Waking Up

            The soft November light slowly seeped into the edges of her consciousness as she opened her eyes.  The world took on a hazy brightness, the romanticism of old Hollywood.  She inhaled deeply, slowly, feeling the chill air enter her lungs, smiling contentedly as she exhaled and turned to her side.  She pulled the overstuffed white duvet up under her chin and relished its warmth.

            Gradually, she became aware that she was not alone.  She opened her eyes more fully to allow them to adjust to the light.  Against the white of the bedding and the room, his black curls seemed almost too vivid.  She dared not disturb his peaceful slumber, choosing instead to drink him in, to really see him for the first time.

            This man was well-built, to say the least.  His jaw line was strong and chiseled, from alabaster it would seem.  Even relaxed in deep sleep, she could sense his resolve.  His neck, while thick, was not overly so, and his collarbone was defined and sharp.  His chest and arms betrayed his slight narcissism, and the lines of his stomach begged to be traced by a wanton fingertip.  The lines of his obliques traced a promising path to what lay hidden beneath his sensible blue cotton boxers.  Below the boxers, his thighs and calves were strong, evoking a sense of his steadfastness.  She grinned once more when she saw his feet were wrapped still in their plain white tube socks.

            She began to slither closer in the bed to embrace him, then stopped in a sudden panic.  Her fear froze her.  She could not move or think; she had to remind herself to breathe.  She did not know this man, and, what’s worse, she did not know who she was.

             Suddenly disoriented and disgusted, she tried to slip out of the bed unnoticed.  She found a crumpled t-shirt on the floor by the bed, almost unnoticed in the overwhelming whiteness of the place.  The room looked old, a top floor of a traditional farmhouse, perhaps.  The angles of the dormers and the shadows they created seemed menacing now.  The floorboards and walls were all a dingy white, the bed white wrought iron covered with white linens and positioned strangely in the center of the room.  The floor creaked as she crossed to the door and reached for the rusting iron handle, the only spot of darkness here other than the man’s hair.  She pulled on the old-fashioned crystal knob, and cringed as the door yelped in protest to her attempted subterfuge.

            “Where ya goin’, baby?” he muttered from across the room.

            “To the ladies.”  The sound of her own voice startled her nearly as much as the door had.  It was husky and deep, some would have said sultry.

            The man smirked and patted the empty spot where she had been moments before, “I’ll keep it warm for ya.  Don’t be long; we’ve got some unfinished business, you know.”

            Mustering all her courage, she replied with a nonchalant “hmmph” and stepped into the hallway.  She side-stepped out of the view of the doorway, leaned against the wall, and let out a long, shaky sigh.  Again, she looked around with a shocking sense of unfamiliarity.  At least this hallway wasn’t all white.  Done up in a very country style, complete with a chair rail and gingham checked wallpaper, it felt somehow less ominous.  Across the hall, she could see the edge of a sink past an open door.  She stepped through and quietly closed the door behind her.

            She took great care not to look in the mirror until she was ready.  She leaned on the edges of the sink, head down, eyes closed.  She took a deep slow breath, recognizing the strong scent of vanilla in the air.  “Okay, I’m ready,” she had to verbally coach herself, then in one swift motion, she opened her eyes and faced the stranger in the glass.

            This girl was quite pretty--not beautiful, exactly, but not unpleasing by any measure.  She had long, wavy brown hair that glistened a deep auburn in the direct sunlight from the window.  Her face was long and slender, with bright green feline eyes.  Her eye make-up was taking on the classic “morning-after” look, smudged and smeared and sexy despite its messiness. Her lips were full and inviting, slightly parted as her breathing was heavier than she would have liked.  She noticed a small bruise on her neck, just at the base of her jawbone, a souvenir of last night’s festivities, no doubt.  A few very light freckles dotted the bridge of her nose, but otherwise, her skin was without blemish.

            She backed up near the opposite wall to get a more complete view.  She could now see as far down as her navel, and realized that this body seemed familiar, like coming home after years away.  The tattoo on the inside of her left wrist spoke a language she did not know:  Aestuo per incendia ut est nunquam exstinguo!   The inside of her right bore a tiny red and orange flame.  She slowly turned to the side, admiring her slender waist and her strong arms.  As she pulled the t-shirt over her head, her breathing returned to normal.

            “You get lost in here?” she jumped as his unexpected voice came from the doorway.  He looked truly adorable in his boxers and socks, tousled black curls falling languidly against his forehead.  He once again wore a confident smirk, a knowing grin that seemed to say yeah, I’m hot, what of it?  Still, she could not shake the feeling that there was something more going on here than what was on the surface.

            He walked up behind her, pressing his chest into her back.  He wrapped his arms around her and leaned down to kiss her neck.  He stood a full head taller than her, and she couldn’t help noticing how good they looked together in the mirror.  “That was great last night, by the way.  Glad I ran into you again.”

