Sweetness In Death

I stand in front of the black, heavy door and listen intently, the moon and stars gently defining the door's elaborate engravings. He is inside... awaiting my arrival. And here I am in the empty side-street in front of the abandoned and forgotten building, the secret hideout we both agreed on long ago. I stare silently at the door while taking a few deliberate deep breaths in an attempt to focus my rushing thoughts. I am going to do this. I must not falter. I must be swift.

Knowing the door to be unlocked, I put my hand on the cold handle and carefully push it open, taking one last deep breath of the fresh nightly air before the smell of dust and old forgotten things befall me. The door creaks subtly as it opens and closes behind me. Silently and eerily, the empty hall welcomes me. As I make my way across the hall to the opening that in times long past had had a door, the memory of oncoming death grits away at my bones steadily.

He is standing there in the middle of the unlit room, staring --almost in disbelief-- at my now undeniable presence. My heart despairs at the sight of his bewilderment, at the thought of what I must do.

'Amaranth' he utters with caution, uncertain whether to rush over to me or remain standing there, at a safe distance. My eyes begin to sting and my heart sinks to my feet, but I ignore my body's attempts at protest. Then, slowly, I walk over to him. One footstep after the other.

He remains frozen, fighting internally all primal desire to flee while his wide, tired eyes lock into mine. He is not going to struggle. I can tell from his soft gaze that is so in love with me. Maybe I wish he would... Maybe I wish he would fight violently with all his might, vow to murder me rather than die right here himself. Make this easier for me to bear. No. He is going to let me do my job.

Tears threaten to surface. 'I don't have a choice...' I whisper, holding his gaze. His eyes begin to tear as well, while he nods in recognition. He knows that if I am not the one to do this, his passing will be inhumane, slow and painful. They would undoubtedly make sure of that.

When only a few breaths separate us, his body begins to tremble. It is the trembling of a body fully aware that death is drawing near. I reach my hand out to him and stroke his pallid face in an attempt to comfort him, and gently kiss the unmoving lips that are unsure whether to join in or remain frozen. Not relenting, I urge him further until finally he gives in. We lunge desperately into each other's arms, kissing passionately and maddingly. We fall to the floor and rush to take off each other's clothes, desperately taking in every passing moment, every touch and every kiss, while we suppress the tears and the sadness, the frustrations, the rage, the anger. All of that doesn't matter right now. Only our bodies do.

But I cannot make love to a dead man.

And then, as if forced by an undeniable power from deep within the depths of me, my hand reaches for the blade peacefully sheathed in my trouser's belt on the dusty floor an arm's length away. I press my lips firmly onto his, one last time, before I pinch my eyes closed and slit his throat swiftly and neatly. His grip tightens hard on me while letting out an inaudible moan, just before his lips and his body relax slowly into the realm of death. He is no more.

Half trembling, I have already lost the fight against my tears and my voice shakes as it whispers 'I'm sorry...' I want to cry loud and hard and shout out to him, I want to let him know that I didn't want this, that I had no choice, that I... that I really did love him. But it is too late now. I cannot repent.

With his still warm shirt I gently wipe his vibrant red blood from my blade and neck, and stumble carelessly to my feet. I dress up while my thoughts rush haphazardly through long-gone memories, feeling sick in the stomach and heavy in the throat. But I cannot stay with his body. I must leave. Now.

Once fully dressed, with the blade back in its sheath and cleansed from blood, but never from sin, I walk firmly out of the room, through the empty hall and towards the dark, heavy door that so coldly invites me to rush through.

With my hand on the cold handle, I straighten my shoulders and jerk my head up high. Eyes closed, I swallow deeply. I am an assassin. I remind myself. I am not allowed to love. I cannot be freed from this life. This is the inescapable fate that is bestowed on me. I must endure... With these stale thoughts and a falsely confident posture, I leave the house forever behind and lock my battered heart back into its lonely cavern, all signs of sorrow slipping once again from my face and my body. But never from my heart.

Author's Note

Hello! This is a near-finished piece that I'm going to refine again at some point, and I'd love some feedback. As I'm not very experienced, what do you think of the writing in general? Any obvious areas I could improve on? How do you like the story?

All feedback is appreciated! Thanks!