The Girl with the Crystal Eyes

    The
fingers in the black satin gloves drum on the square table, filling the room with
a muffled tune that fades into the emptiness that surrounds her. And she waits.

    She
sits with her legs crossed, lips red as desire itself, her blue eyes framed by
lashes like a spider's web.

    She
glances at the large mirror with its inlaid frame, while with her other hand
she plays with the golden curls falling in front of her face. The sofa is
velvet, the carpet the colour of burnt earth. Finally, her eyes come to rest on
the open petals of the roses in the Chinese porcelain vase, the centrepiece of
the table.

    
They
give off their perfume so generously - wanting nothing in return for the beauty
they provide our senses with, she thinks.

    A
petal detaches itself and falls onto the shiny wooden surface of the table just
as he appears in the doorway.

    The
tapping of her fingers suddenly stops. All that remains is silence, the silence
of their exchanged gaze.

    The
man is wearing a dark grey suit, cut very loosely. The fabric seems to hiss as
he walks towards the girl, his eyes fixed on her with the hint of a smile on
his lips. He stops and puts a sweaty hand on her white thigh.

    There
is a ring on his finger, a symbol of some oath he no longer remembers, or that
he has buried deep within his memory.

    Now his
smile widens, revealing teeth yellowed by sin. He can already taste the
sweetness of a fruit that has been out of his reach till now.

    Arousal
makes him breathe heavily. His eyes, small and dark, run up and down her body,
leaving behind the slimy trail of his thoughts.

    'You've
got no knickers on - like I asked you?'

    'Of
course. I'm a very obedient girl.' Languidly, she gets up and then sits down
again on the table, leaning with her back almost up against the perfumed
flowers. 'I adore roses. Because they've got thorns.'

    'Go
on, prick me. Then I'll punish you like you deserve.' And he falls on her.

    Her
quick, small fingers" pick up a rose. But it's not the rose's thorns that
pierce the man's flesh but a kitchen knife, sharp and shining, that enters deep
into his chest and then slides out again, spurting hot, dark, dense drops of
blood that splash the perfect features of her face.

    In
and out, in and out. The blade is like a silver fish jumping in and out of the
waves at dusk, leaving the viewer's gaze adrift in the water, like a thought
without an end.

    The
end.

    The
blade drives in again and again, stabbing at the hands with which he tries to
protect himself - in vain - then at his neck as he sinks on to the carpet,
which is now the colour of death.

    The
roses strewn over the table bathe their delicate petals in the blood that now
covers everything. The blood soon fills the room with a cloying, suffocating
fragrance.

    The
porcelain doll wipes her face with her black gloves. She tries not to slip on
the sticky pool under her feet, while she leans over and starts to go through
the man's pockets. He seems to be looking at her, his face distorted by a
grimace of agony.

    Here's
the envelope. She opens it impatiently, then smiles.