She’d not planned on it. That was the bottom line she had in her mind the moment she closed the door behind her. ( It creaked, but it went unnoticed just like that man in the hallway had. ) Breath caught in her throat as the tears she’d bravely pushed back until the safety of their room had loomed in the distance begun to fall.
The man had died. TWO men had died, but it was by her assistance the second man had went. They had names, families ( she’d later come to doubt it ) and they’d become nothing and would be reduced to ash by dawn. She CRINGED at it and perished the pictures of them dissolved by acid. ( She could already smell the burning flesh. )
But it was a choice she had to make ( them or Bond ) and the decision was simple and there was only one correct choice. James— Mr. Bond had to stay alive no matter her reasoning behind the selfish thought she’d absorbed into her mind and body alike. A series of reflexes she followed like a slave bending to their will. ( No more whips were required— extremes of a Stockholm syndrome— willing victim. )
Blood was a heavy scent in the air. Like a straight jacket it strangled her until breathing became more than impossible. The state of her uncleanliness was horrifying and the disgust was something she’d never dealt with until now. It felt like something was crawling under her skin and taking her over with every self destructive thought it planted into her mind from beneath the surface where it’d made its nest. ( It would live there as long as she should come to live ) Consequences of her actions now a reality she wished to awake from. The look in Mathis’ eyes had been of ice and the words uttered had been erased the moment he’d spilled them.
And she clawed at her dress. She reached for the zipper of that damn dress that was becoming her undoing. Tears streamed down and she looked a mess. No one to witness the break down of someone so calm and collected when under observant eyes. Streaks of mascara dyed her cheeks and the hair so delicately bounced around her features ( Angelic, yet haunted. ) as she fought with the zipper. It didn’t come off. ( She didn’t even reach it ) The shoes were kicked off, across the room, and abandoned like they were NOTHING.
The bottle of wine so tempting on the mahogany table. A short reach for it as she struggled it open. Sweat coated fingers forced out the cork and it was brought to lips as other hand searched for a glass. And the tantalizing alcohol ( She’d noted it to be a cherry flavored, dark and sweet wine. ) settled against dry tongue. A real lady never drank out of a bottle. But then again had any of the real ladies witnessed a murder? Yet, as mind argued between the differences of a murder and a kill she’d poured herself a glass of red. ( Filled it to the brim. )
Two sips. All it took for her to gulp down half a glass. Her head pounding, ( The pulse against her temples. ) fingers shaking, dragging out the few clips from her hair as the other hand placed down the glass. ( She didn’t notice it tipped over, the clink of the glass when it broke against the hard surface. ) And she tried to breathe. Oh how hard she tried to breathe and focus on getting the air to flow yet again.
When all failed, each of her pathetic attempts, she stepped into the bathroom, throwing aside the purse. ( It landed in the corner, the contents spreading out. ) Fingers gripped on the counter, the cool porcelain surface calming her pulse and steadying her heartbeat. That was until the thoughts and the image of that man’s face ( Life draining from his face and the light quite literally fading from his eyes ) were heavy on her mind yet again. She SCREAMED then.
A silent scream she didn’t know was happening. It was how hard she denied the momentary loss of control. It was then when she hit her hand against the mirror in frustration and like an infant acted out against the authority and every rational thought in her mind. She denied the existence of social norms that would have told her not to hit the reflecting surface. But it was only a moment later she hated herself for it. A bloodied fingerprint or two were displayed in her reflection. ( Like an Indian. Red. )
Stiffly the fingers reached for a towel, conveniently placed ( How thoughtful, normally she’d have thanked them. This time she’d forget. ) on the counter just by her right hand. Scrubbing against the surface until the two short trails had disappeared. Eyes traced themselves back to the towel. A white one with the fine print of the hotel’s name beautifully laced in with the golden thread. Exquisite save for the stain of the disgusting sticky substance. Turning on the faucet, her fingers began to work it out of it, only to have the water ( Pink. ) startle her and drop the towel on the floor.
Standing still, just for the moment, she looked at herself. The carefully stylized hair had fallen out of place. The make up had worn off and when she looked down at her fingers she could see the blood beneath her nails. She tried to get it out. She tried to run her nails under the others but the mess just became greater than she had initially started with. Desperate breaths, shallow and weak. ( A beautiful mess headed for a breakdown. )
It still didn’t come off. It clung to her like death had colored her skin, marked the murderer. Obsessively almost nails dig into the skin to scratch what was hiding underneath the surface ( She was sure. It was everywhere. ) of her palm. Disgusting. She stepped under the shower, her fingers stumbling with the switches until it a steady stream of water soaked through her dress. ( Expensive, exquisite, magnificent and lush. ) A desperate cry and a bang of her hand against the wall.
How could she have allowed it to happen? An actual threat on her life had presented itself and she’d have been dead had it not been for her savior. ( Did the blood flow off of him like water off a duck’s back? ) Tiny, pathetic pounding against the wall with her face pressing against it. ( The tiles couldn’t feel and for that she was grateful. ) Quiet sobbing against it until she slid down, her hands dragging along the wall. Palms pressing against the cold wall tightly since it was the only thing she could feel in the heart wrenching moment.
And she sat down, her back turning against the wall. Her arms wrapped around her legs. ( Like a fetus inside their mother’s belly. Safe and sound. ) For a moment gaze lifted ( It could have been a minute ) and she faced upwards. The water drops against her face, hard and merciless like the world had proven itself to be yet again today.
