A Bloody Valentine: Janet Eckford

Victim Number 3 Today… my Mocha Memoirs Press cohort, Janet Eckford. She’s sharing a creepy little tale with us tonight, entitled Love Song for a Villain.

Grab your security blankets, kids… this one is eerie.

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I’m not much for Valentina’s Day because 1) expressions of love should happen all year long 2) February is my birthday month and I feel that trumps any one day. BUT I too can get swept up in the fervor that occurs at times and find myself reflecting on the unique intimacy of bonding with an other individual (or several individuals depending on how you swing it).

What I’ve recently begun to think about is this idea that everyone deserves to have their love story told, no matter what the rest of their narrative may be made up of. This manifested in a story for my 31 days of horror collection, Into the Realm of Mystery and Night, for Mocha Memoirs Press.

I don’t think this short requires much backstory and therefore I submit it for your reading pleasure and wish you a very happy Valentine’s Day. Because as my story illustrates, there is someone for everyone.

Janet

Day 17
Love Song for a Villain

I watch as he orders one of his many minions around. He is so very good at this, dictating what should be done or discarded. It is a heady thing, watching him at work, and I feel my body melt at the natural force of his charisma. My love is so misunderstood, branded the villain by far too many, those who don’t understand the work that goes into being at the top of the heap. I know what it means to be on top, to be loved and feared in equal parts, and it makes our relationship that much easier. He looks up at me and smiles; my heart that has usually been so cold and remote warms at the sight of those lovely lips formed into such a pleasant expression.

My smile is filled with all of the warmth that only he engenders, and I gently stroke the necklace he gave me as a token of his affection. I watch as he twirls its match, the shape of a ring, on his finger. I want to strip him naked and have my way with him now, but I know that he has to work. I’ve offered my assistance, but today he said he had to do this one on his own. He is so diligent, my lover, detailed and organized, the perfect example of all things orderly and neat. Gifting me with one last smoldering gaze, he turns back to the man kneeling in front of him.

This is the part of his work I focus on the most. We each have our own unique technique, but it is always nice to see how the other hones their craft. It is a sign of our commitment and trust that we open ourselves for such an observation. Those of us who mingle farthest on the side of the black, scorning the grey and excluding the white, are very careful of our secrets. Secrets are often all we have to protect us from each other, those who would see us cut down to take our place or those who would see us eliminated for the good of the human race. I can’t help rolling my eyes at the naivety of the latter. What they fail to understand is that for every good there must be some bad, and as my lover splinters the kneeling man at his feet into a million pieces of flesh and gore, I can’t help thinking no one does bad better, excepting of course me.