✑ Alastor

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A woman draped with the sun on her back and the moon beneath her feet — she reminded her of the Revelation verses his mother drilled into his head since the day he knew how to hold a Tommy Gun. He could not pinpoint exactly where this need for her began, nor where it ended, simply that it was and forever would be - at least in the moment, much like the insatiable need for sin to forever stain his hands.

And, by God’s holy name, was sanguine a beautiful colour painted on cleanly things; sterile walls, the petals of peonies and carnations — an unmarried woman.

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Paul Whiteman — a man most notable for the way he lifted a finger and the hallowed mouths of brass instruments would squeal with childish glee. What an amazing man, thought he, as he was seated beside him. An invitation struck his heart the eve before; he had told his momma he had made it big by hiding behind the velvet curtains that blended the haemoglobin so nicely — the elated look his mother gave him when he had torn the parchment open and spun her around.

Perhaps tonight would be a night away from all those delinquent quarters, and those dames that incessantly flapped their gums of late-night endeavours and the sequins on their dresses. He had nearly recoiled when he saw the entourage of women that came alongside those haughty men in suits, and then some. It was a laughable notion — fame. Yet, here he was with the men with gold stitched into their ties and hefty amounts of greenery in their folded pockets.

Thievery was naught to his act, yet, the thought did cross his mind seldom when his eyes met the bedazzled watches and encrusted, diamond bracelets. If he could not stomach murder — for whatever reason — a wandering hand or two would surely quench his need for thrill.

The Clicquot was a wonderful luxury down his throat as he eagerly digested the liquid down his gangly oesophagus, which had been thirsting for a metallic flavour to settle in his intestines as of late; really, he had become rather animalistic in ways recently; he was astonished he not humiliated himself with the carnage he’d left for the coppers just down Maine. It was a formidable nuisance to attempt to tidy the messes he left — thick paintings of blood on the limestone of the Saint Louis Cathedral a road down. He had to stifle a low laugh at the mere thought of that petty man’s face when he drew the dagger across his throat.

Animals, really!

He set the slender glass down on the sheeted table, and a lowlight had cast kaleidoscopes of amber lucents against the nicely sanded walls. He had allowed his eyes to travel, so filled with wanderlust, until he saw the lavender rivers of veins in a certain woman’s arms, so skittish underneath the skin of her wrists and prominent on her forearms, that his mind had arabesque’d into the very man that ate desecrated bodies from their coffins.

He could recognize a tender slab of meat on a body, his father had taught him as such, and while the woman was beautiful - yes , his pupils dilated at the streams of lilac under her skin. And this violet blossom had no man at her hip, or woman, for that matter, and she was very much alone at the table just before him.

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Ah — that iron scent was something he did so love. Perhaps it was the acidic and rank smell that made his nostrils engorge in the fumes, or the way his tender flesh spurred alight in horripilations in unadulterated adrenaline. It was beautiful, the way the carmine coated the pads of his fingers like pigmented paint; thick, and mostful delectable.

He brought a finger to his tongue, the appendage collecting the sullied shapes of it on the flat of it. Rose — it was the shade, and it tasted just as sweet as its filtered and carbonated petals.

He had lured her into one of those seethingly ornate latrines — the wallpaper exuding a want to be rich, but never having its refinery due to the paper’s peeling and scattered hand-towels from the rack. Asinine, all of it. He had the woman seated awkwardly on the folded commode, and she had struggled oh-so much, that he had frustratingly led her to the neatly tiled basin, her legs now caged from ever moving by his lean torso. His pelvis met hers ever so shortly, his hips moving against her to stifle those damned noises.

Were women so easy these days, to believe a man of his stature would want a harlot for the night? He had believed so, as all it took were hooded eyes and few ministrations to her clothed thigh to lead her to this damned, cramped room.

And, by God, was it truly worth those serpently deceits, for she was all bruised and bloodied by now, the purple of her veins exposed. They ran sweetly down her thighs like poured nectar from orchids and stained her now blemished skin — as beautiful as stag antlers, he’d oft tell the unfortunate souls that befell his interest.

Much like Esther, she had led him by the simplicity that was her appearance.

A fingernail drove into her lateral, and he muffled the squeamish wail that left her lips. As much as he adored the blares from trumpets and rifts of piano keys that had grown so subtle behind the locked door — he’d much rather have a bit of silence in this predicament he impulsively found himself in. With a lengthy exhale, he wrapped her legs around his waist — such nimble things compared to him.

The straps of her Charleston had begun to slip, and his retina had hardly seen the straps of her brasserie slowly begin to slip off — the noise outside and within the hall that was his mind was simply too loud. And, with a low groan, he watched as the essence of her life smeared on his narrow fingers. Now, his other hand, the one which had been so cautious as to not move from its grip on the edge of the counter, and moved to encircle her flailing hands, and seat them before her parted lap.

His fingers moved to her lips, prying the stubborn muscles open, and coating her gums with the fresh vermillion. “Women are always much more beautiful when quiet—,” he had said, his monolog cut when the heat of her tongue prodded at his digit. “— you are a little feisty one, aren’t you?”

His spectacles bent at the curve at the apex of his nose, fog emulating on the glass from the hot breath that left his lips, curved into such a maddened smile. “Red is such a beautiful color, especially on white clothes,” he told her, head bowing to gesture at the rivulets pooling on her snowladen dress. “Should I paint you with more?”