Die, My Love (Dark Creature)

DML: Chapter Two: You Do Realize You Are His Prey?

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I kick the door to my flat closed with the side of my foot. Throwing my bag onto the couch, ignoring the inane items that scatter across the floor, I toe off my sneakers, and pull my scrunchie out. Trawling my hands through my hair, sighing in relief, I stand in my kitchen come dining room come utility room, and flick the switch on the kettle. Behind me is the living room.

A teacup, tea bag, three sugars, and some boiling water make me feel better. The ritual of it is mindless. I feel incredibly witch like as I stir this beloved concoction and it does that cool thing where the liquid is turning so fast it creates a maelstrom in a cup. I let go of the spoon and watch it spin around until I’m staring at it thinking the force of momentum has died so why is it still spinning?

This is creepy. “Stop it!” The teaspoon clinks to the side of the cup and rests there innocently. I’ve too much to deal with so I shrug it off. Just a spoon, right? There, see how much calmer I feel?

Ah, good idea, Lee. Ignorance is bliss.

My nose heats from the whorls of steam rising from the milky liquid, and I relive my encounter for the millionth time. I stare at the impressionistic painting I did two nights ago, a representation of the fallen angel who looked at me, and gave me jewelry.

My brush strokes have never looked finer than as they do depicting me standing over him, my hands over his heart. He stares up at me with tenderness in his expression, and I gaze down with affection in mine.

God.

I suck in a breath, bring my wrist up to eyelevel again, and check the charm is still there. My heart dances a jig. Oh boy. I am female, does he not understand what this means to me? His gift is symbolic and it’s shiny!

Jesus, Lee, get your head out your ass, and do something.

Picking up my home phone, I dial Bethany and get her bubbly voicemail. Oh for god’s sake. Okay, chill out, if you can’t bitch with your BFF plan B is a scalding hot shower.

Tea set aside, I unbutton my shirt, rolling my head around on my shoulders. An hour of yoga will go a long way too, my shoulders ache from being so tense. Passing the sideboard, I plug my iPhone into a speaker dock and hit play on iTunes.

Stripping off, the clothes go on the floor to be dealt with later. Naked, I pad across my cream carpet, singing along with Lykke Li, humming to myself and refusing to think about You Know Who, which would spoil this equilibrium I’ve forcibly pulled myself into.

“Ouch!” Shit. I bend over and rub my foot. I really need to move that coffee table, that’s the fourth time this week I’ve stubbed my baby toe. Next time it might rip off. Ugh, imagining that makes my tummy feel funny.

Down the hallway, I pass my bedroom and pause.

Back it up, Lee.

I roll back onto the heel of my foot and peek into the darkened room. I thought I saw a shadow twitch. No, the room is empty, and I shrug.

In my tiny bathroom, white and blue tile, bathless, and warmed by the towel radiator I turn the shower on and sort my teeth out.

The glass surface of the cabinet above the sink fogs up, and as one hand does the rhythmic circular motion so my toothbrush can do its job, I draw love hearts into steam, going all dreamy eyed and mushy as He floats into my mind’s eye again. The love hearts melt after a while, the water shifting from vapor to liquid and running down the glass. The hearts look deformed and evil now.

Is that supposed to be ironic or predictive or something?

Go away common sense, you don’t live here anymore, hadn’t you heard?