Rose Painted Black

Rose Painted Black

Derek heaved open the door to the tiny phone booth. He was a huge brick wall of a man with the face of an overly excited 4 year old, panting heavily as his hand feverishly mashed against the number pads. He wiped furiously at the rivulets of sweat gleaming on his bald forehead as the ringing on the other end droned endlessly to the beat of his hammering pulse.
"Pick up, you son of a bitch!" he hissed to no one.
"Hello?" a metallic voice answered.
"It's me." he gasped, beady eyes glued to the dark night sky. "I'm at Drunken Joe's, and I just saw her. Holy shit, Lew! She took a guy in the bathroom and they were going at it for a while and then BLAM! Bullet between the eyes!"
"Where is she now?" the voice monotonously asked.
"There was a big stink when they heard the shot, so she couldn't have gotten far. I think we've got her, Lew. About frigging time!"
"And she couldn't possibly have gotten out of there?"
"No way, Lew. They practically padlocked the doors to that place once they heard the shot. The cops'll have her tied up when you get there, then you can come bail her out, take her back to your place, and kablam!"
"You honestly think she'd sit still for that long?"
"Sure she would. Once you get her outta there, all she'll need's a can of mace in the eyes to be sweet as a kitten. Shit, Lew, we got her!!! This is un-fucking-believable! You aren't gonna know what to do with yoursel-"
BLAM!
A pained groan, then silence.
"Derek? Derek???"
As Derek's body slid to the floor, leaving a thick, scarlet stain on what was once clear glass, a leather glove of the same red color gently grasped the phone, and a soft, feminine whisper met Lew's ears.
"Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but Derek's permanently indisposed."
"Rose, you bitch." he said, still in practically a monotone.
Click. Dial tone.
Lew dropped the phone to the floor and shoved his white face into his hands. She was gone. Again. And took one of his best men with her this time.
"Shit."
*********************

I know what you're thinking: now Rose, shooting a boy in the back of the head while he's in the middle of an important phone call isn't exactly the most polite way of going about things. But, in this situation at least, it was certainly the most effective.
And shit, did it feel good.
Lew's been after me for a while now, and Derek was one of his favorites; dopey, pliable, and good with a shotgun. I guess it was the dopey part that ended up screwing him over in the end, but such is life. My darling sweetie Lew will find more Dereks, more shotguns, and more phone booths, until he makes absolutely sure that I'm good and dead.
Unless I get to him first.
Now don't get me wrong, lovelies. I might sound like a stone cold bitch at first, but I'm really a sweetheart once you get to know me. I like girly clothes, cheesy romance novels, bubble baths, and long walks on the beach, just like the next chica. You just so happened to catch me on an off day.
It seems like I've been having a lot of those lately.
I guess that's what happens when you're a wanted woman.

Dopey is laying openmouthed like a dead fish in a pool of his own blood as I stare at him, disgust and sadism wrestling through me. He had it coming, that stupid shit head. I saw him the second I walked out of that bar, clamoring stupidly and beaming with naïve pride as he called Lew to tell him that at last, I was theirs. Even the least trained hit man knows at least to keep matters private, not to broadcast them in a phone booth for the rest of the world to hear.
I shake my head. Fucking amateur. I'm tempted to blow another hole through his head just for being an idiot, but I refrain. I told you I was a sweetheart.

Now how do I get out of here? The police won't be around for a while. It's late at night in a small hick town, and most of them are probably so lit they can barely stand up, which buys me some time. I hop into my fabulous escape vehicle- a beat up green Volvo with the bumper hanging off- and skid like a maniac until I'm speeding down the road, cursing myself for being so sloppy. Had I been in a more security-intensive area, I'd probably be a puddle on the sidewalk by now.
I mentioned I'm a girly girl, right?
And at this moment I would like to express how exquisite a hair day I've just realized I'm having. I dyed my elbow-length hair jet black a few months ago, on a whim, and lately it's been so shiny you'd think I was modeling for a shampoo ad. But right now I don't have as much time to admire it as I would like. You know, what with having to outrun the police and all.
This piece of shit car. I'd thought it was such a good idea to drive a car that no one would notice in this town, and now, in my moment of need, it feels like it's about to blow apart in the middle of the road.
Awesome.
I'm driving white-knuckle, twitching ever-so slightly as rapid fire pops, bangs, and groans continually remind me that my car is about to spontaneously combust going 80 through Hicktown. I mutter some type of a plea under my breath, never taking my eyes off the road as we fly down it. Before too long I'm out of the town, and then the next town and the town after that. It's when I'm a mile away from leaving the state that the car begins to die, in a sputtering, skidding, fantastic blaze of glory.
I swerve wildly, gritting my teeth as a weak whimper breaks past my mouth. Thinking the break is going to snap off if I push it any harder, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief as the Volvo finally slows to a stop, smoke billowing forth from the hood.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

After thoroughly mashing my face into the steering wheel in a cursing fit of blind frustration, I inhale deeply and look to my right, where the bright, glowing sign of a gas station is beckoning me forward. At the very least, I can steal a car or a motorcycle or something and pick up where I had left off in blowing out of here.
And who knows what'll happen, or who I'll meet- you never know what kind of the classy people you'll find at a gas station in the middle of the night.

