Darkness and Damnation

By Never Wm. M. S. Hall (@2017)

Before I leave the opalescence of this quiet little hotel room, I spend three hours preparing for this.

Lavender, Hyacinth and Honey bath oils… carefully shaved… beard and mustache neatly trimmed.

Usually, I would wear my hair back for this. But my client said that “the mark is feral… wild at heart.”

The rule is, kind for kind… like for like.

The curl of my dreads hang just below my shoulders.

If the client is correct, she’ll draw like a banker to politicians.

Beige pants and jacket, white pull-over crew neck, worn, brown, leather shoes and belt. No watch. No jewels. Gauged earrings.

Perfect.

At the bar of a local jazz club, I recognize her, instantly, from her photos, as she drifts through the door.

The portraits don’t do her justice. Half Human, half Djinn; she’s exquisite.

A different time… another place, she might have been a Queen… a Goddess.

Here… Now… Proof positive of the corruption of our times and the erosion of the culture of Man, she’s just a whore, a courtesan; though, a good one.

Why anybody would want her dead is beyond me.

Chocolate brown skin… five foot four inches tall… one-twenty-five to a hundred and thirty pounds. Prettiest thing in the room.

My silent observations of her flirtatious encounters are only disturbed by the erratic behaviors of those who enter her space.

But her gracious negation of these disruptions of fluidity cause an unexpected admiration in me.

I twist from the bar, to cross this eclectic space, just in time to cause her to stop, so I won’t spill the drink I’m holding.

“Excuse me.”

At first, she looks angry. Then she smiles, “Its ok. You new?”

“Sorry?”

“New… around here?” I watch her look me over… notice my scent, my clothes, my hair. “I spend a lot of time in this club. Never seen you before”, she slyly touches the collar of her blouse.

Her style is classic. Black pencil skirt, split on one side. Diaphanous, tan, button front, blouse, with the sleeves rolled neatly above her elbows. Flesh tone stockings and black pumps.

Her hair is a hypnotic tangled twist of light brown curls held by what appear to be chopsticks. Hair pins, I think they call them. Beautiful.

“First time”, I respond. “I like jazz.”

“Not much for conversation, though, are you?” she laughs.

I smile, “I guess not.”

“You’re too pretty to be shy…” she ponders a moment. “Buy me a drink.”

“What do you like?”

“A Rum Runner… sweet and strong”, she flirts.

A little obvious for a professional, but I like her style. And this will probably be her last drink. So, I place the order.

She follows me to my table, makes herself comfortable. “Guys like you are usually political activists, radicals or just dangerous.”

“Which am I?”

She sips her drink, “Dangerous.”

“Why?”

“An activist would try too hard to be mysterious. A guy, like you, tries not to be.”

“Interesting.” I take the bait. “And how does a woman, like you, know the difference?”

She hesitates. Then, as if to herself, “We’re all adults here?”

I nod my agreement.

“I’m experienced”, she teases. “Have you ever been experienced?”

Hendrix is one of my favorites. “Not yet.”

Her laughter is like when children play on snow-covered playgrounds… rich, chilled, sincere.

The band plays a rendition of Billie Holiday’s ‘My Man’ and she forgets I exist. I watch the music drift over her… around her… though her. And thank the creator for woman like her.

But why anyone would want her dead is still beyond me.

Perhaps he fell in love with a woman no one man will ever possess.

Perhaps, in her arms, he spoke of secrets he should have kept.

Mine is not to judge.

They bring me money, a photo and a few details.

In return, I bring darkness and eternal damnation.

I watch her sway and think, a different time, a different place, a different life, I might…

Reality twists the knife. I am here… now. And this is the good ol’ U.S. of A.

Here, I’m a broker, she’s a commodity and there’s work to be done.

I finish my drink and refuse another.

She knows the game, but waits for the next song to end before she finishes hers.

She stands and holds her hand out to take mine, as if we’d done this a thousand times, and guides me out of the club.

There’s a small park across the street, where the river flows through downtown Minneapolis. It’s dark, quiet, inviting.

“Do you mind a walk?”

“Not at all”, she takes my arm and we stroll beside the water.

It’s quiet while we walk.

She hums the tune of the last song, as if she were born to sing. And I feel a piece of myself begin to feel… to care… for her.

She stops. Turns to look into my eyes, “Be gentle with me… I want you to be gentle with me, tonight.”

My blade slips easily… silently from my sleeve.

She moves sweetly into my arms.

Her lips are sweet and strong, like rum.

The blade glides gently between her fourth and fifth ribs… into her heart. - I feel it in mine.

She moans, as if in pleasure, her lips still pressed to me.

She leans back in my arms, but there is no shock, nor anger, in her expression, “I told you… dangerous.”

She goes limp in my arms.

“Be gentle with me”, she had said.

I lift her into my arms as gently as I know how.

Carry her into the flow of the river, and let the current take her… gently.

Why anyone would want her dead is still beyond me.

Perhaps to silence her.

Perhaps to hurt someone who loved her.

Mine is not to judge.

They bring money, a photo and a few details.

In return, I bring darkness and eternal damnation.