She wore a simple dress. His favorite. It was black and had slits all the way up to her toned, soccer-sculpted thighs, which she had shaved. She didn't have on shoes, not his favorite heels with black leather laces that started at her toes and wound themselves around her sleek calves. Calves scarred with memories of long days in the woods behind her grandfather's house. An unbidden and unwelcome smile sneaked onto his face when his eyes caught up to her knee; they wouldn't continue until they had taken in the scar, another remnant of her favorite past time. The scar provoked that unwanted smile in response to “the button,” a place on her knee where she couldn't feel anything, just a little bit of pressure. She had laughed whenever he touched it.
The dress hugged a little more snugly than when she had bought it. His senior prom, her first year of college. He wore a zoot suit, she wore that little black dress, not wanting to outdo him However, eyes followed her wherever she went. She wasn't wearing anything under it that night, either. And, again, she had shaved.
She still had delicate wrists. It was a wonder that the recoil from the single round hadn't broken one. Her arms had been hard at work, putting her physical education degree to use. She complained about gaining weight, even though she knew that most of it was muscle. She wasn't fat, she had never been fat. She had been perfect. Still was, lying in that still-expanding burgundy pool.
Her hair. His eyes stopped again at her hair – her blond, red, brown, black, white, silver, yellow, indigo hair – refusing to wander without taking in every tangled curl. She loved it when he ran his hand through it lying next to her in their queen-size pillow-top bed, their first purchase together. He loved it, too, and made it a point for his fingertips ti find their way to her perfect, wavy strands whenever possible. He closed his eyes, remembering the scent of her shampoo. Lavender and sandalwood. She didn't like it, but used it because he had mentioned once that it was his favorite. Still was, even mingled with the copper taste of wood incarnadine.
Her various smiles, frowns, sighs, and laughs fluctuated the pigment in her iris from blue to turquoise to gray to green, always remaining the colors of the sea. Now, black. The storm has passed.
He let a couple of tears wet his cheek before he set to work.
He grabbed the gun, holding it in both hands, touching the grip to his face, breathing it in. He placed it between his jeans and the small of his back, draping his shirt over the handle that still held her warmth.
He pulled it out quickly, placing the muzzle against his temple, intent on following her into the dark. Not his phrase, but he couldn't help but think of her favorite song.
His arms dropped just as suddenly, his body hunched over on itself and heaved silently with sobs. His knees hit the newly-finished wood floor and his arms fell flaccid to his sides. He lost the grip on the gun and it landed next to her unpainted toes. The rest of his body continued to the floor, his forehead smacking the wood hard. He couldn't tell if he was dizzy from the impact or sudden surge of emotion, but he let it work its way out through his breath.
Twenty minutes passed before he could do anything else. He grabbed the gun, tucking it back against his skin. He went to the fridge. Four bottles of Corona. In order to be convincing, he'd have to use them all. He checked the freezer. A half-empty bottle of vodka. He didn't know she'd bought it. That would have to go, too. He opened one of the Coronas, swallowed half of it, then went back to her body.
Jaw clenched, he took the butt of the pistol and slammed it as hard as he could onto the right side of his face. Left-handed swing, right-sided blow. Then, he grabbed her left hand as hard as he could, trying to leave bruises. He knew they would be able to tell that her injuries were caused post-mortem, but if his plan worked, no one would check too thoroughly. He touched the Corona to her lips and then finished the bottle himself and cracked open the vodka.
Eric paced back and forth in the now-quiet second-floor apartment. He was sure that neighbors had heard, police had been called, and investigations had been initiated. He took deep pulls from the frozen bottle as he eyed the suddenly unfamiliar room. The shelf of books, half of them his. The case of DVDs, all of them hers. Hardwood table with four different chairs. Sleeper couch for late-night party stragglers, and a chest containing extra sheets for those partiers who couldn't hold their liquor. He finished the vodka, hoping to black out before the sirens arrived.
