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My Gift |
| Written by Barbie Dorrough | |
| Sunday, 13 January 2008 | |
 She preens in front of the mirror. Yes, she thinks, this is perfect. It needs nothing. Unadorned, white… pristine… with front laces cinching the bodice tight. The dress is timeless, classic. She smoothes the soft silky fabric down and turns just so… posing, to heighten the affect. She is pleased with the result. Her hair, loose and wavy, is untied. Her face unpainted. Intense pleasure alone colors her lips and cheeks. Delighted she can produce such a picture. She turns to the nightstand. Elated, she lifts the heavy rectangular silver box, richly engraved swirling embellishment decorating the curved edges, admiring it, adoring it, she hugs it close to her chest for a moment, wrapping her fingers around it, lovingly warming the cool metal with her skin. Sighing with contentment, she thinks, ‘mon cadeau.’ Peering out of the door careful and sneaky, satisfied she is undetected… barefoot…she tiptoes out. She drifts down the long dark hallway, the silver box clutched to her left side, her fingertips of her right hand sliding lazily along the wall. Moving rhythmically, graceful, lost in the moment, she hums haunting sweet melodies, they echo weightless throughout the corridor, betraying her presence. She approaches the door. Stops. She inhales deep, exhales slow, turns the doorknob, and leans against the door as she eases it open. The room’s illumination is fluttering, golden….candlelight. Hints of gardenia waft throughout the room. She enters apprehensively, and sees him sitting, relaxed. He sees her and rises. He welcomes her with a smile, encouraging her, beckoning. She beams intensely. She advances slowly, deliberately, hiding the silver box behind her back. He is beautiful to behold, precious, perfect. His soft, elegant features are radiant in the candlelight. She thought, I am staring at the face of heaven and I will see this face, as it is, right now, forever. She creeps in close to him. Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispers, “I have something for you…mon cadeau.” “My gift!” he translates, at once excited. “Yes,” she smiles approvingly, “my gift to you.” She presents him with the silver box. He reaches for it, eager. “Wait!” she exclaims, snatching the box away playfully scolding, “This is merely the container for my gift!” He pouts his lip and drops his hands in mock disappointment. She laughs, delighted with the game. She leans forward, closes her eyes and presses her lips to his. Breathing deep, chest aching wondrously. They kiss. Parting lips slowly, she withdraws unhurried, glances up and meets his eyes. “I will never love another,” she reveals, at once solemn,” I will never share the taste of another man’s kiss, nor accept another embrace, you are everything to me, and I wont share that with anyone.” He reaches up and caresses her cheek. Blood rushes to his fingertips to meet her skin. “And neither will I, my love.” he responds. She looks at him, and whispers, “I know.” Straightening her back, and lifting her treasure in offering, she, once again, with much seriousness and grandiosity, presents the box. He reverently accepts it and opens the heavy lid, peering inside. Inside sits a dagger, heavy and silver, much like its container, delicately embellished, the handle gleaming with adornments. The edges razor sharp, tapered and perfect, the point wicked. The dagger rests sumptuous on a soft white silky fabric lining the inside of the box. So much like her dress, he thinks briefly. He looks up at her in question. She smiles, like velvet, and removes the dagger from the box. She tests the tremendous weight in her hands, turning it so the light gleams along the edges. It sparkles, graceful and deadly in her hands. He watches the slow movement of the rotating blade, fascinated. She captures his eyes with her stare, lids lowered slightly, mouth parted, lips full. Enraptured, he cannot look away. She takes a measured breath. “My gift,” she purrs to him, “is my heart.” Without releasing him from her gaze, in what seems but a fraction of a second, she aims the dagger inward, point pressing dangerously between her breasts, both hands gripping the handle and thrusts. The dagger sinks, to the hilt, deep into her chest. He stumbles back, startled. Wide eyed, staring. Her eyes glaze luminescent. Her chest heaves. Her hands relax from the handle and fall limp to her sides. Crimson waves begin to pour fat gushes rhythmically from the protruding dagger, as if the dagger itself were pumping liquid in time to the beat of her pierced heart. The laces of her bodice absorbs scarlet fuel, lightening fast, like wicks lacing zigzag across and down her stomach, until the pattern disappears and drowns in the following torrent. Blood spreads rapid, dark, thick, sweeping down and across the front of the beautiful, silky, pristine, white dress. Two fat droplets land onto her bare foot. She falls to the floor, legs slightly angled, arms splayed, her body calm, her eyes still liquidly staring in his direction. He gradually recovers and steps toward her. He stands over her, gazing down, loving her, longing for her. He bends down, grips the dagger and pulls it from her. Her body resists the removal, lifting her chest a fraction of an inch, attempting to cling to the blade. He looks to the dagger and then back down at her. He understands. With much resolve, he leans over her, diligent, focused on the task. He places her still warm heart gingerly into the box. Crimson liquid seeps into the fabric. So much like her dress, he thinks briefly. He closes the lid. He lifts the heavy rectangular silver box, richly engraved swirling embellishment decorating the curved edges, admiring it, adoring it, he hugs it close to his chest for a moment, wrapping his fingers around it, lovingly warming the cool metal with his skin. Sighing with contentment, he thinks, ‘mon cadeau.’ Copyright 2008 Barbie Dorrough |
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