A Tale of Immorality Ch. 08

Chapter Eight: A Foretaste of Damnation

He must have thought he killed us both. He should have.

I am Anne. I betrayed my husband. And in the end I was unable to stop my betrayal. He found out, of course. He killed my lover. He almost killed me.

Then he killed himself.

No. I killed him.

I know. I have no right to live on. But I do.

I could annoy you with repentance and remorse, but I won't. Not because I don't honestly feel it. I do feel remorse, about ten tons of it and they all weigh

on my heart.

But there is no point, is there?

My love is dead. George is gone. So is every dream I ever had. I carelessly and thoughtlessly threw them away. I betrayed and killed the one good thing I'd carried within me — George's love.

What's left of me is just trash. Worthless trash to be put away and destroyed. I should follow him as soon as they let me out of this hospital.

But I can't.

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I remember the ice-cold flash of damnation. George's face was dark and ugly with rage. I remember the sense of finality.

The shame.

I was on my knees on the bed. The tip of Ralph's hard cock rested on the curl of my tongue. The painted nails of my fingers dug into the hard flesh of his ass cheeks. I pulled him towards me. I had to have him, to swallow him. My tits swung freely down from my chest. A sweet and familiar cloud of lust set my mind afloat.

I must have looked the whore I was.

No classy affair, this. No subtle titillation of the senses. No carefully planned adventure. Not even the thrill of the deliciously forbidden, anymore. No excuses, no sparkling sheen of glamour. I had become a greedy slut. I just had to have my cock. And lots of it.

There was no romance left.

Ralph and I had just grabbed a rushed dinner in the closest hotel at hand. It was a rendez-vousrendezvous I hastily improvised as soon as my husband left town. It was a badly-concealed excuse for what I really wanted — a sleazy night of greedy fucking.

Ah, Anne. What ever were you thinking? It was just delusion, honey. Delusion was all it added up to.

On that hotel bed my world came to an end.

There was his sudden face. He was a revenging angel from darkest Hades. I heard the sickening crush of bones. My naked body fled from his towering aggression.

I guess it was my voice that screamed his name.

Blood splashed like a hot shower over my exposed chest and face. Still the fury went on. I heard someone beg and simper. It must have been me. The dead

weight of a large body fell against me.

Then all lights went out.

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The white was clean. It was all around me.

So was the silence, punctuated by murmuring bleeps.

Hospital, my mind said. Crispy sheets, rubbery pillows.

My head was bandaged. So was my chest. There was no pain. There were no feelings at all, actually. I knew I was there. But I really wasn't.

I drifted.

A clear plastic bag sent drips to my wrist. I saw my idle hand. The garishly painted nails lay like little blood drops in a field of virgin snow.

Memories rushed back in. I moaned. Tears burned the rims of my eyes. Ah, sad crocodile. Too little, too late. A murderess you are.

I guess they fed me drugs.

Awful pains tore at my consciousness. But they

were subdued. Fat pillows of artificial indifference smothered my feelings.

Oh brave new world of perfect sedation.

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I later heard it took me four days to struggle out of my luke-warm private pool of misery. I came up and gasped the air of cruel reality. It froze me stiff with horror.

I remembered. I relived. I died of shame.

But life hates unbearable emotions. It put a wall between my horror and me. Survival, they call it.

I had visitors, other than the doctors and nurses.

Family came by, and friends and colleagues. Even Antoine and Alec. They told me what happened. I just

groaned when they said I'd get better.

Better.

My sister told me how George had died. She was ever so careful. But she might as well have plunged a dagger into me. He had already been buried, she said. So was Ralph, in far away Detroit. Only George's closest family was at the funeral.

I cried.

I cried for a day and a night. I pumped out rivers of tears. But afterwards I didn't feel any cleaner. I was dirty, evil Anne, I always would be.

No respite for the whoring slut.

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Weeks passed. They grew into months.

The police came by. There wasn't much to tell them. I got a hateful letter from Ralph's wife. I could understand her grief. Should I feel guilty for her too?

There was no room left.

I did not return to work. I did physical therapy to get my body functioning again. I also did psychological therapy to get my mind straight. The first was successful. The second, ah, well.

Let's say there were days I did not cry.

Let's say there are more days now that I don't cry. I sit. I stare. I walk. I talk. People try to draw me back to the world of the living. Sweet people. Stupid people.

Antoine cooked for me. I could not eat. Alec came over with a very expensive bottle. I sent him away. I told both of them never ever to visit me again.

I sit alone.

As alone as I should be. I feel sick. Nauseous. Empty. I feel I don't belong here. Not in this world where my love could not live.

The truth, Anne. You don't belong in this world where you killed your love.

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I betrayed and killed George's love.

It was the one good thing inside this evil body. What's left of me is just trash. Worthless trash to be put away and destroyed. I should have followed him as soon as they let me out of the hospital.

But I didn't. And now I can't.

I am pregnant.

I know. The chance that the child is George's is almost non-existent. But that tiny chance is big enough to leave me no escape.

I'll bear the child. I'll bring it into the world. I'll call it George. Or Georgina. I don't care if it isn't his. It'll always be his.

I shall love it.

I shall be its slave.

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THE END