TILL DEATH DO US PART by Dana M Anderson
Found on a shareware disk image I got off archive.org...
COPYRIGHT 1985 BY
Dana M Anderson
715 W. 4th St.
Northfield, MN 55057
TILL DEATH DO US PART
by Dana M Anderson
Cold, and the empty street is barren in the glare of neon.
Footsteps tap quickly toward warmth, rippling off the blank glass
eyes of buildings to echo through the canyon streets. A siren
howls in the distance. The footsteps stop briefly, then resume,
approaching the avenue of dirty saloons and worn out tomorrows.
A woman turns the corner with her short jacket clutched tightly
to her chest. Her face, caught briefly by the streetlight, is
tired and set in a determined scowl. It is a pretty face, but
drained by the effort of living. Turning into the wind, she
hurries her pace, heels tapping like gunshots in the night.
A hint of music escapes a tavern. She hurries past the faded
facade and its neon promise, past the alley to her apartment in
the next building.
And then there are other footsteps.
He is at her side, smiling, arm circling her shoulder. His touch
is like an electric spark and his eyes are empty things, as dark
as a lie and cold as death. She begins to scream, pushing away,
but the sound is crushed out of her as he pulls her to him. He
lifts her and carries her into the alley, into the night within
night.
"Please, don't hurt me." Whispered, her voice is caught in her
throat. "Please."
A tearing sound, and a ragged crack. A moan as gentle as a
lover's sigh escapes her lips as she collapses against him. He
lowers her to the grimy pavement, watching steam rise from the
blood on her throat. He gently pushes the hair away from her
eyes and weeps quietly.
The street is still, frozen in time and space. The whole world
seems empty and lit in the bloody glow of neon.
#
He watches her sleeping. The curve of her cheek leading
gracefully down to the small pout of her lips entrances him. In
sleep she is care free, her face relaxed, unlined, and every
slight movement she makes is watched with rapt attention. He
absorbs the sight of her and the slight smell of jasmine she
gives the room, memorizing her clothed in the strawberry orange
hues of dawn.
Eyes of the deepest blue rest behind the closed lids, eyes that
sparkle at the most off-hand affection and die horribly from
cruelty. He knows that; he has brought on both reactions many
times.
He knows this woman well, but watching her in sleep is still a
joy, the ultimate pleasure in his life. While she is asleep he
can enjoy her beauty without risk of causing her pain, animating
her in his mind with memories of her voice, her grace, her love.
To hurt this woman is unthinkable, yet he has hurt her and will
hurt her again. So he watches her sleeping. Like a voyeur, he
gives into his need for her by entering her bedroom to watch her,
always leaving before the sun has risen fully. Even though he
knows the pain his absence causes for her, he makes sure that
when morning comes his wife will wake alone.
She stirs slightly, eye-lids fluttering then opening fully, and
he is caught in her gaze. "Frank?" she says sleepily. "Is that
you?"
He hears the hope behind her words and stumbles back from his
chair, tears burning his cheeks as he turns.
"Frank?" He hears her rising, and freezes at the door. "Don't
go!"
"Goodbye." His voice is emotionless as his muscles fight to turn
the knob, to leave her again. "Goodbye!" A scream, and he is
gone, the door crashing against her dressing table to swing
slowly shut again.
"Don't go."
She feels her pain twisting his stomach as he runs down the cold
street away from the neat houses and manicured lawns and back to
the steel and concrete of the city. He runs from hurting her and
hurts her by running.
#
She is blonde, tall. She is wearing a red raincoat and carrying
a red clutch purse. The weather is warming and her coat is open,
revealing a white nurse's uniform. She approaches her car in the
hospital lot with relief; the shift had been a journey through
pain and she is glad to have the weekend off.
She is happy when the hands find her throat and she is pulled to
the pavement. She has no time to scream, no time to feel fear.
He is running to the emergency entrance with her bloodied body in
his arms. A startled attendant rises from her chair behind the
desk. "Help her," he calls. His voice is hoarse. "Help her."
Orders are shouted and people appear at her side as she is
wheeled away. He is gone before they can question him, before
they notice that his lips are bloody and that the blood has run
thickly down his chin.
