In The Cold Light Of Morning (AU, ADULT, M/L) 1/1 COMPLETE

[lizard_queen]

Author: lizard_queen / Ki-ki
Title: In The Cold Light Of Morning
Category: M/L implied, features Kyle.
Rating: Adult - features murder
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm just taking them out of their box and playing with them for a while before i return them to their owners.


Summary: "Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.” ~ Samuel Johnson

WARNING: There's bad images in here. If you're not comfortable with blood and stuff, i advise not reading.


I wrote this for an English exam at school and altered it so i could post it here. The theme was "revenge tragedy" and unfortunately, the one i wrote in the exam was so much better than this, but i can't remember it so you're stuck with this version.

It's kind of set in the late 60's era i guess. Think mobsters and all of those detective movies. Sorry it's so short.










A slither of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth to the side of his cheek, dripping onto the plain cream carpet below. A bright red pool collected underneath his comatose body.

Blood always stained the worst.

I sink back further into the shadows when his body jerks for the last and final time. Even though I know that he is now completely dead, I still fear that he may somehow come back to life and destroy me for what I did. I try to tell myself that it’s just my conscience playing tricks, that I can’t possibly feel remorse for the disgraceful act I just committed, but I know deep inside that it’s not true. I doubt you could ever take a man’s life and not have the guilt eat away at your soul, no matter how much they deserved it.

I take one more glance out of the crack of the doorway before I open the closet door and walk towards the stench of death. My heart rate pounds, my head throbs and all of my senses feel heightened. Sweat pools in my palms and down my neck.

The fear overcomes me.

I try not to vomit as I approach the body. Nausea is not your friend at a time like this. The stench of alcohol crawls under my skin and makes my knees weak. I only have to hold it together until I get outside, then I let reality hit me.

Slowly, I remove my leather gloves and place my index and middle finger on the skin of his neck. I swallow thickly and close my eyes when I realise that his skin is still warm. I’m really not sure what I expected. Coldness maybe. He may have been a living and breathing animal a few moments ago, but his heart was never even lukewarm. If it were, this wouldn’t have happened. I recoil internally from the feeling of his clammy skin and try to focus on the feeling underneath my fingertips.

I feel nothing: no pulse, no life.

He’s dead.

Stepping back from the bed suddenly, I put my gloves back on and study the damage I’ve done. His dark brown eyes that were known for their withering stare are now glassy and unseeing. One arm hangs out over the bed, the fingertips stained with crusty dried blood. His half drunk glass of brandy tipped on the floor is responsible for the brown stain mixing with the maroon one from the blood. I take a small amount of satisfaction in knowing that he can never hurt anyone again the way her hurt Liz.

A soft smile lights my face despite the current situation when I think about Liz. She was a gorgeous brunette who could act like no one else. I met her ten years ago when she was performing a play downtown at a community theatre. The play itself was horrible, but I was entranced by the longhaired beauty on stage. I waited outside her dressing room all night just to be able to talk to her.

“Did you like the play?” She had asked me when she came out and I introduced myself, a hopeful smile shining in her eyes.

“God no,” I answered honestly before I could stop myself. Her smile disappeared and was replaced with a mix of annoyance and offence at the fact that I had waited around to tell her how torturous it was to sit though.

“The play was horrible,” I corrected before she could leave, “but you were wonderful.”

When her sweet laughed filled the air from my obvious pick-up line and her dark eyes lit up, I knew I was in love.

Liz had once told me that she aspired to be the next Marilyn Monroe or Grace Kelly. She wanted to be the queen of Broadway and one day make it Hollywood. I never doubted that she could do it for one minute. Because of me, she never got that chance. We were married a year after we met and slowly she took acting positions less and less, until one day they just stopped coming completely.

I can understand why she went to him. I was working more and more, and she was lonely. I was too busy to take her to the places she liked, and he was there as a replacement. Dancing was one of Liz’s favourites, so I wasn’t surprised at all when a friend told me he saw her at a restaurant the other night dancing up a storm. It was when he informed me that it was with another man that I felt the fear creep up into my system. The realisation that I had neglected her dawned on me and I vowed that I would take her out every night and pay more attention to her.

The night she turned up dead I had reservations for her favourite restaurant.

Her body was found in an alley dumpster downtown, beaten and bruised. Her clothes were ripped and her beautiful hair was caked with flakes of dried blood.

The police informed me that she had been having an affair with Kyle Valentie, a member of one of the most notorious gangs in all of New York. She would have loved the excitement that dating a mafia member could have provided. Witnesses had seen them together for months. He had promised her the world and more if she stayed with him and left me.

That night, she had gone over to break it off with him. I guess she never got that far.

It had taken me months to find out the information I needed. I needed to plan the perfect demise of the man who killed my love. The police were no help. They knew who he was, they had witnesses and evidence… but they were afraid. Half of the police force was crooked, and the other half had too many things to live for.

I was a lone soldier.

I hid myself well, sitting in his hotel suit and watched his routine nightly until I could predict the time he did everything. The suit was your typical room: a fireplace with a mahogany leather recliner, a bathroom and a bedroom. It was the basics, but it still screamed class and corruption like nothing else. He would arrive home early in the morning, two or three am, and have a nightcap of brandy before he slept. It didn’t take me long to realise how easy it would be.

He had come home right on time, throwing his suit jacket on the lounge and resting back in his recliner with a glass in his hand. This was my night. Valentie would pay for what he did tonight.

One sip of his brandy was all it took for the poison to do its work. I could practically image it expanding through his arteries, from his blood stream to his heart and brain. It was the perfect weapon.

If I close my eyes I can still picture the way he stumbled about the room, grasping onto anything around him. The glass in his hand smashed onto the floor, the liquid seeping into the carpet. He struggled for breath, clutching at his throat trying to loosen his shirt. He held his throat with one hand as his eyes rolled back into his head. It reminded me of someone dancing, the way he swayed perfectly in time to the music playing in my head. The climax of the symphony came as he leapt and bounded around the room until he finally collapsed on his bed, no longer able to breathe.

I let out the breath I had been holding in anticipation, trying to quell the sinking feeling I had in my stomach. It was all over, but nothing had changed. It didn’t bring her back to me; it didn’t make the situation any less my fault. I didn’t make me happy that he was gone.

I momentarily prayed that he would come back to life just so I could kill him again. Maybe the second time I would get the satisfaction, the rush, that you always hear about.

Maybe the second time I wouldn’t feel this guilty.

I shut the door behind me when I left, choosing to take the stairs instead of the elevator. I don’t need the clerk in the lobby identifying me once the police came.

My left hand resting in my pocket bumped against a small vial of liquid and my small smile returns. This may have been a pyrrhic victory, but I’m glad that Kyle Valentie will never live to see another glass of brandy again, because I know that Liz will never see a stage again.

It’s the least he deserves.