Medusa
I never hated her.
Oh, I hated what she did, and I certainly feared what she might be able to do to me, but I never hated her.
Finding her lair was a simple enough matter: she never looked behind her that night when I followed her back to her rambling estate edging up to the woods outside of the city. She was still glutted after the attack I’d had to watch while I waited, and she was careless.
Nor did breaking and entering pose a problem: whether through arrogance or confidence, she had no significant security system.
I took no real pleasure in my job, not the way I knew some others did. Some of them cackle with glee, or hurl insults, or even derive some form of sexual gratification from doing their killing; they are the ones who hate. I simply administer justice. At times I even pity them, the ones I must kill. I am not always so sure they can help themselves. There is no joy in putting down what was once a face-licking, tail-wagging pet, though it may now be a rabid dog.
When I found her she was sitting in an over-stuffed arm chair, watching a large portrait hang in a heavy, gilded frame on the wall across from her. As I paused in the doorway, deciding between taking her quickly and quietly – by surprise – or announcing myself – allowing her the drama she deserved – she turned her head to face me. It was not a movement of surprise, nor was it slow and deliberate. Rather, it was cordial, as if I had responded to an invitation and had arrived just on time.
Welcome, she said. Rather, she didn’t say it, but her eyes spoke it clearly, and I heard it in my head – not in the soft, sultry voice I knew to be hers, but in my own voice, indistinguishable from my thoughts.
She lifted herself from her chair, and I saw that she wore only a heavy black cloak. It was held in place by a large broach perched where her neck met her shoulders, and fell to brush the floor lightly around her feet. The moonlight streaming in from the French doors behind her cast a blue glow around her and shimmered off the heavy, velvet folds in the cloak.
I had expected you, she said, again with the voice of my own thoughts. Her eyes held mine, held me like stone, as she softly crossed the polished floor to where I stood. Her bare feet made no sound, and her hips swayed gracefully beneath the velvet. The cloak parted slightly as she walked, revealing smooth legs, white like marble, long and lithe. I knew I was being seduced – not actively, but by the nature of her being. I was graced with the attentions of a goddess. The beauty of her person demanded worship. Worship demanded sacrifice.
She stopped no more than a foot from me, and it was I who lurched as if fighting momentum; we stood in the moonlight across the room by her armchair. Her eyes left mine to roam over my body, studying me as I had studied her the past few weeks. Her eyes paused and narrowed at my belt, where my weapons hung, and a hot wave of shame washed over me and flushed my face. Had I really come to kill her, to extinguish her, to mar her beauty with a sharpened piece of wood? The belt hung like lead at my waist; I wanted to cover it, to hide it, to send it a hundred miles away. She would curse me, revile me – and rightfully so – for this blasphemy.
I lifted my eyes, and saw that she was once more gazing at my face. I am not angry. Her eyes spoke again, through the voice of my thoughts. I understand, and I forgive you. And then the belt was gone, lifted from my hips. I felt relief like joy; I felt free; she had lifted my guilt; she had accepted me and washed me clean with her forgiveness; I was not unworthy. She touched a finger to my cheek to catch an escaped tear. I worshiped her.
Her dark, knowing eyes slow-danced mine as she drew me to her, beneath her cloak. My clothes were gone, and the heavy silk lining closed on me, washing over my skin. Her arms surrounded me, enfolded me, electrifying my skin. I had not realized it before, but she was taller than me, and as her face came close to mine she seemed almost to loom over me. Her presence was more substantial, more tangible, than my own.
Her skin was smooth, her body supple; her curves molded to fit me. She was cool, not cold – like an autumn breeze – and the warmth of my body seeped into her like rain into grass. I knew that with my heat went my life, and I was frightened. She felt this, and was concerned. With pleading eyes she soothed me, and explained that she needed me. My fear saddened her; she mourned with me. She was so very cold, so fragile, and I would protect her, preserve her. I was a worthy sacrifice. I was worthy.
She kissed me, gently, and I knew I was appreciated. Her lips were like rose petals brushing over my face and neck. I felt she was growing warm; my own heat began returning to me through her skin. With great care and love she kissed the vein on my neck. There was a gentle prick as her sharp teeth slipped through my skin, opening me to her. The sigh of pleasure and relief which ran through her body comforted me. Her warmth grew and mine diminished; with increasing strength she held me to her, supporting me as my toes and fingers gave the last of their life to her.
When she was warm and flushed and safe, and my legs could no longer hold their own weight, she laid me softly to the ground and knelt over me. Her kisses were hot and sticky on my neck; they were salty when she pressed her lips to mine.
My thoughts were slippery, confused and lost within my head, but her eyes smiled down to me in contented pleasure. I will be well, they told me. You have given me peace. Your life has found meaning in mine. This came clearly, but fleetingly, and then was lost to me. She tenderly closed my eyelids; they were no longer in my control. My thoughts were fleeing, disappearing into the darkness of the encroaching shadows, slipping like sand between my fingers. One, however, remained.
I loved her.