#
"WHAT MAN WOULD SANELY CHOOSE DEATH OVER THE ECSTATIC PAIN OF
LIVING? WHO WOULD GIVE UP THE GIFT FREELY WHILE HE STILL HAD THE
POWER TO RESIST IT BEING TAKEN FROM HIM? SUICIDE IS FOR THE
WEAK-WILLED AND THE TERMINALLY ILL. A STRONG MAN WILL DO ALL
THAT IS NECESSARY TO HOLD ON. THAT IS SIMPLY THE NATURE OF THE
BEAST. BUT I HAVE COME TO REALIZE THAT EVEN A STRONG MAN, A SANE
MAN, CAN FIND CAUSE TO DIE. THERE IS A POINT WHERE WHAT WE DO TO
REMAIN LIVING BECOMES SO REPUGNANT TO US THAT WE CAN NO LONGER
BEAR THE LIFE IT SUPPORTS. THE PIPER MUST EVENTUALLY BE PAID.
AN HONORABLE MAN WOULD RESOLVE TO MAKE THE PAYMENT HIMSELF RATHER
THAN WAIT FOR IT TO BE COLLECTED BY SOMEONE ELSE. I ONLY HOPE
THAT I AM ABLE TO DIE. AND I HOPE THAT DEATH WILL BE ENOUGH.
"What does the note mean, darling?"
Mary Dubois kneels beside his bed, placing his limp hand against
her cheek. She kisses the palm and lays her head on his leg,
watching him watch her. Frank is drawn and pale, but he is whole
and he is home. She will make him healthy again. She will find
a way to make him happy.
"Why did you want to die?" She avoids asking why he left her.
There'll be time to open that wound later. For now the matter of
his suicide attempt is the most important thing. She cannot bear
the thought of his death.
"Tell me, Frank. Why did you do it?"
Tears well in his eyes. He squeezes his lips tight.
"I'm not really Frank," he says at last. "I am Carl; I am Henri;
I am Ian and Paul, but I am always Jack. Always. Frank is such
a new name that I sometimes forget it is mine. If you love your
Frank, you'll let Jack die." His voice trails off into a raspy
whisper as his eyes close.
She rises and straightens the bedclothes over his chest, watching
him sleep. The doctor said the delusions would pass in time.
She leaves him to rest.
#
He eats ravenously but doesn't regain his strength. He is
slipping.
She watches him sleeping in the afternoon, watching the flow of
tortured expressions that distort his strong, honest features.
Such a beautiful man.
The doctor wants to re-admit him and run tests but she doesn't
want him away from her. Maybe the doctor is right. His skin has
become papery dry and so pale that she can clearly see the
network of veins running over his face and hands. She feels as
though he is disappearing.
"I won't let you die, my darling," she tells him, watching his
eyes. "You can't get away from me."
"Do you know why I left you, Mary?" He speaks softly, like an
old man. "I left to avoid hurting you."
"You hurt me by leaving." Tears wait in her deep blue eyes.
"I know."
"Then why did you leave? Why are you still trying to leave me?"
A surge of anger forces the words out, forces the tears to flow.
"Why leave me all alone?"
"Because if I don't kill you, the knowledge of what I am will.
It has happened before and I don't want it to happen with you."
"What do you mean?"
"Have the murders stopped?" he asks suddenly. "Has the murderer
stopped killing young women?"
"Yes. What has that got to do with --"
"When did he stop?"
"About four weeks ago, I think."
"When did your detective find me in my room?"
"Two weeks and six days ago. You would have been dead if he
hadn't found you when he did."
"No. I would still be alive. I'd already laid there a week when
he broke the door in. Increasing the dosage didn't help in the
least."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the killings stopped the day I decided to die. I am
the killer."
"You're talking crazy." She squeezes his hand between hers and
fights to sound calm. "Maybe you should sleep."
"No." He forces himself up against the headboard of their bed
and returns the pressure of her hands. "I tried to save that
nurse. Oh, God, Mary! I don't want to do it again, but if I
leave this room I will. Please don't let me."
He throws his arms around her, squeezing her to him, feeling the
warmth of the blood surging through her.
"That's why I left you. I had to save you from my hunger."