As luck would have it, the Shell station is pretty much deserted except for a few grimy pickup trucks and one gorgeous Harley Davidson. I unbutton my jacket to reveal bare shoulders and the perfect amount of cleavage, and make my way into the fine upstanding establishment that is a gas station quickie mart.
When looking to allure, a female has to have a certain air about her, regardless of whether she's walking into a convenience store or a congressional ball. It's a look in the eyes, at once mysterious and inviting, almost feline, that subliminally commands any man with a pulse to have an erection on the spot. Every woman has the capacity for such a look; what some lack is simply the awareness.
I happen to fall into the more "aware" category.
I walk into the little convenience mart, wearing the aforementioned look with perfect effortlessness, and as a result turning the heads of every man in there, not that that says much. I lift an eyebrow and lick my lips seductively, secretly loathing every minute of this.
"Any one'a you boys driving that Harley out there?" I whisper in an exaggerated Southern accent, running a hand slowly through my hair and letting it linger for a moment on my breast.
Every jaw drops.
"In the.. the john." the cashier breathlessly gulps.
I smile.
"Thanks, sugarbee." I whisper, walking away and swiveling my hips from side to side, feeling the uncomfortably hot gaze of a dozen pairs of eyes.
I push the door open and walk casually into the little boys' room. Seeing it is practically deserted, I walk over to the only man standing in front of the mirror, washing his hands, and wrap my arms like a shawl around his shoulders. He practically jumps out of his skin as I throw a hand over his mouth.
"You're the one driving that Harley, right?" I whisper breathlessly.
Hesitating for a beat, he nods.
"Want to make a trade? You give me a ride and I give you the wildest of your life?"
Shut up. I like cheesy lines.
His eyes bulge out of his head as he nods frantically, while I purr and lick his ear with a smile.
"You won't be sorry, baby." I whisper.
Suddenly our lips are pressed firmly against each other, from time to time wetly smacking as we gasp for breath. Before I know it I am pressed against the dull plaster of the bathroom wall, on the verge of being crushed by this massive behemoth.
I pull my lips away from him and gasp for air as he begins to kiss my neck. I try to ignore it at first, but pretty soon I'm in the throes of a MASSIVE anxiety attack, brought on by a combination of claustrophobia and stress related to recent events- shooting a man, outrunning the cops, and now, choking on the tongue of Jabba the Hut.
A whimper escapes my lips, and I try to push him away, only to have him take it as a cue to go even harder. If I could just reach my gun, I'd be set, but I can barely move with this mammoth on me.
This is not shaping up to be a good night.
I'd be a hypocrite if I screamed for help, considering how much work it took to put the moves on this guy, but even still, panic is beginning to set in. My brain races to think of some effective way to squeeze out of this guy's arms long enough to kick him in the gonads. Finally I shove him off of me and he reels backwards, eyes red with anger and alcohol.
"What's your problem, you stupid bitch?" he snarls. "I thought you wanted to have at it!"
I am about to speak when the sharp crack of wood against skull makes me jump and my conquest collapses into an unconscious heap on the floor. Stunned, my jaw hangs open, and I look ahead to see a beautiful, black, 6 foot tall transvestite gripping a 2 by 4.
Nothing fazes me anymore.
"Holy shit." I whisper. "Is he dead?"
She is terrified, standing with her mouth in a frightened O and her brilliant, glittering eyes stretched as wide as they will go, but her huge arms grip the wooden beam combatively. Gentle and fierce. Epitome of a contradiction.
"I don't know." she whispers. "I didn't hit him too hard. I never killed anyone with a plank of wood, and I don't really intend to start now."
We stare at him a while longer, in a silence that could almost be misconstrued as reverent.
"He'd deserve it though," she adds finally, "seeing as he lied about driving that Harley."

Before I know it I am holding tightly to my new friend, whose name I have come to find is apparently Bethalee Stardust. While we race down the road, two glorious warriors atop a gleaming silver chariot. The concrete spins past us at blinding speeds, and my heart is a white hot hammer beating against my ribs. For all I know, I could be clinging to the back of a serial killer heroin addict, about to meet my death in Tijuana.
I want to scream questions- what her name is, where she is going, and why she is helping me. Maybe she thinks I have some good drugs or something. But the highway screams in my ears, and when I open my mouth my voice is just a shrieking jumble of noise. I shrug and rest my cheek on her shoulder, watching as tendrils of my hair tear wildly at the wind.
That's when my memory decides to cut in.