            She wasn’t sure how to respond, so she simply replied, “me, too.”  She turned to face him, and before she could protest or even think about it, he was kissing her.  Hard and insistent, needful kisses, as if he’d waited his whole life for this moment.  His confidence disappeared in this embrace; she could sense his uncertainty, and wondered if he could feel hers.  Somehow, kissing him just felt right, and though she was still disoriented, she gave into the passion building within her.

            As they began to lose control and claw hungrily at one another, he scooped her into his arms and carried her across the hallway and back into the white room.  He laid her on the bed and began to pull at his boxers, all the while continuing the kiss.

* * *

             After hours of ravaging, she waited for him to fall asleep again, and she got up to explore the house.  The hallway outside the bedroom ended in a stairwell leading down to a large foyer.  To the left was a parlor with antique overstuffed leather couches, dark blood red walls, and lots of mahogany woodwork.  The couches were arranged facing each other perpendicular to a fireplace, as if ready for a debate.

            The room to the right was a formal dining room.  A large bay window overlooked the front yard.  She saw that the china cabinet on the far wall was empty, and one of the panes of glass was missing from the doors.  She continued through the dining room and into the kitchen.

            This room appeared to be the main entry, though otherwise not used.  A layer of dust covered the various canisters and appliances on the countertops, and the refrigerator let out an unhealthy hum that reminded her of the sick and dying.  As she turned to go investigate another room, she was transfixed by what she saw.  There, on a small round table in the corner of the room, was a purse and a wallet.  These two items were untouched by the dust surrounding them.

            Anxiously, she crossed to the table and snatched up the purse.  She dug inside for a billfold which might unravel some of this mystery.  The first thing she found was a small photo album.  The cover had a name, Mark.  When she opened it and flipped through the pages, she saw pictures of the man upstairs.  There were shots of him riding a motorcycle, climbing some sort of sheer rock face, and several others which were simply candid shots of his day.  Well, he has a name now, she thought. 

She reached again into the purse and this time was more surprised by what she withdrew.  It was cold and heavy, but felt somehow normal in her hand.  Instinctively, she checked the safety to be sure it was on, then removed the clip—full.  She pulled back the slide.  One round was already chambered.  She reinserted the clip and placed the gun back in the purse.

There weren’t many other clues.  There was a matchbook from someplace called “Skybar,” a CD with no label, some make-up and a hairbrush.  She was trying to put these things together, to make some sort of sense out of the items she found when she heard footfalls coming from the dining room.

She quickly dropped the purse.  “Oh, hey” she hoped she sounded nonchalant and she hoped he couldn’t hear her heart pounding from across the room.

“Hey, yourself.”  Again, his voice seemed to drill into her.  It was soothing and enticing all at once.  “So, how are we gonna do this today?  I mean, last night kinda changes everything.”  He left it hanging there, waiting for some validation she couldn’t give.

“I don’t know.  What do you think we should do?”

He crossed to her and gently took her hand, “I don’t know.”  He took a deep breath, “I’ve waited so long for this….  I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

She didn’t know what to say.  At that moment, all she wanted to do was attack him again, and drag him back to the cozy little bedroom upstairs. She stood up and wrapped her arms around him, “you won’t.”

* * *

The hours that followed seemed to last for days.  As night fell, she watched him as he fell into a deep and satisfied sleep.  She studied his breathing and once again admired his sculptured features.  Eventually, she too was in dreamland, content and happy in her ignorance. 

* * *

She smelled him before she was fully awake.  She breathed in his scent and smiled to herself.  “Mmmm, Mark….” she whispered.

“Who the hell is Mark?!?”

She jolted upright, gripped by the sudden flood of memories that attacked her.  Without a word, she stood up and began to leave the room, not seeming to mind or even notice that she was naked.  She could hear him fumbling with the duvet and coming after her down the hall.  “What the FUCK, Jasmine?  Who the hell is Mark?”

She was determined now.  As she flew down the stairs, it all came back to her.  The neighborhood fun and games as a child, this boy playing next to her.  She knew him, but that was not the worst part.  She knew he had loved her for years, even in her absence, and now she was exploiting that.  All for a job she didn’t want to do and didn’t ask for.  She didn’t know why they had chosen him, or why they had given her the job in the first place.  Was it circumstance that they had a history?  Or was it punishment?

As she got to the kitchen, he was right on her heels.  He caught up to her and spun her around.  He grabbed her and shook her.  “Just when I thought you finally loved me back.”  She could see the tears gathering in his eyes, and did the only thing she could think of.  She kissed him.

“I do.” She whispered as she reached for the gun in her purse.  “I always have, David.  I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

In one final, decisive movement, she leaned in to kiss him again, put the gun against his temple, and pulled the trigger.