Emma

Her name was Emma, a fiery red-head who had put him in the hospital once. Something about their first meeting had set them on this path of mutually-assured destruction and it had only escalated from there. It had never quite managed to be homicidal, but they had both got carried away before and used more force than would have been survivable; they had learnt to duck, to dodge and generally evade one another's attempts so well that they had crossed over into lethal force without thinking.

As he got into the taxi, he was sure of only one thing; it couldn't go on like this. He needed to end it once and for all.

In his lap was a single red rose, boxed and beribboned in a style that explained everything to the casual observer. A cut-away showed the flower, protected in it's cardboard prison, but not the slender knife taped to the underside of the lid. Underneath the overcoat slung oh-so-casually across his left arm, he clutched the small automatic pistol he had brought as a back-up plan. They were both experts in at least two different martial arts by now, so even his hands were deadly weapons if he could catch her off-guard, but they'd proven time and time again that they were too evenly-matched for a straight-up confrontation.

For all the time he'd known her, it seemed that they'd got caught in a strange cycle of ever-greater violence and madness. Barbed words had given way to blows, open hands to closed fists, bare hands to chair-legs and from there to knives. He remembered her over-reactions, how she'd sliced his hand with a box-cutter (the first time one of them had been forced to seek medical attention, but not the last) after he let down her tires, but he was just as bad; she once cut off his ponytail, so he'd thrown her out of a window.

This was the first time he'd brought a gun into the mix though. He'd owned it for a while now, but only ever as a weapon of last-resort. This was new. This was maybe a step too far.

"Anywhere around here?" the driver asked, shaking him from his reverie.

"On the left," he replied. "Half-way down."

He was impressed that his hands did not shake as he counted out the fare, telling the driver to keep the change. It was a little more generous than he would normally have offered, but he knew that he could not afford to linger too long out here. Without even waiting for a reply, he moved quickly up to the front door and out of sight of her windows. He had worked out a point just to one side of the door where could stand out of view without looking suspicious and took up position.

A jolt of panic seized him as he saw the driver still waiting, a potential witness. With nothing else for it, he mimed knocking on the door, carefully keeping his hand from contacting the wood and alerting the house's only inhabitant, then stood fiddling with his suit like the nervous suitor he pretended to be. He checked his watch, a gesture both in keeping with his persona and his own need for precise timing, then waved to the driver. The driver offered a smiling thumbs-up gesture of encouragement and mercifully began to drive away in pursuit of his next customer.

The coast is clear, he thought, the time has come. He smiled at the clichés and put his shoulder to the door, calling to mind the right amount of force to overcome the lock without making too much noise. It did not look reinforced, so it should be possible. Silently he counted down; 3, 2, 1...

A subtle click was the only warning he got before the bolt disengaged and the door began to open. Honed reflexes kept him on his feet, but his balance was off.

"A rose? For me?"

His left arm intercepted her knife, the blade caught by the layers of woollen overcoat he had wrapped around it.

"Well, it is Valentine's day," he remarked as his fingers pushed through a perforated section of the box in his right hand and closed around the dagger within.

The rose had been stripped of thorns, but the stem still weakened his grip on the weapon and a casual backhand from the woman found just the right part of his arm to turn his hand numb. The dagger fell to the ground even as he pushed her backwards and they collided with the wall. She had judged her balance well enough to pin his left arm behind her back though, where her bodyweight crushed his fingers against the metal trigger-guard and took his gun out of the picture.

Disarmed and off-balance, he knew he was a sitting duck and twisted his body quickly to deflect her rising knee before she could drive it up between his legs. His thigh ached from the contact, but he knew it could have been much worse. Now turned, he swept one leg back and knocked her off her feet so that they both fell to the ground, his weight now pinning her to the ground. The gun was missing, but he had the upper hand and was determined to press his advantage, grabbing her hands and pinning them to the ground above her head.

Then he kissed her.

Years of passions, misplaced and well-placed, poured into that kiss. Once a year, each Valentine's day, their little war ended. It had started out as a simple truce, but in previous years, they'd even managed to sit down and talk. Each year, it had been their attempt to head off their inevitable destruction, but the war always started again. This year, he'd realised that they needed to change the cycle. He wasn't sure what he felt for her, so confused had it all become over the years, but he had to believe that the tension between them could end in some other way than their deaths.

Beneath him, he felt her struggle, but her attempts to break away began to weaken. Finally, he felt her starting to reciprocate and for a moment, the rest of the world and all their history was gone. He let go of her hands and forced himself to relax, to forget the dagger within easy reach.

"About time," she said at last, when their mouths parted. "Now get that door shut and get me upstairs before I come to my senses.

© 2013 Anthony Hart-Jones

Author's Note

Written for a contest.

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register

Reviews

Epipsychologist

I was laughing at myself for wanting it to end like this. Kind of in the same way that the hero laughs at himself for thinking out those cliches. But it's good, well written, and kept my attention.