A bloody, little secret.

“Well, isn’t that interesting?’ he said, checking again at what he saw. Climbing from the bed he wiped his hands on his jeans and reached for a cigarette from the pack sitting on the three-legged nightstand that was supported by leaning against the bed frame. Careful not too get it wet from what was still on his hands he crossed to what was called a spacious patio in the motel’s outdated brochure. The sliding glass door that gave access to the four-foot cement ledge had a spider web shatter in it that showed where it had been hit by something and was never repaired, but then nothing in the Fountain of Youth Motel got repaired. Putting the cigarette to his lips he snapped the fingers of his right hand. Looking perplexed he shook his hand and snapped them again.
“Must be out of fuel,’ he said over his shoulder to the woman lying on what passed as the room’s king sized bed. If she heard him she didn’t comment.
“Just kidding. I’m never out of fuel.’ He snapped his fingers again and the end of the cigarette flamed briefly before receding into a cherry. He was smiling as the smoke curled out form the corners of his mouth and added to the gray curtain of smog that blocked out any hope of truly seeing the sun.
“Very interesting,’ he said to no one as much as the woman, ‘I knew this day would come. I did. I’ve been waiting for this day. Can you smell it?’ He turned to look at her and then back out to the grim early morning view of dilapidated factories and shanty housing.
“Maybe not,’ he chuckled to himself. The smile sat on his face for a moment before sliding off and he turned to look at her. He paused and studied her carefully before flicking the cigarette and catching the edge of the trash basket before it fell inside to a week’s collection of newspapers and fried chicken bones.
“What I’m saying is this. It’s time for me to settle down. I have a child on the way and that means it time for me to be responsible. No more wild crazy nights for this bachelor. I’m going to be a family man. I know. I know,’ he held up his hand to her as if expecting a protest, ‘the time we’ve had together has been magical. I mean that, but I need a special kind of woman to be a mother to this child. Not a filthy gutter whore. Don’t be mad. I respect you. I do.” He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand into his.
“You are such a good listener. Did I ever tell you that? You are. You are such a good listener. Not many people are good listeners any more. Why back in my day people knew how to listen because there are things you can hear, but only if you listen very, very carefully. Now I’m going to tell you a secret, because you’re such a good listener.” He leaned in carefully until his lips brushed her ear and he told her a secret. If she was shocked or surprised or pleasured it didn’t show.
“Isn’t that a good one? Now you have to promise me not to tell anyone. Do you promise?” He waited and behind him the smoke that had started rising from the trash was now a flame that licked over the top.
“That’s okay. I know you’re tired. It’s been a long night hasn’t it? You’ve taken this very well. I’m glad. I’m not one for ugly break ups.” He stood up and moved to the single bag he had placed next to the door, kicking over the trashcan as he went by. Flaming newspaper spilled out and pieces landed next to the tattered curtains.
He stopped and turned back to her.
“What’s that? Where am I going? I suppose it couldn’t hurt to tell you. I am headed to the self-proclaimed icebox of the United States of America. Don’t ask me why they call it that. Must be cold. Okay, I’m going now. Hey, keep the cigarettes. I have to give it up anyway. Can’t be smoking around the rug rat. Bad for them you know.” And with that he opened the door as strolled out not bothering to close the door behind him.
“I suppose I’m going to need something to ride in. Something roomy. Those kids grow up before you know it and of course there is mommy to think of. Who knows how many women I’ll have to go through to find the right… the right… how the French say, I don’t know what.” He said to no one but himself as he walked past the elevator to the third floor staircase. First rule in a fire you know, don’t use the elevator.
He felt good. It had been a long time since he had something to look forward to. Centuries even. He felt good enough that as he made his way out of the stair well and into end of the night he started singing.
“The sun’s coming up I have cakes on the griddle… Life ain’t nothing but a funny, funny riddle… Thank God I’m a country boy…” Caught by whimsy he kick up his heels as he started whistling the refrain and walked in the general direction of north.

The woman stared at no spot in particular on the wall across from the bed and her eyes would continue to stare at it until the fire ate them. The toothpicks would make sure of that. She would have tried screaming, but one needed to be breathing to scream and she had stopped sometime after midnight.
She had met the man at the café where she waited tables. He had just walked in one afternoon and the first thing she had thought was he looked like someone without worries and the second time she saw him she thought he looked familiar. She guessed he was American, but not a tourist. He didn’t look around with that open-faced ignorance and paranoia that marked most of them. Tourists always believing they were slightly better then everyone else, though they would never admit it openly and with that sense of superiority came the belief that everyone they met wanted what they had and if one of the locals caught them unawares they would end up without their wallet and their three hundred dollar camera and at worst the natives would violate their white women. After noticing the ease he carried himself with, she noticed he was very good looking even for an American. Not Brad Pitt sort of looks, but simple well put together hearty male features. His facial hair was someplace past a five o’clock shadow, but not yet a beard and she was sure the highlights and the dark bronzing of his skin was from long hours spent in the sun and not out of box. When see greeted him at his table she noted the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth and thought he looked absolutely charming. She then thought of the worn picture of her father of when he was young and fresh. The man reminded her of, strange as it was, of who she imagined her father to be like when he was her age.
He ordered a cup of coffee in Spanish that was closer to natural then the chop that came from a book or a tape. She had thought his smile was absolutely memorizing. When he had left and she found the tip that was more then she usually made in three afternoons, she wished she would have said something more to him. She didn’t know what, but there had been something about his self-confidence and charm that made her want to know more.
When he walked in the door again the next afternoon she had felt herself blush. He was looking right at her and smiling. Then he gave her a quick wink before heading to the same table he used the day before. She suddenly felt like the awkward school girl she had been when she had crushed hard on soccer player that would later take her to a street dance and then to the back of his car. Another cup of coffee and she spent enough time chatting with him at his table that the regulars who were regulars for her as much as the food failed to leave the regular tips.

