into the air. The fingernails dug in, squeezing whatever freedom his throat had left.
“Do you want to die, Mr. Trench? Do you want this pain to end?” The shadow asked. Tom nodded. Nodded desperately. End. End. A word he rather hated up until now. “Well, it's only a matter of time unless you’d like to grovel? Oh wait…you can’t!”
“Fuck you.” Tom tried to say. A whisper. That was all he wanted. The words formed on his lips but never mingled in the air. Pain screamed throughout his body even though he couldn’t.
“Hah! You have quite the dirty mouth, sir! With or without a voice!” The shadow said. The fingers let Tom’s neck slip through them, and Tom fell to the ground. His lungs screamed for air, whatever voice inside his head prayed for the end. Now that Death was sucking whatever life was out of him, he prayed. Tom clasped his shaky hands, begging whatever God was out there for mercy, for love.
“Forgive me. Forgive me,” he begged in his head.
The shadow squatted down on his knees, his shining loafers glistening with red. “Praying now, are we? Pathetic.” Tom’s eyes were closing, head drooping. Death was close, it was closing its firm grip on him. Squeezing him. “Look at me when I talk to you.”
Tom gritted his teeth. “No.” On the gravel, he clenched his hands into fists. That damned bastard had taken enough already.
“Don’t you want to see the face of your executioner?” A single finger tilted his chin up.
A flicker of the lighter washed over the shadow before him. Human features stared back at him, human eyes. Yet that smile, a smile with far too many teeth, grinning from human ear to ear. It wasn’t human. It couldn’t be. A beast that had crawled up from the depths of hell.
The shadow man extended a bloodied hand, “Alastor Hartfelt, the Radio Star, pleasure to meet you, sir! Quite a pleasure!”
