Sex and Murder Magazine

By Marie Lecrivain

Atop the single room in the tower where she's incarcerated, her tableau remains as she's left it each night for the past three years: tattered curtains drawn back to frame a gibbous moon; a withered clutch of roses tied together with a black ribbon and carefully placed inside a pewter vase; a rusty candelabra shedding beeswax and faint light onto a mottled blackened mahogany table with matching chair; an onyx inkwell; a small curved knife; and one sharpened quill strategically placed alongside a blank piece of parchment.

Her bloodied, snagged, and faded draperies no longer cling to her frame like they did every night for the first forty-two of her fifty-four years...or like that first night she waited breathless until he came into her bridal chamber with a whip in his hand and fire in his eyes.

Now seated, she takes up the quill, dips it into the inkwell, and then frowns as she withdraws its unsaturated tip. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to release a flow of tears. She rises from the chair and positions her face over the inkwell's opening. The tears drip inside. After a few moments, she closes the lid, carefully picks up the inkwell and swirls the contents with shaking hands.

Reseated, she opens the lid. Her heart clutches, stops, and then flutters to life with an irregular, panicked beat. The hand holding the now dripping quill pauses over the parchment. She closes her eyes again to steady herself. She knows her time is near, but she is not willing to give in to the summons just yet.

Composed, she begins to write. The soft scratch of the quill against the parchment soothes her nerves.

Beloved:

I cannot wait to see you! This body, laid low with age and sorrow, still aches for you. How I hope when we meet again, whether it be above or below, that you will greet me with open arms and with that same fire in your eyes...the fire of lust, and the promise of painful, exquisite pleasure.

Do you know what I remember most about our first night together? Besides my initiation when you slowly and deliberately knelt between my eager thighs, ruthlessly penetrated me, and brought me into our fantastic, exotic world of pain? I remember the metallic, ardent taste of blood from my over-bitten lip that lingered on my tongue as I crossed the threshold into my first orgasm.

Blood became an aphrodisiac. This, of course, became something of a problem to procure, and my all pervading vanity did not predispose me to scarring my lip in the name of ecstasy.

I must tell you; the aforementioned night, as well as one more event, led me down the road to perdition. A month later, I secretly followed you into your private chamber where I spied you withdrawing your erect member covered with hymeneal blood after deflowering a new concubine.

I couldn't take my eyes away from the sight. How desperately I wanted to taste her blood! I craved the elixir of innocence that you had just so casually taken.

So, I decided to collect the blood from another source. I convinced you to procure the virginal founts of young girls to increase the numbers of your harem...and to satisfy my addiction. I started with the young girls in the castle. The exquisite ones were marked for you, but the pretty ones were turned over to me, which was fine, so long as each one met my discreet criteria; a genteel background, good health, obedience, and the most important component—innocence.

How easy it was to seduce a young girl with the promise of a new wardrobe, the possibility of a good match with a nobleman or merchant, the chance to learn to read, to embroider, to take singing lessons, and to acquire all the marks of a lady of quality.

I remember the smiles; the excited, expectant blush in the cheek and brow as I summoned each one to my bedchamber where I seduced each one with soft words and flattery, and then proceeded to get each drunk on wine and sweets, stroked arms and neck, led each one to my bed, and then slowly, slowly, undressed the sweet, pliant, drugged flesh. How I remember the scent and the taste of virginal skin; soft like rose petals, and sweet like almonds. I remember the feel of each warm body pressed against mine as I knelt between a pair of thighs and penetrated each one with the carved ivory member you gave me as a wedding present. I can still hear the soft gasp of pain that passed each one's lips at the moment of breech, and then the
frenzied seconds afterward when I sunk my tongue into the wells of each one to lap up the tangy, salty flow...
Beloved, what kind of monster did you create? Do my revelations shock you? Did you sense the darkness within me the moment we met, or did you take a gamble that first night when you lashed me to my bridal bed, teased my body with the end of your whip, warmed my eager flesh with carefully laid strokes, and awakened the beast within? My head aches with questions that can never be answered.

As the years passed and our court grew wise to my secretive, bizarre behavior, their scrutiny did not stop my quest. As my legend for cruelty grew, I exercised my royal prerogative and conscripted young girls from the countryside, especially those eager to leave behind a life of poverty and rise above the muck to the exalted status of a lady's maid.

Country girls have their own charms; thighs and founts heavy with the promise of earthy delights. They have attained a purity that young noblewomen lack. Sigh…sometimes I long for the sight of a pair of thick, alabaster thighs laid out before me, the soft, bushy nest of untried ringlets...

How the years passed and, in my obsession, I stopped noticing, and then caring when you no longer came to my bedchamber. I paid little attention to the deaths of our children, or the desperate pleas of the ones who survived and needed their mother. I was deaf to their cries. Only the taste of blood mattered!

I experienced a moment's regret at your death, but that regret became overshadowed on the day of your funeral. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized...I was no longer young! How could so much time have passed? What had happened to my beauty? Who was this middle-aged, deeply lined visage staring back at me?

That night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts traveled in a new direction. I realized I had it all wrong. I'd been imbibing only the barest potential of the blood. And then the thought presented itself: Why avail myself of just the hymeneal blood, when all the lifeblood of virgins could preserve what was left of my youth and beauty?

I still marvel at the power of denial in the face of a gruesome death; the hysterical, frantic screams; the dilated pupils reflecting back a razor's gleam that caresses, and then, carefully and swiftly carves a crescent wound into a soft throat; the slow, steady rush of blood expiating from the body into the waters of my bath; the sticky, enveloping warmth I immersed myself in moments after the body was taken from the room; and the careful, deliberate way I avoided my image in mirrors after rinsing clean with a mixture of milk and honey .

It was only a matter of time before my enemies rose up against me. I have been imprisoned in this tower for three years. Because I am of noble blood, I will not be tried or executed. I am left here to rot, to wither, and to die.

I was allowed to take a few tokens; the inkwell with my precious cache of virginal blood, the dried remains of my bridal bouquet, and the writing table that was your last gift to me. Alas, the ivory member that I had so carefully treasured was the one remembrance I could not keep. At the inquest, it was passed from hand to hand among the accusers as they held it up in front of my eyes asking the same questions: What did you do to my daughter? Did you use this thing on my daughter? Where is her body? Regretfully, I have no idea what became of my most prized possession.

My enemies have gifted me with parchment and a quill to write down a confession, but, since my time is coming to a close, I choose to write to you.

Beloved, I am tired. I look forward to my departure from this world, to be reunited with you. When death is near, it is the nature of one to look back and take stock of her life, but, my letter to you is not a confession. Being true to my nature, I am not sorry for anything I have done.

Yours,

Erzsébet
She puts down the quill. Her eyes fall on the knife, which she eagerly picks up, and then places the edge against the moonlight falling through the window. The sweet lure of blood beckons.