"Sleep," she tells him, patting his back. "You'll feel better."
"I won't feel any different than I do now. I won't die and I
won't live. No matter how much I sleep or eat I won't feel any
better or worse. I have to starve myself. It won't work any
other way. I've made up my mind."
"No you haven't!" She pushes him back, letting the anger color
her voice. "You're the only good thing that has ever happened to
me. You're my husband! I thought you loved me!"
"I love, but my love brings pain." He sinks back into the bed.
"I hurt you no matter what I do. You must believe that my death
would be a blessing for both of us."
"Liar! You don't love me at all!" She swings her hand without
thinking, feeling the sting of her palm striking his cheek before
she knows what she has done. "You left me alone! You left me
for two months and now you say it was because you love me?
Dammit, Frank, don't do this to us!"
"I am always a liar." He closes his eyes. "I've lied through
three years of marriage. But it is not a lie that I love you. I
hurt you to save you the pain of knowing what I truly am."
She holds her next words in. Confused and hurt by their
exchange, she stands quickly and leaves the room. The
poisons are gone, yet he clings to death like a friend. If it is
possible for a man to will himself to death, Frank isdoing just
that. She has to give him a will for life, not argue with him.
She must fight his selfishness with hers if she is to keep from
losing him.
#
He is standing shivering by the bed she has taken in the guest
room watching her sleeping. He moistens his lips and leans over
her, touching her breasts softly and sliding his hands up to her
throat. Her skin is warm beneath his thin fingers and for a
moment he feels the compulsion to squeeze against the pulsing
artery. Sweat stands out on his cheeks. He touches her face and
bends to kiss her forehead, tasting salt. In the morning she
will awake knowing the truth. Then she will help him die. Then
she will hate him.
#
"My father was a cruel man," she tells him. "He beat my mother
many times. And he did things to me that I've never told anyone
about. I grew up scared. Lonely. The men I found were just
like he was. The were cruel, cold men. But then I found you. I
found love. Nobody expected me to marry. I was a cold fish.
They didn't understand. But you understood and you married me.
You have hurt me at times but you were never cruel. When you
left it was worse than a beating. It was worse than anything I
can imagine."
"I never wanted to hurt you." He reaches for her hand but she
pulls it away, leaning back into her chair at his bedside.
"I understand your hunger," she tells him. "It's not very
different from mine. I hunger for love. I'm quite selfish about
it and will not give it up. Do you understand?" She smiles at
him, taking his outstretched hand.
"You'll find another love."
"No. You are my love. I cannot help you die. I'm too selfish
for that."
She kisses his cheek and stands, then releases his hand and walks
quickly from the room.
#
SHe knows the hunger of love. It drew him to her and kept him at
her side. Now it put him at her mercy. She should be more than
eager to drive in the stake after seeing the pictures he put into
her mind but the hunger of her love is too strong.
He has always lived in the present, shutting out the past and
avoiding the future, not thinking about how it would end. They
had been like sheep to him, totally at his mercy. Now he knows
the true state of things. He is at their mercy. He was always
at their mercy.
#
Her voice in the hall. She is laughing. Another voice joins
hers. The door opens.
She steps into the dark room and another woman enters behind her,
looking around tentatively.
"Look, darling," Mary says to him. "I've brought you a friend."
The woman is young, brunette, and dressed in leather. She wears
too much make-up and an amused expression. "Kinky," she says.
Her voice is anything but beautiful. "It's your money, I guess."
"Mary."
She cuts him off with a finger to his lips. "You've had your
many lives and loves. You have eternity. If you love me, you'll
give me one life, one love. I need it too badly to throw it
away." She backs away before he answers, leaving them alone.
"Hi, Frank. I'm Marti." The woman laughs as she sits on the bed
beside him. "So you've been under the weather? Relax and let me
put the color back in your cheeks." She laughs again, a sharp,
barking sound.
She has the tight leather pants to her knees when she feels his
hand cold against her neck and turns to see his eyes, empty and
dark above the white gleam of his exposed teeth. She doesn't
even know that she should be screaming.
#
Love is the strongest hunger. No sane person will throw it away,
but will do anything he can to keep it. They are always at its
mercy. Always.
