I Put a Spell On You by Willy Moon on Grooveshark
"I love you." I hung above, on my knees. Tears in hard eyes, hair draping a blood-soaked frame.
Three words have never started, stopped, or twisted so much. Those three words ended me.
The feeling started in my fingertips. Copper-soaked but careful, I seized and scraped against an almost human clavicle. My focus narrowed down like a masked lamp, until all that I could see was that glimmer of that blood against nail's edges. I could taste it. Then? It crept inside me.
"I love you." Little trickles, like winter ice, phalanx by phalanx, pooling in frozen lakes between my knuckles. My wrists locked up in rigor mortis. All too soon, elbows, once clean and dry, hung limp, soaked in something frigid. Steady hands started to tremble. Healer hands. My hands. Mine.
"I love you." Like ladders of lightning, sensation snapped across my femurs, to strike hard at my chest. My chin. My tight jaw. My eyes snapped wide. Hairs atop my head, against my brow, behind my straining neck - all rose up like regiments. Like green recruits, like soon-to-die sons.
"You don't," a voice not quite my own answered. My voice was strong. Stern. Hard-earned afield.
That voice was weak. Trembling. Unsure. Interrogative. It wasn't mine. It couldn't be my voice.
"I do," he whispered. Eyes as red and dark as dried bloodstains looked up at me. Certain. Sure.
Around us lay two dozen bodies, two dozen of my former countrymen. They lay in bits and broken halves, like a butcher's bloody practice, laid across their prince like dry wood for his pyre. With him, my hope would have burned. He'd killed them all. So many before. So many to come.
"I love you," whispered the monster man, the hell soldier, the iron door to Hell. I felt his heartbeat underneath my palms, an inhuman cantering rhythm that tried and failed to match my own racing heart. His heart was covered by hard, scarred flesh, sewn close by a lacing of my hair.
"You saved my life," he whispered. "It is yours." The blood taste in my mouth turned to gorge.
I didn't dare let myself weep. I knew exactly what he was. Surgery, bloody and exact. My tool.
"I love you, too," I lied. The iron door to Hell, underneath my hands. A heart more like a demon.
My kind healer's needle made the perfect key.
Prompt: A locked-away Anonymous asked me:
A keyless door
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking likes, reblogs, writing prompts, and your attention.