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Blood Love

McAllister Fen

This book is work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales is used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Crash

Copyright © 2018 by McAllister Fen

Published by M.H. Dartos

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And so it happens that my days will end this way, another forgotten warrior left to ponder the miseries that were his pinnacles, the sorrows that were his depths. Only after traveling the path I have can I now believe what it took seeing with my own eyes to understand. Power corrupts is a maxim few would argue against. Yet to observe the insidious and depraved levels the quest for said would sink is only to be understood once witnessed. It is enough that life has lied; love has lied. Now it is mine to suffer the indignity commanded by legal but unjust sentence. There is none more surprised than me at the fate that has befallen me. And to think I would have at one time risked all to posses as mine the love and adoration of the very object that in the end conspired to my downfall. A story wrought from the classic mold of Greek Drama, a tragedy in the truest sense, is mine to tell. I say that love has lied and to this I reiterate, yes it has. A life-long search for the one, the only, THE woman who would bring daily meaning to my otherwise dull void of a world is all that I asked. Apparently this was to be given, if at all, with the clandestine and cavalier offering of life’s most sacred ritual; irony embedded within irony. You see, it was not long after realizing my life dream of meeting the one, the angel that would recast all of my days with the white light of spiritual liberation akin to nirvana, did I understand that life had expected, counted on, my naiveté in the regard of love. But now I understand all too well. Long lasting and mature love is built on a bedding of putrescence if the equation has not taken into account life’s double-edged sword. A partnership of long duration without multiplicity of sexual partners is a partnership built of sand. The procreative need is strongly exerted by the radial of life energy, calling to each in individual form, making known in terms of certitude that the seeds must be planted in as many fertile grounds as possible if life is to wield its ineluctable hand in furthering and guaranteeing survival of the species. And this is the most crucial part of an equation unaltered since the beginning. Are there some so naïve to conclude that Adam desired Eve for simple platonic companionship? For those I can only say a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse. While Adam may have possessed the power of psyche to deceive himself as to his motives, his gonadal crescent knew otherwise. Eve was necessary, needed, required, to fulfill the never-ending promise of life: procreation.

Yet now even this rancid promise that delivers only painful defeat glimmers on the distant horizon of an unreachable shore. Even the love, the expression of love’s act I sought to create was in the end truncated by an elegant yet untimely death. I miss her, I do, with all of me that is yet afforded the luxury of sentience. Just the thought of her sandy brown hair, her glistening thighs, the feel, the texture, the smell of her torment me in ways incalculable. And still today I trace the contour of her shape with my wanting fingers. But this is now my new life: a lack of discernible life, and all of this grandeur because of the greedy pursuit of power at the expense of all who imposed themselves between.

Session 1

Sofia was a beautiful woman at one time, the jewel of my newly awakened lustful eyes. But she too, in the end, had to be eliminated. In fact, was an elimination in what would have been merely the first had fate not intervened.

So, says the good Doctor, you intended to kill again?

Maybe. No. Yes. Difficult to say from one minute to the next. But then, being true to myself I must say, yes, I intended to kill that sniveling, crepuscular dung pile of a pseudo-man, Billy Stahl. The embodiment of impotence in a mutually impotent form. If not for his sinister plotting to steal from me what was already mine and prevent me from attaining what was soon to be mine, the end of Sofia would not have come. Love. Love, Love. Swine! Even LOVE he promised her. Such a pig as that repugnant gutter-filth does not know of love. He knows only of acquisition, possession, dominance of will over will. He sought only to assail her with the threat of riches to excavate her exquisite form from her modestly layered clothing. This he succeeded at all too well. And yet, after all was done, she is gone, I am gone; but he remains. Do you know how difficult it was for me to endure the sound of that wretch talking, laughing even? Every action that he no longer had right to he seized and flaunted. Had the company any decency they would have tossed him back to the trash heap whence they found him long ago. But no. Justice was not to be had. I knew then as I know now, if justice were to be brought I would have to be its agent. I would bring him to justice or bring justice to him. But at my hands justice would not be avoided.

Seems you still have a certain amount of untended vitriolic rage bubbling within you. Does sorrow, or more appropriately, contrition, occur to you as a reasonable next step?

Contrition. Sorrow. Words, just words. What could you know Doctor about these things beyond their crude word value. Until a man has lost that which he loves he knows naught of such concepts. Do I feel sorry you ask? Only on one count: losing Sofia and not killing Billy. That is my summation. Turning her against me was a crime perpetrated against her best interests by the very man who had promised her love.

But did you not yourself promise her ‘love?’ And in so doing, did it trouble you not at all that you were already married?

At the time yes, but no longer.

True, but still...

Morality falls on frozen ground within this infidel. We are born alone and we die alone. Should I then concern myself with vain and weak, need I say deceitful, “morality?” No. The animal within seeks expression without. It is mine but to give it free passage.

The Doctor reaches into his traveling bag, withdraws a manila folder, and extracts from it a photograph. He turns it quizzically in his hands a few times, seemingly studying it, forming perhaps the thoughts and words he wishes to embark upon. Then he speaks, uncharacteristic hesitation marking his step.

This picture…uh… the one taken when you were brought in. Have you …uh… seen it?

No. Why should I want to?

Oh. No particular reason I suppose. It’s just that upon seeing this photograph one is left with a lingering question; why?

I look at my hands, turn them, and admire the strength in reserve therein. Questions, questions, why all the questions? Aren’t we in the end all the same, Doctor, all one within the criminal mind? To endure the endless questions is a tax to my system I cannot abide. Final draw. I raise my head and stare at the Doctor, an expression of mock sadness on my equally mock drooping lips.

Why, Doctor? Why did I do it? So pedestrian. I would have expected something more…profound.

Actually, my question is why are you smiling in this photograph, almost as if you…I don’t know…as if you don’t realize you’re being booked for murder.

Not only did I know, I reveled in the idea. The police wanted a stock photograph of the suspect’s profile. I refused, informed them that profile was not to my best display. Of course they seized me and forced their will upon me. But not before getting off one picture of my full frontal view. Why was I smiling, I believe is your question? Simply put, I was smiling because I had achieved my goal. My torment is over and the wench is dead. C’est la vie.

It amazes me this sensation of newfound power I have. Addictive, like a drug. And one would think that perhaps in this light I could understand the motives of the swine that cheated me of my life? Wrong. Only the small-minded could render such a ludicrous conclusion. I understand only that I alone am possessed of the strength of character to do what needs to be done.
And would I have to do it over, I would---under similar circumstances---do the same again. When justice comes it is swift and merciless.

The Doctor finally tires of his questioning repertoire. Good enough. He was becoming a tad bit too tedious, taking on the acrid taste of an inquisition. Better to depart before the grapes of wrath ferment. In my current circumstances I have better use of my time than educating the insensate. For recreation I form clay into figures, keeping my mind active with pursuits that sharpen my already keen intellect. This is just one of the many activities I invest myself within during this, my time alone.
In a way, no better arrangement could be had. I was always one to crave solitude. Now solitude is my daily bread, my sustenance, my water of life as it were. The irony is not wasted on me; taking a life has given me one in return. Thank you Sofia, for awakening the lion of my soul, for sharing the many nights of unrelenting fornication, for silently submitting your heart, soul, and life to me. When we meet again, we shall set the firmament on fire…

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