Rain murmurs softly against slippery glass as she stares, breathless, mesmerized by the tiny shining droplets. With each inhale a shiver courses down her spine. At the sound of a footstep she blinks, jolted back into real time, and her breathing instantly quickens.
"Hi." she whispers, not turning.
"Rosie." he says gently. "What are you doing?"
She faces him, silhouetted by moon and streetlamp, lightly grasping a shawl that partially conceals a negligee.
"Didn't think you'd come."
His eyes glow blue and soft, unreadable. She is already regretting having done this; he is going to scold, to tease, to humiliate. Just as before.
Just as always.
She inhales sharply, hushing the negativity, staring steadfastly into cold blue as she takes a step forward.
He doesn't turn away.
Invigorated by small triumph, she takes another step, breaking the silence with a dull creak in the wooden floorboard. Her mind races and heart leaps at the thought of a possibly changed mind, and her lips part, tasting the cool air as her eyes continue to hold his.
He still doesn't move.
She reaches forward and places her hands on his arms, feeling muscle pressing gently against cotton shirtsleeve. Eyes still cool and soft, mouth still un-protesting. Hands travel to his face, tracing the strong, defined path of cheekbones, lips, jaw line.
Still he doesn't move.
Fingers touch hair, and at their arrival lips meet still and soft in dim moonlight. Eyes close. Her body quivers while her heart pleads for proof that this is reality.
Her shawl hits the floor, and instantly he is brought to life.
Arms enclose around her.
Fingers travel to shirt buttons.
Lips caress her neck.
Lungs gasp for air.
Her back meets silky sheet. She is electrified.
Thrown negligee.
Heavy breathing.
Warm body encompasses hers.
Kisses taste sweat and salt.
Fingers dance across abdomen.
Delayed gratification.
Fantasy fulfilled finally.
Scream.
Rain.
Kiss.
Repeat.

She lies with her head resting on his abdomen, tears in eyes. It is this time not meaningless. She for once feels. It is, this time, beautiful.
"I love you." she whispers.
He says it back.
Kiss.
Repeat.
Carnally beautiful.

The stars are bright and unabashedly beautiful as we race past them, but my eyes are so clouded that I can't see anything.
Our gleaming chariot shrieks to a stop outside a dilapidated motel. I've gotten so sick of these places that the sight of it makes me want to scream. Instead I retreat behind a glamorous facade and make kissing faces at my compact mirror.
My chauffeur turns to me.
"Tired?"
"How'd you know I felt like sleeping on a pile of trash?" I say sweetly.
"Not much of a thank you for the person who kept you from getting raped."
"I knew what I was doing." I say coolly. "If he had been that awful I would've shoved him off."
"Looks like that was what you were trying to do." she replies.
"I was just about to get my gun." I snap defensively.
"Whatever, sugarbee."
My cheeks flare. I hate that.
"Why did you help me anyway?" I snarl. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don't have any drugs on me, so it looks like you're out of luck."
"I don’t do them."
"Oh, so it's a sexual thing you want? I've never been with a drag queen before but who knows? Maybe it'll be hot!" I cry, throwing my arms out exaggeratedly. "People have some weird fetishes, right?"
"You can quit being so obscene, honey child! I don't want anything from you! You were obviously lost, in trouble, and needed someone, so I stepped in. That's it. I'm not gonna kill you, okay? Do we have that set straight? I just want to put you back on your feet. Do you understand?"
I'm caught speechless. It's the first honorable thing anyone has said to me in recent history.
"Now, do you want to stay here or not?"
I look into her wild eyes and nod like a guilty child. She smiles brilliantly.
"Wonderful!" she cries cheerily. "I can tell we're gonna get along well, babydoll."

She stands at the dingy motel mirror, taking off jewelry and makeup. Her long auburn wig lies limply now on the table, and she is shirtless and wearing something resembling a bathing cap on her head. Glittering and excessively intricate patterns of purple eye shadow sparkle dimly on her eyelids, and her lips gleam as she pulls off an enormous brassy piece of costume jewelry.
Strange beauty.
"You said you were trying to help me?" I ask.
"That was the plan." she replies plainly.
"Would you still help me if I told you someone was trying to kill me?"
She turns bluntly from the mirror, eyes glowing curiously.
"H-hypothetically." I add meekly.
"No one's trying to kill you, baby."
I laugh.
"That'd make my life easier."
She blinks, wide-eyed, lips parting slightly.
"That's why you needed the Harley? You're a baby doll on the run?"
I nod. Bethalee exaggeratedly throws her hand to her gaping mouth.
"From who???"
"My ex-boss. Lew. He's awful. When I quit he got so pissed he called all his best people to do me in. The only thing I can do is try to get him before he gets me."
I cough dryly, throat made out of cotton.
"I.. I hate asking this, but I need your help. I know how to get to him- I've just got no way of doing it without you and Harley."
Bethalee touches lightly her soft chocolate forehead.
"He's the head of an assassin-"
"Company, you could say. Makes good money too. It's a pretty good investment." I sputter. "Uh, but, I got to the point where I couldn't handle it anymore. I just got so disgusted killing that I quit!"
I throw my face into my hands, trying to draw attention away from the dangerous fumble. Bethalee rushes over and wraps her arms around me.
"It was just… too much…"
"I'll help you, honey child." she whispers.
"You will?" I sit up in shock, having thought I would have to keep this up for at least ten more minutes.
"I'll get you where you need to be. Someone like that needs a good stomach full of lead. It's karma."
She has no idea how ironic what has just said is.
"Bethalee… Thank you." I whisper. "This really means so much to me. That you would do this.. even when.. I'm a…"
"Killer? Aw, no doll baby, you're not that anymore. You're beautiful." she cries emphatically. "You're a flower, just like your name. All that black that was on you has washed away."
Her embrace tightens, and suddenly my heart sinks guiltily. An angel, beautiful, bright-eyed, and pure, has just agreed to help me.
Too bad everything I've told her is a lie.

