Writing fugue. Bleh. It's a work in progress.
She never really thought about her actions, or questioned why. For once in her life, she was spontaneous, with dire consequences.
She woke up at six am and walked straight to the car. She drove the long lapse of time to his house, incoherent and somehow unawake. If asked, she would have never been able to answer why she chose someone she loved so much for this mindless act. Nobody ever got the chance. She got out of the car, not noticing the bitterly cold hail pounding around her body. It seemingly didn't touch her, as if she were a nature spirit, as she climbed the old oak tree and shimmied through his open window in nothing but a camisole, lace boxers and a robe in the fourty degree weather.
He was awake, debating on whether the day was worth waking for. He grunted in surprise as he saw first her head pop in through the window, then stared as she vaulted into his room. She merely stood there for a beat, looking at him with eyes that were both dead and desperate with energy before crossing the room to the foot of his bed. He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, perplexed at the sight of this normally self-sufficient woman. She made no move to touch him, to hold him, and stood, gazing at him like (in his mind) a melencholy spirit- mourning reruns of its life.
Slowly, she blinked, as if trying to wake up from a dream. The moment was broken. She ran her hands through the normally well-kept mane of hair, which had turned into a dark blonde halo of bangs and layers sticking straight up from her head- a product of her restless night of sleep. The bed made a high squeak as he shifted to the foot of the bed, sitting and looking up at her. Clearing his throat, he became fully aware of the silence of the cold March morning, and the awkwardness of their physical distance. Unease morphed into a sense of foreboding, and he finally broke the silence.
"What's up?"
This simple question seemed to puzzle the woman, and she looked down at him. She moved her hands the tiny distance to hover a millimeter above his bare shoulders, feeling his warmth but not daring to touch him. Her voice sounded strained as she finally shook her head. "I don't know..." Hands dropping back to her sides, a gesture of hopelessness, she turned and absently walked towards the way she got in.
She's so out of it that she can't even use the door? Gods, what the fuck is wrong... she's acting so mindless... He thought. But the thought was broken, because he knew something must be horribly wrong if she was acting as such. He moved behind her as she started to swind one leg over the window sill, catching her shoulders to lead her back to the room so they could talk.
He jumped a suddenly - her skin felt like icicles over the muscles of her body. She slowly turned and looked deep into his eyes, the dead and desperate look penetrating his core. With a gesture of futile beauty, she raised her hand and pulled his shoulders down so they were kneeling on the floor.
"I have been told how inadeqate I am for the past two days." Her voice was low, with a growling quality that tempted an edge of violence. She pronounced every word with a sharpness, a major change from her normally drawling way of speech. His mind flickered briefly to a vague-remembered memory of her grumbling about a "motivational meeting" at work two days ago. And he knew that her parents were hard on her since she had to move back in with them. She continued "I cannot explain what else has been happening, but I need something from you. I want you to fuck me as if you were going to die if you stopped. I want to do everything. I want to use up every ounce of the being that I am in your existance" The entire time, she retained intense eye contact. There was a kind of sick sensuality to the entire situation, and in that moment, he didn't know what to do.
She reached towards the bedstand, his makeshift alter with a sudden swiftness that surprised him even further. The flat of his own athame pressed against his chest, and she dragged the innocuous portion of the cold steel downwards. She flicked her eyes downward, and he followed suit, watching the glint of the blade. Some time during the conversation, she must have removed her robe, and she deeply sliced her own skin, low across her cleavage. He shivered with lust at the prospect of erotic violence, a feeling slowly taking over his better judgement. She dropped the dagger and looked up, searching his face for something unfathomable. Returning to her slow movements, she lightly dug her nails into his neck, guiding his lips to the wound. I want to crawl inside your body and live as a part of you... she thought.
After a few hours, he began to stir. He reached his arm over to draw his lover closer, and discovered cool sheets instead. Mildly alarmed, he looked around the room for her, surprised by his sudden surge of male protectiveness over the woman - an emotion that he'd never felt after their lovemaking before this. He found her in the corner, looking out of his window at the decades-old oak, her robe back on. He crossed the distance and wrapped his arms around her curving waist, sliding his hands under the sash. Her body shuddered and gave a heaving sigh as his hands found wetness. Blood. God, he had never seen so much blood. He initially recoiled, but as she plunged the steel into herself again, he tried to wrestle the dagger away from her. She just kept stabbing herself in the stomach, gasping for breath. He grabbed the phone on the sill and started to dial 911, and she rested a bloody hand on his wrist.
I'm so sorry... she whispered. So sorry...