Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

January 18, 2017

(Story originally written August 21, 2016)

 

"Wolf in Sheep's Clothing"
A Short Story by Kristi Thoreson

When death is near be not afraid because he is a fictional character contrived from mortal brains that want to die.

1920, Chicago
She was running. Running so hard. High-heels clasped in her hands. Breathe scarce. The Chicago rain drenching her flapper dress. Running, running, run! He cut me, he cut me, why? 
Her heart pounding her brain on fire. "God, I'm just trying to move on. To heal to survive!! And this asshole doesn't pay? And now this! Run, honey, run just get home to him he'll be there."
The cut was deep, right under her right breast. She dodged it. The red dripped from her ribs through the beaded-blue fabric. She felt it cold. She felt the wet and the warmth of her severed chest. 
"Fuck me," she gasped under her breath. All she wanted was to be there with him again. 
"HOME! Just get home," she gasped. 
All she could think of now was that bed, in that skin, curling her fingers in his soft chest curls and caressing his dark brown hair with strands of gold her long legs wrapped around his heated body. "RUN, RUN, RUN SHE SCREAMED IN HER MIND. 
Wrong people and wrong crowd. Her feet bled under the dirty streets of that crazy city. Scared she was but courage is being terrified but still doing the right thing. She turned the corner drenched to the core. Down the alley. 
"He will be there! He has to be there," she thought. 
"How could this happen!"
There it was their home. Up the ramp. Up the stairs. The rain ceased from the sky but continued to drip off her body. The carpet green the light glossy from the humid sky, she dropped the heels in her hand along the passageway. 
Clinging to the door handle shaking hands she rattled the door. Her hands ice cold. 
He heard her. He heard her struggle with that damn key. 
He was slow though to get to the door. His footsteps echoed in the subdued click of a cricket. Drunk he was.
He couldn't handle it. What was happening. 
A different man than the one she gave her heart to first. 
 He opened the door. 
She fell through. On her stomach she fell in the doorway. Flip around she slid on her bottom 4 feet back and slammed the door shut. 
He locked it. 
She lay on the floor huddled in a wet ball. Blonde soaked hair dripped across red lips. 
Her mid section red seeping dark wine through the hardwood floors. 
He stooped down. He held her head. He clasped her blood stained breast. 
She gasped in pain grabbing his hand and shoving it away. 
"What are you doing?" she pleaded. 
"Don't do this again. I need you"
"Why? she asked. 
Her blue eyes stared straight into his orange Leo eyes. "Why?" 
He pulled out the gun. Held it to her chest and shot. 
She had stopped running.

Love is all encompassing. Lovers in the past who could not survive show up in a future life to try and try.

His chest convoluted. "Fucking whore, fucking cunt, you fucking moron!" I am so sorry. Nicole, Nicole, I love you. Please baby, please. Come back."
At this point he was as red as her. 
He got up went to the cabinet and put out two glasses, one a shot glass the other a wine glass. He passionately grabbed the Chardonnay they had been saving popped it and poured it into hers. He then grabbed the whiskey bottle poured it into his and drank. The wine glass he picked up put it by her corpse. The contrast of the smoky gold against the dark blood was beautiful, too beautiful. He then walked out the door. 
He couldn't walk straight. He followed the blood trail. Drunk stupor and hot, very hot. Infused with alcohol and madness. 
The rain was giving up, just soft spurts against an ebony sky. 
Past the whore house she worked in on Wabash. 
"They will blame the murder on the fucker that stabbed her, that fucking cunt she was. It's all her fault, it's not my fault. I'm not to blame. That was the best money I ever spent." her love her false love slobbery mumbled. 
He walked to Lake Michigan. 
Then drowned himself.

 

 

 

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