At around 3 I decide that my mind is going too fast for me to ever get to sleep, so I step outside the classy Sleep-Eezy Motel for a cigarette. The match explodes into violent brightness, radiant in a brief orange and red fuy that dies into a thin curling whisp of smoke.
I close my eyes and inhale seductive carbon monoxide. Yeah, I know they're bad for you, but whatever. I doubt I'll live long enough to die of lung cancer.
Rosie Rosie Rosie…
Shit, he's haunting me.
"What's a perty thing like you…"
How many drunken jack-offs are there in Hickville tonight?
I couldn't possibly be in less of a mood for this.
"Aw, come on honey sugar aintcha gonna talk to me?"
No. Go screw yourself.
A sigh of inebriated despair.
"Come on, sweet baby, I'll treat you like the best, cuz I am the best."
Warm, slithery arms wrap around my waist and gin-reeking lips graze my neck.
I rip the knife from my jacket and dig into his abdomen.
There is a pained groan as metal is torn from flesh, and I barely wince at the sound of body hitting pavement. I've heard it before.

"Bethalee.." I whisper, opening the door to our room with a dull creak, keeping my eyes wide and scared. "We have to get out of here. I just saw a man… murdered!"

****************
"And you don't know where she is." Lew whispered, head on his forehead, eyes blankly staring ahead. "This is not what I want to hear."
"She was last seen at a local gas station, but no one recognized her past that. My guess is she's out of the state."
Lew poured a shot of Jack Daniels and chugged it, flinching slightly.
"Check all the inns and motels in the surrounding area. She's gone two days without sleeping." he murmured. "She's gonna crash sometime. Look for Violet Simpson or Lucy Ferrick, or anything not altogether normal. Even some valley girl-ish name- like Valerie or Tiffany or something."
"She's kind of a chick, huh?" the other man said.
Lew glared ahead with eyes like dull ice.
"Yes, Dick, I think we can safely say that she is in fact a chick." he grumbled. "Congratulations on your astuteness."
"Hey man, I was just trying to make conversation." Dick said. "Friendly banter, you know?"
Lew slowly turned his head towards him, amazed that he was still there, and still talking.
"Alright, Dick," he said slowly, "If you find her, feel free to make as much friendly banter as you want before you shoot her full of rock salt. Does that work for you, Dick?"
Dick glared while thinking of some scathing response.
"Sure." was all he could come up with.
"Is there a reason you're still here, Dick?"
"Um.. Mm.. We're gonna go do that. Thanks boss."
Fumbling slightly, Dick pivoted and made his way out of the room. Lew watched with cold eyes glazed over in a film of sadness.
"You better not ever find her." he murmured to no one.
*****************

Bethalee is horrified and trying painfully hard to conceal it, but I see something faltering in her eyes, a twitch of discomfort. She knows it always happens, and will always continue to happen, but still, even now, it revolts her.
The notion that I might have done it is the furthest thing from her mind.
My acting is flawless. Panting, sobbing, gasping. I cry that no matter how many times I've seen it, it's still just too much to see.
And she believes me.
Not only that, I've tapped into the vein that is causing the tears to spill on her face. I become a kindred spirit to her and slip further into the lie that I am a scared, charmingly innocent if horribly misled child who just doesn't know any better.
Her warm arms are meant to soothe and comfort, but instead they help further churn the guilt in my nauseous stomach.
"Just go back to bed, honey. The police will get here soon."
Sweetie, that's why I want to get out of here.
Terrible visions suddenly slide through my head- a witness screaming, cops racing, asking questions, putting a face and a name to a knife.
A girl with black hair and a red trenchcoat, you seen her? She checked in tonight in room 302. Break-ins and arrests all end in Lew bailing me out just to kill me on his own.
"Rose? Rose, honey, it's okay. You okay?"
I snap out and nod fiercely. There were no witnesses. No one was there, and he didn't even scream. The management won't even notice until tomorrow morning.
Unless…
Shit.
Security cameras.
"We need to get out of here Bethalee!" I gasp. "If that guy got murdered out there, what are the chances that we won't?"
"Sweetie, you're a trained killer."
"A trained PACIFIST killer!" I shriek. "Even if it was in self defense, if I ever kill another man I might as well kill myself!"
It's complete and utter shit, but somehow she takes it, putting her hand on my face so sweetly that I almost vomit out of remorse.