And they are always Jack in the end.
COPYRIGHT 1985 BY
Dana M Anderson
715 W. 4th St.
Northfield, MN 55057
TILL DEATH DO US PART
by Dana M Anderson
Cold, and the empty street is barren in the glare of neon.
Footsteps tap quickly toward warmth, rippling off the blank glass
eyes of buildings to echo through the canyon streets. A siren
howls in the distance. The footsteps stop briefly, then resume,
approaching the avenue of dirty saloons and worn out tomorrows.
A woman turns the corner with her short jacket clutched tightly
to her chest. Her face, caught briefly by the streetlight, is
tired and set in a determined scowl. It is a pretty face, but
drained by the effort of living. Turning into the wind, she
hurries her pace, heels tapping like gunshots in the night.
A hint of music escapes a tavern. She hurries past the faded
facade and its neon promise, past the alley to her apartment in
the next building.
And then there are other footsteps.
He is at her side, smiling, arm circling her shoulder. His touch
is like an electric spark and his eyes are empty things, as dark
as a lie and cold as death. She begins to scream, pushing away,
but the sound is crushed out of her as he pulls her to him. He
lifts her and carries her into the alley, into the night within
night.
"Please, don't hurt me." Whispered, her voice is caught in her
throat. "Please."
A tearing sound, and a ragged crack. A moan as gentle as a
lover's sigh escapes her lips as she collapses against him. He
lowers her to the grimy pavement, watching steam rise from the
blood on her throat. He gently pushes the hair away from her
eyes and weeps quietly.
The street is still, frozen in time and space. The whole world
seems empty and lit in the bloody glow of neon.
#
He watches her sleeping. The curve of her cheek leading
gracefully down to the small pout of her lips entrances him. In
sleep she is care free, her face relaxed, unlined, and every
slight movement she makes is watched with rapt attention. He
absorbs the sight of her and the slight smell of jasmine she
gives the room, memorizing her clothed in the strawberry orange
hues of dawn.
Eyes of the deepest blue rest behind the closed lids, eyes that
sparkle at the most off-hand affection and die horribly from
cruelty. He knows that; he has brought on both reactions many
times.
He knows this woman well, but watching her in sleep is still a
joy, the ultimate pleasure in his life. While she is asleep he
can enjoy her beauty without risk of causing her pain, animating
her in his mind with memories of her voice, her grace, her love.
To hurt this woman is unthinkable, yet he has hurt her and will
hurt her again. So he watches her sleeping. Like a voyeur, he
gives into his need for her by entering her bedroom to watch her,
always leaving before the sun has risen fully. Even though he
knows the pain his absence causes for her, he makes sure that
when morning comes his wife will wake alone.
She stirs slightly, eye-lids fluttering then opening fully, and
he is caught in her gaze. "Frank?" she says sleepily. "Is that
you?"
He hears the hope behind her words and stumbles back from his
chair, tears burning his cheeks as he turns.
"Frank?" He hears her rising, and freezes at the door. "Don't
go!"
"Goodbye." His voice is emotionless as his muscles fight to turn
the knob, to leave her again. "Goodbye!" A scream, and he is
gone, the door crashing against her dressing table to swing
slowly shut again.
"Don't go."
She feels her pain twisting his stomach as he runs down the cold
street away from the neat houses and manicured lawns and back to
the steel and concrete of the city. He runs from hurting her and
hurts her by running.
#
She is blonde, tall. She is wearing a red raincoat and carrying
a red clutch purse. The weather is warming and her coat is open,
revealing a white nurse's uniform. She approaches her car in the
hospital lot with relief; the shift had been a journey through
pain and she is glad to have the weekend off.
She is happy when the hands find her throat and she is pulled to
the pavement. She has no time to scream, no time to feel fear.
He is running to the emergency entrance with her bloodied body in
his arms. A startled attendant rises from her chair behind the
desk. "Help her," he calls. His voice is hoarse. "Help her."
Orders are shouted and people appear at her side as she is
wheeled away. He is gone before they can question him, before
they notice that his lips are bloody and that the blood has run
thickly down his chin.
