Her Purfume

HER PERFUME

The thick fog which has formed in the cold air sits heavily on your shoulders as you exit the front door of the manor. The details are vague and you question your sanity as the gravel footpath is shown no mercy by your solid dress boots.
The thought of her sits temptingly close in your mind, it teases you. Shows you a figure but reveals no name, no detail that would give leave to memory. The faintest audible sound of an owl in the dark background reminds you that reality is still within your reach, flirting with the idea of returning but consistently refusing a decision. You know that her densely applied perfume would clear your head a little, you know that her soft eyes would show you the path to righteousness and that her perfect hands would lead you along it.
But the imminent truth remains that you are not right in your current state of mind, something is not as it should be and all is not well. Your eyes wander of their own accord to the car sitting rebelliously in the gravel not far from where you stand caught in a trance-like contemplation.
Even in your lethargic falsity of the mind you know enough to be sure that the car is not yours, and so you devote thought to the darkly tinted windows, and spare a moment to mentally scorn whoever so carelessly left the vehicle so unattended.
The car presents more unanswered questions, as does the sudden light that is thrust upon you.
Dazed and confused the light has ill effects on your search for clarity. It is in this moment of dumb-founded confusion that you again let her back into your thoughts. Those beautiful legs, her cedar brown hair, and that dense strong scented perfume.

The light that so ruthlessly bemused you moves into the nearby trees, as though it has had its fill of you and searches now for more on which to prey. The void left where the light had troubled you is filled with a new awareness, still everything is not as it should be but the flirting reality that so bluntly refused a decision trips on the beginnings of closure. You become conscious of the fact that both your hands are clenched and you look down to see what pieces of the tormenting puzzle they hold, in your left hand sits a crystal scotch glass which would be empty were it not for the last dribble of whiskey that stood representative of the seventeen drinks that had come before it.
You conclude that this must surely be a contributing factor to the symptoms you uneasily suffer.

Your head lolls to the right side of your shoulders and your eyes do their best to make sense of what they are seeing, but before the object in your hand becomes any more of an item that you can put a name to you notice the blood that is cautiously making its way down the mid section of your long black coat.
A sharp pain is denied entry as your knees hit the hard dusty stones beneath you. You drop the whiskey glass in your left hand first followed by a clatter as you release the gun in your right.
An indent if left on your forehead by the unforgiving ground as dark figures swarm around you and the flirting reality decides at last that it is time to leave... but not without first revealing its evil trickery.
As your breathing becomes slower you can’t help but wonder what got to you the most, was it her beauty, her unrivalled intelligence or that dense and distinctive perfume, you wonder why you killed her...
Reality takes its leave, and with it goes two lives on a cold dark night.