Minutes later she and I are speeding down the road once more, wind whipping so wildly through my hair that it is practically standing straight up. I don't curse, or even laugh, I just stare at the back of my companion, making up ridiculous ideas in my head about her life story, who she is, and why she's actually helping me.
Shortly after conjuring up her dark past as a Spanish drug czar pimpstitute (a dazzlingly witty combo of two words, I must say), the Harley screeches to a stop in front of an apartment complex resembling a giant grey brick.
"Did we break down?" I ask.
"I live here." she replies.
My eyes widen.
"Of course you do." I mumble.

A stairwell is obviously not the most gorgeous place in the world, but this one nabs the shitty prize. The steps look like wood planks held up on cinder blocks, and it figures Bethalee lives on the freaking 89th floor. I can barely feel my legs as I drag them across the top floor, watching her unlock the door and half expecting a waterfall of drug needles and Spanish whores to flood out of it.
Instead we walk into a tiny box of plaster covered in lavender paint and picture frames.
"This okay for you, doll baby?" she asks invitingly.
I look down at a blue carpet that looks better than anything I've slept on in the past month, and I wonder how much longer I can keep this act going before my conscience makes me kill myself.
"This.. this is amazing." I say.
Bethalee beams.
"Oh sweetie bee!" she cries happily, wrapping her arms tightly around me as I try to figure out what exactly a sweetie bee is. "It'll be like we're roomies in college! Only instead of a bunk bed, you'll be sleeping on a couch, but really, isn't that better anyway?"
I grin, and I think this time it's genuine. Seeing it, Bethalee leaps into the air and claps her hands. She giddily skips over to the couch, jabbering about having a slumber rearranging pillows and the like, trying so hard to forget what we have just run away from. I stand amazed.



The cotton pillowcase is soft against my face and smells gorgeously of clean linen. I close my eyes and inhale, tricking myself for a moment that I am younger and know nothing.
And then, for a moment, everything is alright.
I slip into sleep before too long, and the night's dreams are nothing more than regurgitated memories of a young naïve girl, standing in front of her husband in bra and slip, screaming.

"Why are you being such an idiot about this!!" she yells.
"Because I don't want you doing it that's why!"
"That's a really lame excuse." she cries. "I want real, honest-to-goodness reasons! Why can't I work with you?"
"Because it's dangerous, and if you-"
"It's just as dangerous if you're doing it than if I am!"
"Will you let me talk, Rosie!" he shouts. "If I found out some jack-off shot you, I don't know what I'd-"
"It's because I'm the woman, right?" she interrupts. "The FUCKING woman?!"
"Stop that." he whispers, wounded. "You didn't talk like that before I married you."
"Well times change, don't they?" she hollers. "But apparently not all of them! The woman STILL has to stay locked up in the house and cook her master dinner!"
"I don't want you to do that." he says gently.
"Shit, what else CAN I do then? Why didn't we talk about this before getting married?"
"Because I thought you'd understand!" he cries. "Rosie, can't you just get a nice, safer job? Like, oh I don't know, jumping out of planes or something? It'd make me feel a whole lot better!"
Before she can protest he takes her face in his hands, blue eyes soft and sad.
"I love you, Rosie…" he whispers. "Don't do this to me. I can't take it."
She opens her mouth soundlessly, tears stinging her eyes.
"I love you too.."
A warm embrace. A kiss. She rests her cheek on his shoulder and looks up at him, her strange lion prince.
"I got you speechless." he says. "Must be the end of the world."
Laughter.
Kisses.
"Does this mean you won't do it? I won't have to worry about you killing yourself?"
She smirks cynically.
"Maybe not with a gun."

Screeching car tires outside the window throw my eyes open. I sit up, wipe away the black, awful tears with the back of my hand, and go to the window.
Three slick black, FBI-style cars parked right outside.
Way to be subtle, Lew.
How did they find me?

*****************
"Someone just got killed at a motel. We've got men tracking a Harley Davidson that had someone fitting her description riding on it." Dick sneered into the telephone. "Just wanted to let you know."
*****************

"Bethalee.." I whisper, shaking her. "Bethalee Bethalee Bethalee!!! Wake up!!!!"
She stirs and blinks her eyes, her eyes lusterless for a split second as she regains consciousness, but bright again as soon as she sees me.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
I hate having to do this again.
"..Lew's guys are outside." I whisper, this time genuinely terrified.
Though her child eyes are already wide with the knowledge of just how screwed we are, I still feel the need to drill it into her a bit further.
"Bethalee, if we don't get out of here, we're both going to die."
"Are they in the building?"
"They just got in. You got a fire escape?"
"Yeah." she says, leaping from the bed and fixing her wig onto her head while simultaneously throwing a woman's overcoat on over boxer shorts. "Let's get you out of here baby."