#
"WHAT MAN WOULD SANELY CHOOSE DEATH OVER THE ECSTATIC PAIN OF
LIVING? WHO WOULD GIVE UP THE GIFT FREELY WHILE HE STILL HAD THE
POWER TO RESIST IT BEING TAKEN FROM HIM? SUICIDE IS FOR THE
WEAK-WILLED AND THE TERMINALLY ILL. A STRONG MAN WILL DO ALL
THAT IS NECESSARY TO HOLD ON. THAT IS SIMPLY THE NATURE OF THE
BEAST. BUT I HAVE COME TO REALIZE THAT EVEN A STRONG MAN, A SANE
MAN, CAN FIND CAUSE TO DIE. THERE IS A POINT WHERE WHAT WE DO TO
REMAIN LIVING BECOMES SO REPUGNANT TO US THAT WE CAN NO LONGER
BEAR THE LIFE IT SUPPORTS. THE PIPER MUST EVENTUALLY BE PAID.
AN HONORABLE MAN WOULD RESOLVE TO MAKE THE PAYMENT HIMSELF RATHER
THAN WAIT FOR IT TO BE COLLECTED BY SOMEONE ELSE. I ONLY HOPE
THAT I AM ABLE TO DIE. AND I HOPE THAT DEATH WILL BE ENOUGH.
"What does the note mean, darling?"
Mary Dubois kneels beside his bed, placing his limp hand against
her cheek. She kisses the palm and lays her head on his leg,
watching him watch her. Frank is drawn and pale, but he is whole
and he is home. She will make him healthy again. She will find
a way to make him happy.
"Why did you want to die?" She avoids asking why he left her.
There'll be time to open that wound later. For now the matter of
his suicide attempt is the most important thing. She cannot bear
the thought of his death.
"Tell me, Frank. Why did you do it?"
Tears well in his eyes. He squeezes his lips tight.
"I'm not really Frank," he says at last. "I am Carl; I am Henri;
I am Ian and Paul, but I am always Jack. Always. Frank is such
a new name that I sometimes forget it is mine. If you love your
Frank, you'll let Jack die." His voice trails off into a raspy
whisper as his eyes close.
She rises and straightens the bedclothes over his chest, watching
him sleep. The doctor said the delusions would pass in time.
She leaves him to rest.
#
He eats ravenously but doesn't regain his strength. He is
slipping.
She watches him sleeping in the afternoon, watching the flow of
tortured expressions that distort his strong, honest features.
Such a beautiful man.
The doctor wants to re-admit him and run tests but she doesn't
want him away from her. Maybe the doctor is right. His skin has
become papery dry and so pale that she can clearly see the
network of veins running over his face and hands. She feels as
though he is disappearing.
"I won't let you die, my darling," she tells him, watching his
eyes. "You can't get away from me."
"Do you know why I left you, Mary?" He speaks softly, like an
old man. "I left to avoid hurting you."
"You hurt me by leaving." Tears wait in her deep blue eyes.
"I know."
"Then why did you leave? Why are you still trying to leave me?"
A surge of anger forces the words out, forces the tears to flow.
"Why leave me all alone?"
"Because if I don't kill you, the knowledge of what I am will.
It has happened before and I don't want it to happen with you."
"What do you mean?"
"Have the murders stopped?" he asks suddenly. "Has the murderer
stopped killing young women?"
"Yes. What has that got to do with --"
"When did he stop?"
"About four weeks ago, I think."
"When did your detective find me in my room?"
"Two weeks and six days ago. You would have been dead if he
hadn't found you when he did."
"No. I would still be alive. I'd already laid there a week when
he broke the door in. Increasing the dosage didn't help in the
least."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the killings stopped the day I decided to die. I am
the killer."
"You're talking crazy." She squeezes his hand between hers and
fights to sound calm. "Maybe you should sleep."
"No." He forces himself up against the headboard of their bed
and returns the pressure of her hands. "I tried to save that
nurse. Oh, God, Mary! I don't want to do it again, but if I
leave this room I will. Please don't let me."
He throws his arms around her, squeezing her to him, feeling the
warmth of the blood surging through her.
"That's why I left you. I had to save you from my hunger."
"Sleep," she tells him, patting his back. "You'll feel better."
