Magenta

(working title

 

 

IV.

Staccato

***

She has the nerve to light candles first. A little light, she says, is necessary. Says she can’t leave him completely in the dark.

The unintended double meaning of her sentence makes his heart skip a beat.

"Syd? Sweetie?" Francie’s voice carries through the room, too loud for his sensitive ears.

He stands next to the couch, unable to sit down, unable to do anything but crush the desire to forcefully push Francie aside and run into the bathroom himself, to do what he can to remedy Sydney’s stupid, self-destructive choice. His whole body is tense as a bow-string. His hands clutch his biceps.

He is aware that he isn’t acting like himself and hasn’t been for a while, but it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters. He cannot lose her. He has spent too much time watching her, getting to know her, to have her disappearing out of his life so suddenly. She cannot leave before he has made his move. He has waited too long.

"Syd, there’s someone here for you." Francie is in Sydney’s room now. "Where are you?"

She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t answer. She cannot answer. Silly woman, move faster!

His fingers will have left marks on his arms within the hour.

He can’t help it, inches further into the flat, closer to her room. Everything that surrounds him is familiar. The couch, the counter, every chair, every ornament on the walls, even the book Sydney left here. From his monitor, he couldn’t see what it was, desired to know what she was reading. Now that he could find out, he isn’t interested anymore.

Even though it is warm, he feels cold sweep past him. A cold breath of fate. Too late. All he has done is watch, and now he pays the price.

Soon, very soon, Francie will find her room-mate. He doesn’t know what the bathroom looks like; no camera there. He has pictured it many times before. Now those pictures are stained with blood, as ruby-red as the Syrah Sydney had been drinking.

Soon. His heart struggles, but his mind knows.

"Syd?" Francie’s voice is slightly muffled and more echoed now, as though she is standing in a tiled room. She suddenly sounds worried.

"Oh my god, Sydney!" A gasp. He hears her drop her purse. Something clatters onto the tiles. The echo is loud.

His reserve cracks. He darts forward, pushes the door open so it swings against the wall with a bang, making the pictures on the wall quiver in protest.

He is overcome by the smell of Sydney, filling her bedroom, that clear and heady scent that is entirely her – and blood.

He stares at the bathroom door, slightly ajar. In the flickering candle-light, he sees Francie kneeling next to the bathtub, disposing of a bloodied Kleenex, ignoring the bang.

His heart stops.

There’s not enough blood.

"You clumsy thing, what have you done?"

A chuckle. Why is Francie laughing?

There’s not enough blood.

His heart skips two more beats, then starts beating again, painfully strong. His breath is laboured. He reaches out for the doorknob, his hand shaking.

He hears the ripping of plaster, a light, insecure chuckle.

His nostrils flare. Smell of blood, mixed with the sweet scent of bath salts. The blood is stronger. And weaker.

Not enough blood.

Any second now, his heartbeat will kill him. His breath is too loud in his ears. It must be audible.

"Here, press this tightly on the cut."

She talks to her.

She talks to her as though she is all right.

Rustling as of paper. Small tearing sounds—a wrapper being opened?

But no answer.

Another plaster, taken out of the box.

No reply.

"That stupid razor must have been chipped at one side."

The cold becomes intense when he hears Sydney’s voice, then turns into scorching heat. He pulls his hand away from the doorknob, moves backwards until his knees collide with the bed and he collapses into a sitting position.

"All those things we do for men, and do they ever notice?" Francie complains in a fake grumpy voice. " If nature had intended us to have perfectly smooth legs, wouldn’t we have the genes to prove it?”

"Or maybe it’s just an evil plot between the razor industry and the Band-Aid industry. Cut them and fix them," Sydney offers. Both women share a laugh.

"Seriously, though, sweetie. You should bring those razor-blades back and make an official complaint. That cut could have been a lot worse, and look what it already did to our towels."

The sound of a towel swinging, connecting with something. From to the offended "Ouch" from Francie, it’s her arm. "This is how you thank your rescue battalion?"

He feels light-headed. His hands are shaking worse than before.

She is all right.

He runs both hands through his hair, feels his scalp hot and slick with perspiration.

His thoughts race. Razor-blades? There was only one assumption he could have made, wasn’t there? Why else would she need Razor-blades? She is perfect, always perfect, flawless. Why would she need to shave? Perfection either comes complete or not at all.

Razor-blades.

Reality comes crashing down like a blow.

He is losing it. Not for the first time does he realise this, but the terror of actually having acted on it shakes him to the core.

He could have exposed himself. Thousands of things could have happened while he wasn't looking, while he was busy chasing after a phantom.

Years upon years of training, all down the bloody drain.

He is losing it.

She is making him lose it.

His eyes flash for a second, then icy calm floods his veins.

He retreats out of her room without a word.

Her smell lingers.

 

***