My blood runs like ice water through my veins as we run, and every inch of my body feels electrified with the sheer terror of prey being hunted. The fire escape is impossibly loud and clattery, and yet still we don't seem to draw any attention as we leap to the ground and search for Bethalee's motorcycle. No words are spoken; only the pounding of blood in ears echoes through my head.
Finally Bethalee finds the Harley and leaps onto it, turning the ignition key and looking at me expectantly.
"You ready?"
I hear them breaking down the door to Bethalee's lavender haven and hurling picture frames in a chorus of breaking glass. I hear my name being shouted by them, over and over and over again, and I want to scream. I want to leap on and get out of there as fast as is humanly possible. I want to cling to her, my drag queen angel, and wake up from this awfulness.
But I can't move.
Bethalee stares at me from atop the Harley, waiting openmouthed.
"Rose, honey," she says lowly, "Get on."
My lungs suddenly gasp for air in short, loud shrieks. I still can't move, and the sound of my assailants tearing up the apartment is getting louder. Suddenly the truth that I had tried so hard to avoid up until now is pounding unceasingly in my temples.
I deserve to die.
Bethalee is growing more desperate now, glancing at her window as ominous men in black continue to march past it.
"Baby doll." she begins again, eyes pointed upward. "Get on."
Faces appear in the glass suddenly, looking down, pointing, sneering, beckoning for men to go outside.
We're going to die.
"ROSE!" she shrieks, grabbing my arm and forcing me into the bike seat.
The Harley explodes with a roaring kick start and I stare dully at the grey brick of a building. I hear footsteps tromping downstairs, hushed murmuring.
"We got that bitch now." someone whispers. "We got that bitch good."
I want to freaking stab all of them.
As we are almost out of the parking lot the doors explode open and a man in black charges toward us, gun aimed at my forehead.
We make eye contact before Bethalee plows him over on the Harley.
Soft crunch of flesh and bone.
Pained gurgle.
My heart sinks, and a single black tear stains my face as I look back at the crumpled body of the best man at my wedding.

We used to be happy.
I never thought people could actually be as happy as we were.
But then you weren't there.
And then you were NEVER THERE.
But he was..

"Where are we going, Rose?" she asks.
I give her monotone directions and an address. She nods.
"Who lives there?"
"No one. It's an office building."
She looks back at me inquisitively. I reach for my gun, making sure it is still loaded.
"Yes, Bethalee." I say. "I need to do this now. You don't have to watch."
"No. I want to help you." she said. "I'll be your backup."
I tilt my head.
"Now you're helping me kill someone?"
"I'm helping you put the past behind you and move forwa-"
"By killing someone."
She says nothing for a little while.
"I just want you to be okay, baby doll." she offers softly.
"You barely know me." I reply.
"You don't need to know someone that well to want to help them."
I sigh.
"Touché, I guess." I grumble.
She looks back again once or twice, but no one says anything else for the rest of the ride. I rest my cheek against her jacket and look at the glaring stars, and the random memory overtakes me.

I stand at the window, my fingers gently grazing my face while I watch a sunset. The evening lands soft and unnoticed, mint hues sweetly melting into cream and rose, until the flower is pervaded by darker tones. It fades gently into serene and mysterious violet before crashing without warning into the trees, the grass, the earth, the mud.
The downfall of something beautiful.
I look down at the dead body of someone I love lying beside my feet. His face is calm and serene in the soft light, while mine is as white as a sheet.
The downfall of something beautiful.