He was there the next day as well and then he had asked her out to the movies. She remembered it well, because he had said moving picture show instead of cinema and she had laughed, because it was the first time his Spanish showed it was less then native. After that they began spending their evenings together and before the week was out she had started sharing his bed at the shit hole motel a few blocks down from the café. That had been one thing she didn’t understand. He obviously had money. Why stay in such a place? When she asked him he had merely shrugged his shoulders and told her he liked the feel of it. Three very pleasant weeks had gone by like that until the night before. He said he wanted to play a new game. He had been an incredibly skilled lover and because of that she had been willing to try things she had considered rather dirty before, so when he pulled out lengths of rope from a brown paper sack she was willing to go along with it. It wasn’t until she had been secured to the bed naked with her arms and legs bound to the four corners and her head propped up with the two well used pillows and had pulled a box of tooth picks and a very sharp, very old looking blade from the bag that she knew it wasn’t kinky sex he was after. When she tried screaming, for the first time his normally peasant demeanor dropped and gripped her by the throat tight enough it choked off the scream before it had the chance to leave her lips. His features that she had once found attractive were now twitchy and his lips had pulled back into something feral.
“Don’t do that. Don’t.” He had told her. His breathing had become quick and the air passed through his nose in snorts. Then in a moment he was changed again. Back to being pleasant, though she couldn’t see it as she once had. Now that other part was just underneath, crawling under his skin. He smiled while still clenching her throat, easing enough for her to suck in a breath. With his other hand he reached to the nightstand and opened the drawer. He reached in and pulled out a curved needle. The kind doctors used to do stitches and she knew this because she had taken her nephew in after he had fallen playing street soccer and cut his knee on a piece of beer bottle. He placed the needle on her chest between her breasts that the pillows forced her head to look down at and then he reached into the drawer again and pulled out a heavy spool of black thread.
“This is going to be a lot easier if you try not to move.” He smiled at her and then sewed her lips together while humming in a carefree manner with one hand stiching and the other holding her head by a vise like grip of her jaw.
She had thought that after he had tied her to the bed, closed her lips with black thread doubled over in large over lapping X’s, and placed the edge of the blade at the point in her neck she could just see from her position, that her mind would finally quit. She could feel it happening. That point where it as had as much as it could handle and then turn itself off to save itself from permanent damage. He had been watching her and as her eyes began rolling up into her head he grabbed her by the chin.
“Don’t go. You’ll want to be here for this.” Again smiling at her. Her eyes cleared and met his and then he was there with her. Inside her head. She felt his will and it was monstrous. It was strong. Strong and vile and black. She knew he could crush her mind if he wanted, but instead he re-enforced it. The barriers that had threatened to collapse and save her from what was to come were steeled with his will. And then he was gone, though the strength of what he had done remained.
“Now we’re getting down to the real nitty gritty of it.”
There had been pain. Pain she didn’t realize was even possible. She had wanted to beg him. Beg him because she wanted to live. Beg him because she wanted the pain to stop. Three hours later when she saw him pull her heart from her body she hadn’t realized, but at some point she had stopped wanting to live and just wanted to stop the pain. As the darkness crept into her vision and her body made its last spasm, she was happy that the pain would stop and she would be released, but he had been watching for that again. He knew what to look for. He knew that moment just before the soul made its escape very well. Her body had died, but he had held her to it. Biting his thumb and smearing his blood mixed with her own across her forehead he chanted something quickly, something soft and etherial, and then stared into her eyes.
‘Oh no,' he said to her, 'You have to stick around for this. If you want a good and accurate reading, the soul has to stay in the body. Not that I imagine you would be using that information anytime soon. But I’ve always thought it was good bedside manner to let people know what was happening. A good bedside manner keeps them coming back is what I’ve always said.’
She was screaming inside her head. He laid out her organs on the bed around her after removing them one by one and studying each one. Smelling some of them. Eating parts of others and moving it slowly around in his mouth, like a food critic deciding if the meal was excellent or only passable. He found what he was looking for after pulling out what she thought was her womb. He had placed his nose against it and inhaled deeply, then like a child with a three-scoop stack, he licked it from bottom to top. He had laughed. He told her ‘It was hiding on me. Secrets do that sometime. At least the really good ones do.’
When he had whispered into her ear and told her that horribly, wonderful secret she had stopped worrying about when the pain would stop and began praying again for the first time since she was a young girl. And when the fire had ate its way up her body to her head and boiled away the skin on her forehead that held the smear of his blood and hers and the blackness began creeping back in, she hoped it was enough.