Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XCIII. Love Letters From New York, Love Affairs From Scotland

12
Desdemona
Hellʼs Kitchen, New York
Territory: The Order
September 1st, 2004
Time: 12:00 PM 
_____________________________

The illusion always started with her wearing an exotic mink fur on naked clouds, started with the midnight lanterns gasping against fiery breath, a dirty martini and a thousand pawn shop guitars. Hellʼs Kitchen lit the angels on fire as the night bled, and in the darkness, Desdemonaʼs illusions beguiled her with a fairytale-like dreamscape. High above them all, the world was of mice and men.

The wine-colored sky billowed with the ghosts of wooly clouds, her comforting world of illusion, and in the mirage of the bloody rain and the murky hellish New York skyline, Desdemona felt she was watching the city eat her alive.

A painterʼs hunger.

Una pittura infamante.

"Cʼme back to bed, Des."

When the moon burned bright, and her fire began to fade out, Desdemona watched her lover – Caïn, her scotsman – stare back at her, scars and sinew and all.

"You got what you wanted, didnʼt you?"

She drank in silence. Caïn frowned, the darkness catching his eyes as he reached for his Hendrickʼs and El Tesoro.

"Donʼt talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Like youʼre about to put your sh*t on me, Des."

His lips burned when they ghosted over her forehead, his fingers acid when he touched her. Every night, she would take him and he would take from her, and every night, she would fan the fire with that scorching need.

A fire, she knew, was dying out soon.

"Really? Because f*cking damn near twelve hours straight is not enough? Now I have to shut up? For your sake?"

The rain poured its fresh dose of hell. He bruised her with his lips, she swallowed the pain, and they waited, on borrowed love. Caïn traced his thumb over her lips, on an alcoholic's high.

"Never enough," he teased. "Now, come back to bed, Des."

A beat.

"I canʼt sleep, Caïn. Sebastian is seeing a hooker."

Desdemona tried to mince her words, but only venom was left. That acid, that fire. Her love for her son consumed her, and since the fall of the Cenci, that love was nourished by a merciless, angry, all-consuming blaze. 

The knife Caïn played with gave way for fresh blood, kissing Desdemona's heart, as he reached for a bloodied grapefruit.

Blood, the child of pain.

Blood, what Desdemona craved.

"Well, heʼs of age. What are you going to do to stop him? Cut his d*ck off?"

How quaint.

"Caïn, the girl came out of Havana."

His tone grew darker.

"And what of it?"

"Sebastian has a target on his back, Caïn. The people that went to Havana then went to Pinochet. The people that went to Pinochet are now making their way back to Vinci, back north. The Hellbenders need a martyr, someone to put to the stake and burn alive. Sebastian could give that to them, in a heartbeat."

Murder, he wrote with his eyes.

"Nothing will happen to him. Heʼs the prodigal son. No one will dare move against the Order right now."

"Iʼll lose him, Caïn."

"No, you wonʼt."

"And what would you possibly know about loss?"

"Oh, you have some nerve to say that. After everything I've given up for you."

"And what have you given up, Caïn? You sleep on my sheets, you spend my money, you use my body, you gave –"

"I GAVE UP EVERYTHING FOR YOU!"

Murder, he wrote with his eyes.

Blood. Under the shadow of grapefruit juice, it slicked up his hands, curling down his arms like drops of water from a faucet; coating every pastel inch of his pasty skin. It clawed its way down to his fingers; oozing, splashing onto his hands, spreading their tentacles along the cracks of his skin.

"I sleep on your sheets because you stole my home. I spend your money because you robbed me of my family. I use your body because its the only body I have left to hold onto. My kids are dead, Desdemona. I gave you everything."

Murder, she cried.

"You got bored of your wife. You wanted a bargaining chip to get you out scot-free. You fed your children to the mercy of the wolves, because God whispered in your ear. I will not let that happen to Sebastian."

Murder, she would run.

The illusion always started with her wearing an exotic mink fur on naked clouds, started with the midnight lanterns gasping against fiery breath, a dirty martini and a thousand pawn shop guitars. She stared again, day-in and day-out, as Hellʼs Kitchen lit the angels on fire as the night bled, and in the darkness, Desdemonaʼs illusions beguiled her with a fairytale-like dreamscape. High above them all, the world was of mice and men. The wine-colored sky billowed again with the ghosts of wooly clouds, her comforting world of illusion, and in the mirage of the bloody rain and the murky hellish New York skyline, Desdemona felt she was watching the city eat her alive.

And like a pin to a balloon, the illusion broke. Caïn would never let go of his children: Reina, Rafa, Reinaldo, Roman.

His three kings and queens; he would never let them go.

And neither would she.