It looks exactly the same as it always has. For an office building housing a covert assassination administration, it's just so darn pretty that no one ever suspects a thing. High glass windows glint majestically in the morning sunlight, and you would think you were walking into some type of law firm as the automatic doors open for you.
I figure that Lew will be there even at the crack of dawn, working as he always does.
And I am right.
Not only is he still there, but when we reach his floor we learn that his secretary has the unfortunate task of keeping the same hours. She stares bleary eyed as we approach, smiling politely.
"Can I help you?"
"We'd like to see Mr. Schaeffer, please?"
"Do you have an appointment?" she asks, eyes still glazed over.
"I'm Rose."
She blinks.
"Okay." she says. "Follow me."
I bite my tongue as we walk, staring at Bethalee's gorgeous mass of curls and trying not to collapse into a sleep-deprived heap on the floor. I grasp the gun for reassurance, and breathe deeply. With any luck, this will just take a minute.
Our less-than-perky escort knocks on the door and opens it.
"You've got visitors." she says.
"Now?" he asks, perplexed. "Who is it?"
The girl pauses, unsure how to break this.
"It's Rose."
Pause. I almost think I hear an "oh shit," but it is muffled.
"Let her in."
"She's got a friend."
"Whatever, let them in too."
The dazed secretary looks at us both and shrugs before motioning us forward. Bethalee's eyes, full of saccharine concern as always, meet mine as I inhale deeply and walk into the room, hand caressing the gun in my pocket.
Just keep your eyes averted, point forward, and shoot as soon as the door closes.
We walk in, and I stare at the marble floor as the door shut behind us. Bethalee is like a wild fawn as her stare darts frantically from me to him to me to him. I still wonder why she agreed to do this.
Just keep your eyes averted and shoot.
"Hello, Rose."
I look up, and the sight of him makes me want to crumple to the floor. He is exactly the way I remember him, mouth firm and unflinching, tall, lean, and intimidating.
A lion.
He sits behind a desk, staring at me in a cleanly pressed black suit, eyes soft and cold. But the cold is beginning to crack as the silence intensifies, and soon the blue becomes warm and poignant. I quiver, my façade breaking pitifully, and feel my knees begin to buckle. Bethalee's brilliant eyes are large in wonder, and they stay with me as mine close and my body crumples to the floor.
I feel arms around me.
Taut, sinewy arms.
I assume they are Bethalee's.
They aren't.
"Rosie…" he whispers as he runs a hand through my hair. "Rosie, Rosie, Rosie…"
I thought I would be stronger than this. I thought I didn't feel anymore.
I was wrong.
"So I guess you're going to kill me now, is that it?"
Still in his arms, I stare up at him, baffled.
"Is that what you want?"
"What kind of question is that?" I ask, picking myself up from his arms. "Do you fucking think that's what I want?"
"That's nice language to say to someone who hasn't seen you in 6 months."
"You've been trying to kill me!"
"And you say it like you're surprised!" he shouts. "Did you just conveniently forget what you did, Rose? Did you think that if you waited long enough you could come back to me and everything would be all better?!"
"What did you do?" Bethalee's voice rings with painful naivety.
Lew stares at her.
"And where did you pick THIS one up?? Is she your newest experimentation?"
My cheeks flare bright red. I look to her.
"Do you really want to know? Do you really want to be filled in on all this?" I ask. "Fine. Okay, chickie, but I'll tell you right now, it's too late to walk out that door now that you're in here. You knew what you were getting yourself into!"
I tell her the truth. For first time.
And I feel like my heart my give out.

His face is ghost white, his eyes gleaming with maddening awareness of what has just happened. I stand by the hotel window, shivering, a wiry knot dressed in an oversized trench coat. He fidgets, gnawing at his nails until he reaches the knuckle.
"It's funny how life works out sometimes." I whisper gently.
"No, not funny." his eyes are wide like a maniac's. "MESSED UP, that's what this was."
"We were both drunk." a weak attempt at justification.
"Well I'm not drunk anymore!" he is suddenly shouting. "No, sir, I am STONE-COLD-SOBER! That's what screwing your sister-in-law does to you!"
I wince.
"No one has to know." I whisper. "You can keep your reputation. You can still be a good guy. We can pretend it just-"
"Even if we convinced the Pope it didn't happen, I would still know, and that would drive me crazy." he bows his head as if praying. "I have to tell Lew."
"Have you lost your mind!!"
"He'll understand, Rose. He's got to!"
I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. The room blurs and starts revolving.
"No no no no no." I murmur. "This cannot happen."
"He's got to forgive us Rose! He'll be mad at first, sure, but we're.. we're his family! We're all he's got!"
"He deals with assassins! Do you really think he'd think about family when he'd rather blow a hole through a wall?"
"Rose, he's got to-"
I pull out a revolver from the trench and aim it at him with no intention of firing it..
"You're not going to shoot me, Rose."
"I will if you keep talking like that."
"I'm going to tell him, Rose. I have to."
"Jack, he'd kill you, and then he'd kill me."
"Well it won't look much better for you if you kill me will it?"
"Maybe I'll kill myself too, alright?"
"You won't."
"And why not?!" nerves are getting the better of me.
"Because you know there's a line. A line between killing someone mindlessly, and between killing me. And you're smart enough not to cross it."
Tears spring to my eyes.
"You can't tell him.." I beg.
"He'll be fine. I know my brother well enough to know he'll be fine. Put the gun down Rosie."
His eyes are brown, soft, warm. I quiver. Thin clear tears stream down my face.
"You won't do it, Rosie." he says. "I know you."
Realization.
Beautiful, terrible realization.
And he confirms it when he talks.
"I love you." he says.
Heart leaps.
Hand slips.
The awful sound of body hitting the floor.

I crash to the floor and weep until I feel like my heart will give out. When I look in the mirror, my tears are stained in black.

Yeah, I know, I'm worthless, right? I deserve to choke on my own bile or something lovely like that, is that what you're going to say? Go on, heave as many insults as you can at me. Not like I haven't heard any of them before, from every single one of my in-laws.
I know they are all right.
But how could I go on like that? How could I make any type of life for myself if every morning I woke up choking on guilt? Granted, it sneaks up on me sometimes, but if that was what I based my life on, I'd die. Sometimes you have to make yourself forget, even if you know it is immoral. Otherwise, you'll hate yourself, and then there will be no one left who doesn't.
Except a drag queen and a man who wants you dead.

