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The agonizing silence heated the tension filled atmosphere, forks toying with the crumbs of steak leftover on the exquisite china, obviously reserved for an occasion as such. Sheepish glances locked but quickly broken by the anxious bout of butterflies erupting in the pits of their stomachs. That much beloved opera music softly murmured in the backdrop of this awkward rendition of the last supper, reminiscent of her childhood; That harrowing sense of doom occupying her consciousness, too.
Her mouth agape as if to issue a much too late apology. “I did everything I could to prevent.. Any harm from happening to you.” Vera’s hands folded in front of her, for once critical of the bitter truths and ugly lies spouted so sweetly from fine bowed lips, her head cocked as she analyzed each fidget. “That same terror I felt when Jianna..” A shaky inhale aided in impeding those tears formed at her waterline from spilling. “Met her tragic fate consumed me when I saw those mongrels restraining you with that needle to your throat. I panicked, something I deeply regret now, and I apologize.”
A fluttery hand straught over her dinner table, clutching one of Vera’s own. “I do love you, sweet Vera.” Sincerity encompassed a shuddery utterance.
Offering her hand skittishly, the meek woman sprouted fangs. “But is it enough? Will it ever be enough? Will it cure me of this wretched infection?” Hot tears gathered on her bottom lashes, heavy droplets searing into the back of her illicit paramours palm. “I love you too, Joan. But at what cost?” This wasn’t the desperate enamorment she had for Fletch. In hindsight, it was more a plea for attention, something to fulfill that void of a father figure. With Joan, she felt whole, loved, maybe a tad insane. Nothing like the used tissue that the mindless Neanderthal treated her as.
“Could we at least have a last dance? Just a final sentimental moment?” She’d never heard Joan plead, partially satisfying to see someone so feared get down on her hands and knees for her but simultaneously heartbreaking; A woman such as herself wouldn’t dare beg, unless she was particularly fond of the person.
A timid smile amidst the cascade of tears trailing hot down her cheeks divulged her unspoken agreement to the endearing offer. Proposing her opened palm, the sacrificial lamb initiating her final dance with the devil. “Lead the way.”
Guiding her from the elongated table to the adjacent spacious living room, the generational record player tucked away in the corner, a phonograph record embodying melancholia setting the somber tone of their last adulating moments.
Swaying in tandem to the gentle melancholic thrum of classical music, brunette tresses tickled the underside of her chin as her lanky limbs enveloped narrow shoulders in a tender embrace. The mild ache from a tense jaw and repressed tear shed apparent through the tremulous breath that rattled her lungs. Loss had become somewhat of an acquaintance to Joan.
Affection warm in her chest, the overwhelming security of feeling safe, maybe invincible, entwined in the arms of the wolf. But the damage irreversible, holding her tongue a nearly impossible feat now. “I hate you for the things you’ve put me through.”
“I know, and I don’t blame you.” Admittance of her own misdeeds unheard of prior to her involvement with Vera.
“But I love you, maybe an unbearable amount.” Laying her cheek to Joan’s sternum, salty tears sullying the material of her top as the chain of her jewelry imprinted to reddened skin. “And that’s the issue.”
The naïve ways ingrained into the fibers of her being didn’t discriminate against Joan, as lenient as ever, if anything. Prone to caring too much, the aftermath always an unfortunate circumstance or a permanent inconvenience, bound to plague her eternally whether it be illness or the unnerving guilt that had afflicted her since her father departed from the home due to her mother’s spiteful ways.
Arriving with repentant pinot grasped at the neck, nectar of the gods sloshing within its crimson glass confines, heels echoed into the nothingness of the frigid night against the concrete walkway as the old Vera moused through that opaque veil of her fabricated poise; A consequence of the impulsive move of euthanasia, effectively ridding the burden of her mother. No more obstacles withholding her grand potential.
A glimpse of a lone woman teetering the fine, fine line of normalcy and absolute lunacy waltzing solemnly, but maybe that professional, sane guise only donned along with that prized uniform; Arms clutching an illusionary individual, unaware of the voyeur spectating her from the bay window overlooking the patio.
Dreadful premonitions churning her guts, the firm beliefs of the other officers may have held some truth; Governor Ferguson had more than her fair share of demons, or maybe she herself was the formidable monster they made her out to be. The spectacle of this woman clearly feeding off the crumbs of remaining sanity left struck a chord of remorse, further worsening the hassle of putting this romance six feet under.