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Graveyard of Misery

“Lucy... that’s a lovely dress you're wearing”

His hand rested at the small of her back just below her long hair and she let him lead her into the restaurant, slightly nervous. There were enough rumours running around the Centre about what happened to those who dealt with the man. Still, she had agreed when he asked her out.

He was charming, making easy small talk and slipping in subtle compliments but not pressing, making her comfortable. Tucking the strand of hair behind her ear when it had slipped free from her donned up hair, she kept her eyes on him, watching his features, realizing that she’d enjoyed the evening and his company — despite what people said.

She followed him home when he invited her. She knew it would be more than coffee; they’d had some before they left the restaurant and she wouldn’t want another cup. She walked down the corridor besides him, watching the red dress swish around her ankles with every step.

Stepping through the apartment door, she looked around curiously. She shivered when he came up behind her and rested his hands lightly against her upper arms, his fingers brushing against the dark blue silk of the dress. He bent down slightly to drop a kiss against the nape of her neck, brushing her shoulder-long hair out of the way. She heard him whisper he would go and make that coffee, but he made no move to leave her.

She smiled softly and leant into his hands, into the broad chest behind her. Relaxing further, she wasn’t worried when he led her to the bedroom, wasn’t worried when one hand reached for the buttons of the traditional silk shirt, wasn’t worried at all when his other hand found the hem of her short skirt, his fingertips sliding up her thigh. The rumours were forgotten, caution thrown out of the window when the man she’d gotten to know was different from who they said he was.

He was gentle, his hands lightly tracing her skin, cherishing and soothing, his lips following, evoking pleasure. When they were both sweaty, both panting from recent extortion, she rolled over and smiled, pressing a kiss against his shoulder, strands of hair that had torn free from the long braid plastered against her sweaty forehead. She propped herself up on an elbow and let her fingertips slide over his skin, feeling the slight uneven patches when she traced over a scar. She saw him turn his head towards her and meet her gaze. She broke eye-contact, bending down to kiss one of the scars on his chest, before she looked up again. “Where did all those come from?” she whispered, barely breaking the silence of the room.

The light in his eyes changed and suddenly, everything happened very fast. The gentleness from minutes ago forgotten, she was grabbed and roughly held down despite her attempts to break away. He would permit neither safety nor mercy, wouldn’t let her out of his vice-like grip, wouldn’t let her live down the mistake of mentioning those wounds.


He lowered her body into the ground, burying her next to the others. Lyle observed her for a moment before starting to refill the grave, watching the soil cover her lifeless form, cover the bruises and the small smears of blood on her hands from fending him off. He felt the wounds on his arms and torso, long scratches from where her fingernails had broken his skin in her desperate struggle. He knew there would be blood on his shirt later but he ignored it, instead concentrated on filling the grave.

In his mind, the soil was soaked red with blood, just like it had been all those years ago, when there were darker patches on the usually light ground inside of the shed, his blood coloring the ground. He shrugged uncomfortably, trying to forget about the old wounds. There were few scars left from his childhood — his father had been cautious not to leave too many permanent marks.

There would be scars from tonight, adding up to those received when he stopped being as cautious as he used to be with them, when he stopped securing them first before moving in for the kill, when he gave them the chance to struggle. He liked it when they struggled.

He shook his head and sped up his movements, wanting nothing more than to leave the place that served as a reminder to him of what had been done — to him and to them.

He would have to find a new secretary of course — one who didn’t ask improper questions.

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