I stare at Bethalee, awaiting her response of horror and disgust and hatred. Instead her eyes are heartrendingly sad, and guilt gnaws relentlessly at my stomach.
"I'm sorry…" I whisper. "You're probably the only really good person I've ever met, and I completely lied to you. But I don't know, I thought you'd walk out on me if I told you the truth. Funny how that works, huh?"
"Oh, baby doll…" she whispers, and I wonder if she'll ever forgive me.
Can you ever really be forgiven?
When I turn, Lew's arms are suddenly enfolding around me, and I sink into them, tears streaming down my face. His fingers stroke my hair, every artificially black strand of it, and I rest my head on his shoulder, suddenly unable to keep from sobbing.
"You were never there…" I choke. "You- were- never- there!!! What was I supposed to do?! What if I had gotten pregnant? I was EIGHTEEN! Do you understand that!!"
I grip his face in my hands, and instantly I am the naïve child again and he the strong guardian, as if no time has passed.
"I never should have married you!" I shriek.
"What good does it do to say that?" he whispers, eyes shining sadly. "Rosie, I love you."
I am a caged animal suddenly, and all I want to do is claw at him until he lets me go, free to be a cursing, hollow, empty shell of a person again, instead of a doe-eyed girl desperately dependant on the man she loves. But rather than scratch at him, I collapse, exhausted and devastated into his arms.
"I love you too." I mean it with every part of my heart.
"I thought you didn't." he whispers.
"Yeah, well, I lie a lot." I reply. "I just need you to forgive me, Lew. I know I've messed up, so, so much, and I know I don't deserve it, but I need to know that I can have a clean slate again… Is that at all possible?"
He is cold again while he thinks about this request, but after a moment of this torture he wraps his arms around me again and I feel a huge smile break warmly across my face.
"Of course I forgive you, Rosie…" he whispers, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, and finally, my lips.
Gunshot.
They say a bullet wound is like a searing hot knife stabbing you in your stomach.
That description is not altogether incorrect.
As life drains out of me, Lew and Bethalee surround me and fade into black silhouettes. I am so tired my eyes feel like sandbags.
But I am happy.

A girl, standing in a red dress outside of a bar, holding a cigarette shakily between twitching fingers, huge eyes fixed skyward.
"You the new girl?"
She almost leaps into the air at the voice, instead turning and meeting a tall pair of cool blue eyes.
"Yeah. It-it's my first day."
"Ever killed anyone before?" he asks casually.
She feels the icy metal gun pressing against her leg through her garter and shakes her head quickly. She doesn't know why she is crying.
"No. Never." she says.
"Gets easier every time." he says, trying to reassure. "It'll get better."
She says nothing for a while, just shakes and occasionally takes a drag on the cigarette, coughing a little bit every time she does so.
"You believe in God?" she asks.
"Mm-hmm."
"Okay. So you believe he's cool with what you've done with your life?"
He shrugs.
"See, that's what scares me." she continues. "I know they preach about pardoning your brother and all that stuff, but what if you get to the point where you've just messed up too many times to be pardoned anymore? Or what if you mess up just once, but you know you're gonna do it- you have to do it again, or else you don't survive? What then, you know? What then?"
She takes another long drag and coughs.
"I'm just saying that, after I go in there, shoot up the target and leave, what happens then? Do I kill myself with guilt? Do I feel relieved? Do I become a monster?"
He takes a deep, thoughtful breath through his nostrils.
"Nah."
"Nah?"
"Nah. God knows you gotta do it to live. It's nothing outta hate. Just a survival tactic."
She sighs.
"And that's what helps you sleep at night?"
"You're Rose, aren't ya? Maury said you were too moral for your own good. Did your momma know you'd have red hair? That why she named you Rose?"
"Can we not talk about my mother right now, please?"
"Sorry.. Maury said you were smart. He didn't tell me how cute you were though."
"Are all hit men as shallow as you?"
"Easy there. I'm just trying to calm you down." He smiles. "Anyway, do you know what you're gonna do?"
She breathes deep and recites.
"Go in there, flirt, wait until we're alone, and blam." she makes her thumb and forefinger into a pistol. "What did the guy do to deserve it?"
"Rosie, I'm not gonna try and sugarcoat it for ya. He messed around with the wrong people, and now he's paying for it. That's just the way it works. It might be barbaric, but it works."
She exhales, coughing again. He eyes her warily.
"That the first time you ever smoked one of those?"
She blushes and looks down.
"I figured it'd calm me down."
He nods, smiling gently.
"Why'd you take this job anyway?"
She shrugs.
"Figured it'd make good money, and it wasn't like I was whoring myself out or anything."
"So shooting a guy in the face is better than selling yourself?"
She goes quiet. He laughs.
"Don't worry, we all got our reasons." he nods thoughtfully. "Tell you what, we'll both walk in there, and if you freak out, just tug on your ear or something and I'll take care of it from there."
"Really?" innocent eyes light up.
"Course." he smirks. "You're too pretty to say no to."
She laughs.
"What's your name again?"
"Lew." he extends his hand. "So you ready?"
She breathes deep and stares at his hand for a while.
"Yeah." she whispers lowly, slipping her fingers around his.
He smiles coolly and they walk into the bar, hand-in-hand.

The fall of something beautiful.

The End