Sex and Murder Magazine

By Erin Cole

As soon as the front door closes, our lips lock in a wet fury. I reach to unbutton my shirt, but he forces my arms against the wall, pinning me at the wrists.

“Stop,” he hushes.

His mouth is hot on my neck, biting and sucking and his hands weave fistfuls of my hair like chains of gold. I push against him, but his broad stature absorbs my strength. I know he likes it, so much that he rips my shirt open, hungry, and determined with palms full of flesh and fingers seeking damp warmth beneath my skirt. Desire burgeons and soon he takes me hard and deep in the hallway of his apartment.

The heat inside him crests and suddenly, he grabs my throat, blocking air from my lungs and blood to my brain. A surge of panic drowns me with horror, for I am the one who labeled him potentially dangerous-

“His fists are quick to clench.”

“Do you want him on the security floor?”

“We have no choice. Double his medication.”

Strong hands tighten around my throat, but in the black of his eyes, I see a gentle flame. With breath desperately absent, sensations swell inside me, intoxicating my perceptions in a velvet numbness. I can't help but give in to the pleasure, the sweet darkness.

Drifting into a reverie state, I picture him taking my hand and leading me to his lithium park where I comfort him, assuring his troubled, schizophrenic mind that everything is all right. I sit on top of his lap and hold his face, telling him,

“No one is chasing you. You are safe.”

“You don't know her.”

“Please take your medicine, Jonathan.”

“Do you love me, Jess?”

“Yes…no matter the risks.”

Or insanity. I've studied his charts, the abnormalities in his cerebral tissues, but love pays no heed to medical analysis-or romantic regulations-and I let him have all of me. Crisp acoustics return, reverberating with a kaleidoscope of light. I wake with a jolt on the floor of his apartment to another voice, the sharp timbre of an angry woman.

“Who's crazy now, Jonathan?” Madness wavers a brand-new gun in her hand.

“Please, Eli don't...,” but my lover falls to the floor in a fan of blood.

I lunge, but too slow to escape the path of her jealous vengeance, the target of her bullets. I drop beside him in tremors of violent pain, revolted over my gross error-his stalker was real.

I braid my fingers in his, warm blood like glue. A pulse in mine rouses a glint of hope, but the velvet numbness returns and sweet darkness veils me once again.