The Last Time

The last time I saw her she was standing in the doorway of that derelict building with her high heels and stockings in her hand, the gun in her other hand and the rest of them dead at her feet. The light spilled from the doorway behind her illuminating her form into a sharply defined silhouette. Even as she picked her way through the pools of blood, careful not to splash any onto herself, she maintained her feminine poise. Each footfall carefully planned to sway her hips with delicate hypnotizing ease. I could not stop starring. I desperately wanted to tear my eyes away to survey the carnage at her feet but I could only see her.

She lifted her hand and pressed her finger to her lips, mouthing "shhhhh," as if the dead men on the floor were only sleeping and we dare not wake them. Each of her footsteps made no sound even on the creaking ancient pine floor; like she was a cat with silent bird-stalking paws. The gun in her hand stood out in stark hardness to her inherent softness; the gentle roundness of her hips, the sloping curve of her shoulder, the delicate bow of her lips and her fingers curled around that hardened steel. The gun seemed to be a man-made abomination to her organic movements and illuminated skin. The precision with which she wielded it, however, and the ease with which she now slung it into her waistband, unnerved me. I started to shake ever so slightly with the horror of it, but still I could not take my eyes off of her.

She glided down the steps of that house, now tomb, and covered the distance on the rocky ground in her bare feet as if she was moving with the currents of air. The wind seemed to shift around me as she neared. I could smell her faint floral perfume mixed with the metallic scent of blood and gunpowder as she picked up her skirt to avoid dragging it in the dust. I saw the glimpse of her shapely leg which I knew would feel like silk if I were to trace my hand up her thigh to the lace panties she wore. I glanced at the dead men who had saw the same flash of flesh. They would never touch her.

She now stood in front of me; not a single droplet of blood on her carefully arranged outfit, no shards of bone in her meticulously styled hair, she hadn't even smudged her eyeliner with the exertion of what she had done. She lay her hands upon my face and then slipped her arms slowly around my neck. She held my gaze steadily as she pressed her body so close to mine that I could feel her breath through her ribs. I traced my hands down her spine until I hit the cold lump of metal in the small of her back. Before I could think of that instrument of death and her ability to play it like a harp of destruction, she pressed her lips to mine and darted her tongue into my mouth.

Soon my vision clouded with the halo of her perfume and sweet breathe expanding my chest like it was the only thing keeping me alive. I sunk into her arms and drank her kiss like I was dieing of thirst in a deep hot desert. I laced my fingers into her hair and drew her closer to me; hungry now for her taste. When she drew her mouth away from mine, she slipped her hand down my arm and grasped my wrist...

"Come on," she whispered, "it's time we left..."