“I loved you so dearly-” He knew what he did was wrong.  Dozens of women’s corpses flashed in his mind.

“Did you?” She beguiled him with her bronze skin, dark cow eyes, and sweet deposition.

“This is breaking my heart, you know?”

It was insulting that continued to play her game.  Before she seemed sweet, but now, after she had kicked the shit out of him and roped him down on a metal chair, her act was sickening.

                She examined him.  He looked pathetic; tied up, beaten and bruised.  His eyes were filled with some strange emotion, all welled-up and starry.  Maybe it was hope.  She didn’t know why.

                The room was filled with shadows, cigarette smoke, and stray beams of moonlight.   He did not see her remove her gun from her holster.  He did not see her screw on the silencer.  No, he could not see anything, but he could hear.  He could hear the dull screwing of metal on metal.  He could hear the old wooden floor boards strain against her soft footfalls as she drew closer.

                Then there was silence pregnant with fear and wishes of a rewind and redoes.  Her warm breath moistened his neck for a few moments. He waited; anticipating after the next exhale that there would be a soft flash of light and the molten hot burn of bullet lodging into his temple.  But she just continued to breathe against his neck, each breath stealing the scent of his sweat and blood.

“You should consider yourself lucky.”

                Her tongue ran along the column of his neck, hot and wet.

“And wh-why is that?”

                She chuckled and then whispered, “You’re quivering.  Are you scared?”

                He refused to answer her.  There was no doubt that she was going to kill him; it was just matter of when.           

“Are you scared?”

                 He flinched when cold metal dragged along his neck, “I find your neck to be a piece of art. As graceful as Bernini’s David,” and then her presence was gone.  She stood up abruptly and sauntered around his chair.

Now, standing a foot in front of his chair, she aimed the gun at his head and with a click, removed the safety. 

                “Are you scared?” She repeated with a tone of calm detachment .

 It was ironic that such a soft and sweet voice belonged to her.

And then she pulled the trigger.  He tensed up and waited for the bullet to rip into his flesh.

“ How about now?”

He opened his eyes to the sound of her smug voice.  He began to shake violently.

Click.

“Now?”

Four blanks later she asked, “How about now?”

She threw the gun on the ground and rushed forward. Grabbing his thighs in a vice grip, she leaned forward and looked into his eyes.

“I expected you to have pissed yourself by now,”    she mused.  Then she plopped into his lap with her legs folded haphazardly across his thighs.

                Holding the gun like a microphone she playfully asked, “What is your secret?”

He did not answer.  The silence that followed was long and thick.  She then became serious.

“Is it your will of steel?”

As if she expected no reply she continued.

 “Or is it,” she paused and then gently thumped her fist against his left pectoral, “your heart of gold.”

“It’s hope,” his voice was weak and trembled.

He recoiled as she brought her hand away from his chest to caress his face.

“For what?”She whispered.

“For you to do the right thing.”

                 She stood up out of his lap and adjusted her black leather bomber. 

“Then I suppose I should do the right thing.” In an instant she unhinged the barrel of the gun and started to load it with bronze bullets. He stiffened at her gesture.

“I was fucking with you before-”

                She suddenly became humble.  He knew that he wasn’t going to leave the room alive.

“-and that was cruel of me.”

                What was cruel was the bullet she was about to put in his head.

“I’m usually not this- this…”

                He wondered if it was easy for her to switch back and forth between personalities.  He was starting to see the humble woman, no, shell, he had fallen for. 

“Talkative.  I suppose I wanted to make this special.” She closed the barrel and aimed for his head.

“May God forgiv-”

And he was dead.  Now a red pearl, almost luminescent, adorned his forehead. 

“Asshole.”

                Weak is the one who turns to hope in the final hour.  Cold is the one lusts to hear the hopeful’s cry.