"I won't feel any different than I do now. I won't die and I
won't live. No matter how much I sleep or eat I won't feel any
better or worse. I have to starve myself. It won't work any
other way. I've made up my mind."
"No you haven't!" She pushes him back, letting the anger color
her voice. "You're the only good thing that has ever happened to
me. You're my husband! I thought you loved me!"
"I love, but my love brings pain." He sinks back into the bed.
"I hurt you no matter what I do. You must believe that my death
would be a blessing for both of us."
"Liar! You don't love me at all!" She swings her hand without
thinking, feeling the sting of her palm striking his cheek before
she knows what she has done. "You left me alone! You left me
for two months and now you say it was because you love me?
Dammit, Frank, don't do this to us!"
"I am always a liar." He closes his eyes. "I've lied through
three years of marriage. But it is not a lie that I love you. I
hurt you to save you the pain of knowing what I truly am."
She holds her next words in. Confused and hurt by their
exchange, she stands quickly and leaves the room. The
poisons are gone, yet he clings to death like a friend. If it is
possible for a man to will himself to death, Frank isdoing just
that. She has to give him a will for life, not argue with him.
She must fight his selfishness with hers if she is to keep from
losing him.
#
He is standing shivering by the bed she has taken in the guest
room watching her sleeping. He moistens his lips and leans over
her, touching her breasts softly and sliding his hands up to her
throat. Her skin is warm beneath his thin fingers and for a
moment he feels the compulsion to squeeze against the pulsing
artery. Sweat stands out on his cheeks. He touches her face and
bends to kiss her forehead, tasting salt. In the morning she
will awake knowing the truth. Then she will help him die. Then
she will hate him.
#
"My father was a cruel man," she tells him. "He beat my mother
many times. And he did things to me that I've never told anyone
about. I grew up scared. Lonely. The men I found were just
like he was. The were cruel, cold men. But then I found you. I
found love. Nobody expected me to marry. I was a cold fish.
They didn't understand. But you understood and you married me.
You have hurt me at times but you were never cruel. When you
left it was worse than a beating. It was worse than anything I
can imagine."
"I never wanted to hurt you." He reaches for her hand but she
pulls it away, leaning back into her chair at his bedside.
"I understand your hunger," she tells him. "It's not very
different from mine. I hunger for love. I'm quite selfish about
it and will not give it up. Do you understand?" She smiles at
him, taking his outstretched hand.
"You'll find another love."
"No. You are my love. I cannot help you die. I'm too selfish
for that."
She kisses his cheek and stands, then releases his hand and walks
quickly from the room.
#
SHe knows the hunger of love. It drew him to her and kept him at
her side. Now it put him at her mercy. She should be more than
eager to drive in the stake after seeing the pictures he put into
her mind but the hunger of her love is too strong.
He has always lived in the present, shutting out the past and
avoiding the future, not thinking about how it would end. They
had been like sheep to him, totally at his mercy. Now he knows
the true state of things. He is at their mercy. He was always
at their mercy.
#
Her voice in the hall. She is laughing. Another voice joins
hers. The door opens.
She steps into the dark room and another woman enters behind her,
looking around tentatively.
"Look, darling," Mary says to him. "I've brought you a friend."
The woman is young, brunette, and dressed in leather. She wears
too much make-up and an amused expression. "Kinky," she says.
Her voice is anything but beautiful. "It's your money, I guess."
"Mary."
She cuts him off with a finger to his lips. "You've had your
many lives and loves. You have eternity. If you love me, you'll
give me one life, one love. I need it too badly to throw it
away." She backs away before he answers, leaving them alone.
"Hi, Frank. I'm Marti." The woman laughs as she sits on the bed
beside him. "So you've been under the weather? Relax and let me
put the color back in your cheeks." She laughs again, a sharp,
barking sound.
She has the tight leather pants to her knees when she feels his
hand cold against her neck and turns to see his eyes, empty and
dark above the white gleam of his exposed teeth. She doesn't
even know that she should be screaming.
#
Love is the strongest hunger. No sane person will throw it away,
but will do anything he can to keep it. They are always at its
mercy. Always.
And they are always Jack in the end.
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