Red water pooled around her her with every intention of drowning her in it. Let it take her. The stakes had become too high already and death was not an option anymore, it was the expected outcome of an expedition into this world. They said poker was a delicate sport. And she feared that murder even more so. She sat, her arms crossed, her toes curled up and saving themselves from the pink destructive waters.
An hour, two, a minute or five later. Door opened. She didn’t have to look. She knew it to be him. She knew it to be the man she’d come to betray in the most horrific of ways. It was a necessity she’d have avoided if possible. She wasn’t born of evil and deceit but rather a victim of circumstance. One not intended for this life she was living. ( Like she’d been mailed to the wrong address. )
Her body was shaking. From the water pounding against skin until it felt RAW. Until her body screamed for a release in the form of death and destruction or sweet heavenly bliss. She didn’t care which way the scale would tip. It did not matter. But he was there one moment and the next he had settled down next to her. Her body was shaking and he was so close. He was warm. He knew. He had to have known what it felt like the first time. ( Had he forgotten? )
And without any words her fingers clung to him like he was her savior yet again. Her body pressed against his like he was the only thing that mattered in the moment for he was far worse than she was. She knew. He’d killed him. She was only an accomplice. She hadn’t asked for any of this. But he was WARM. And an involuntary action, a reflex of her hands rubbing against his shirt. ( She wished there was no clothing between them. ) A raspy voice, deep and quiet snaked from her throat before she even form coherent thoughts of the words in her head.
❝ It’s like this part of my hands
——— it’s not coming off. ❞
And she couldn’t make out the words he murmured in a response, that was how much in shock she remained. Startled and frightened like an animal being taken for slaughter. Her confession even scaring herself to the brink of insanity that waited around the corner. A stranger to her and the risk of being thrown out of control threatened to leave her breathless.
He took her fingers into his hand, between his own and he looked at them. ( Don’t look at me. I’m dirty. ) She remained still like chained to place by the dreadful guilt that pressed on and threatened to swallow her whole. ( Just one bite. A big gulp and darkness would engulf her in itself ) Warmth of his breath against the tips of her fingers.
The lips against them ever so lightly with next to no pressure applied a kiss so tender she hadn’t been sure a man such as Bond capable of a kindness of such capacity. Eyes squeezed shut as tightly as she could. Just a minute, an hour ago ( the time was not of essence ) they’d forced the gun ( BLACK. HEAVY. DEADLY. ) out of the man’s hand.
To name him would have defeated the purpose. Humanizing him would add a nail to her cross and crucify her ( not a saint, but instead of the devil. A dark being so poisonous she was sure he’d die of the contact. ) She existed only as Judas. The kiss of betrayal she’d have to lay upon his cheek so very different from the one he gave her. Cleansing, his mouth wrapped around her fingers. Sucking, his tongue touching to their tips. First just the one, and then the second. And she was guilty. ( He knew none of it ) It wasn’t coming off. If it ever got off, she’d have torn herself apart in the search for released and dark matter was the only thing left.
She’d never meant for lives to be lost and she’d never known just how high the stakes could grow. It was wrong. She could die on this mission. And was it worth it? She had to keep her head straight and her thoughts under the same formula she’d manufactured. This was the only choice and she’d taken everything into account.
Better? No. No. It was not better, her body and whole demeanor screamed save for the nod she gave him. A response so automated that even the desperately clinging fingers were fooled into thinking such as they accompanied the nod of assurance. The fabric under her fingers was heavy and already soaked through. She didn’t feel herself shaking anymore. She didn’t feel anything anymore. There was an emptiness. An emptiness that screamed at her and mocked her by its existence.
And he was looking at her, she could feel it in her core and she could grasp the air around her and pull him in. A prey he’d have been, had she not been the one spiraling out of her well loved control. ( She hated giving him this ) But then again he was so warm. He was there and he was a man instead of a machine he’d been taught to be. It couldn’t have been easy to convince her otherwise at this point. ( Stubborn, you must understand. )
And a woman, incapable of escaping the agony that tortured her and strangled the breathless cries. ( They’d been silent, yet not gone. ) She’d been wallowing in the self pity for far too long for anything useful to come out of it now. Yet she pressed her nose to his shirt. And the shaking, apparently, had not come to a full on dead end yet or otherwise he’d not asked her if she was cold. His voice like the sweet melody and a low whisper invading her ears ( Once again, a visitor most welcomed. )
Words left her. And the shoulder she was leaning on was gone. His arm reaching to twist the knob for their comfort. ( She wanted none. ) Her head, although unsure to her how, ended up resting against his cheek. The top of her head and the soaked raven locks against the stubble that would no doubt grow did he not shave. She enjoyed him like this, clean, shaved, ridden of his tie and broken down to the basics. If he could be purified, surely, she could as well.
Her hand, pressing against his knee, rubbing against the material of his trousers. Nothing more than just friction to comfort her own soul that seemed to darken by the moment. Oh, would he still hold her if he knew? ( He would not. ) His arm around her shoulder and the pressure of it against her skin calming her into an existence she thought not to exist after what she’d witnessed. But his presence right there, made it easier to bear if only just for the moment.
For it was not only one person who was broken now. No, it had multiplied like a cell that got infected with a virus and spread it around them. Infected others and multiplied. Two wretched things on a path to nothing but destruction. ( Self and others )
