The Tourist

The knife slipped from Willa's heart as the heat of Alard's lips left hers. Barely registering the pain at first, she grimaced, a look of confusion and then sudden awareness blossoming across her paling face.

Had he not already relieved Willa of the lethal syringe stashed in her quilted wristlet, Alard'd have felt bad about killing her.

As the crimson stain spreads, gravity pulling her blood southwards, overtaking the cotton apron sash at Willa's waist, Alard frowned while releasing her. Willa barely remained upright, leaning against the graffitied brick wall behind her. She swayed as blood continued to drain from her lithe frame.

A pity.

Willa was quite lovely in a low-key kind of way. So modest, really, that Alard was afraid he'd been given bad information for this mark.

Her skin was like goat's milk. She had Pennsylvania-Dutch-blue eyes, and little freckles dancing across her cheekbones. Willa's hair was spun-gold blond with undertones of white-lace threading.

There was a wholesomeness to this almost-child that went against all claims to the contrary.

It's not like she was wearing pigtails or anything.

Of course not.

Nothing so blatantly homegrown.

But damned if Alard couldn't imagine this cherub helping her arthritic Papa with chores around some quaint little dairy farm back home in the Midwestern, United States. She said she was sending money to him to help keep their family afloat. Recent rainstorms had been decimating their lands, or so Willa had claimed.

Man, she could spin an innocent tale.

Alard scratched his head and paced, kicking a crushed bottle cap in his wake. When he turned to look down at Willa he had to restrain himself from trying to stop her bleeding. Punching a nearby dumpster, he sucked his teeth and swore through the pain as he continued hitting the dank, rusted metal. The pain of his busted knuckles felt good. It revived Alard's determination to stay the course; the throbbing thrusted adrenaline through his tortured veins.

This one was going to haunt him.

"I don't understand," Willa whispered hoarsely, choking on her own fluids. As her pulse slowed, a look of wild panic shot across her face along with the blood that dripped down her chin.

"I'm so cold, Alard."

When she cried for her mother next, Alard nearly lost it.

"Mama, I miss you. I want to come home, Mama."

Unable to help himself, Alard ran over to cradle Willa's head softly in his arms as they slid down to the ground together. "Shh. Shh. Hush now, little one."

As her breathing slowed, regret overtook Alard like a tsunami. He layed Willa's cooling body onto the concrete ground beside him, watching the light go out of her eyes forever. He leaned his head against the brick wall behind him and fought to retain his dignity.

It was mid-December and there was a bite to the crisp, winter air; drastically different from the cozy, little coffee shop they'd just left only moments beforehand. The smell of urine was strong and Alard wished he could leave Willa somewhere better.