The key fumbles, scratching around the lock, before it slides into the hole and turns with a deft movement and the door opens to a blaze of lights. John walks casually into the room. She must have made contact and, in bedroom love scene, is tying the fiend to the will of the Lodge.
Just leave her to it; her marriage in the black light of passion. The whore entraps the blood drinker, the weapon of Diablos.
To the kitchen, a juice and a fix.
He pushes the kitchen door open and there, on the floor…
His senses reel…
For a moment he cannot comprehend what he sees before him, the shock is just too great.
It cannot be!
His love in crucifixion satire.
She lies so white, so still, a delicate rose displayed upon the cold linoleum floor. Brutal knives hold her wrists and ankles in place. Her arms outstretched, a welcome home of macabre love. Her legs spread-eagled, a statue of Mary wedged into her ripped vagina. Her breast pierced where the beast had fed.
John sinks to the floor, his hands gripping his spinning head, random memories rise unbidden to his mind. He sees her…
College years, her dark moods setting his world alight in the throes of violent sex.
Standing before the Altar with her blade dripping with a babe’s blood.
Telling him that he is a fool with regards his weak, spineless brother.
He weeps Judas tears, sobbing at the desecration of his love.
He is to blame. Somehow, in some way.
Fucking bastard, got in the way and fucked it all up.
His mind snaps as he screams the hated name, “Paul!”
© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan