Work Text:
Day ???
Maria watched the pink water swirl the drain, the last vestiges of the blood she had vigorously sprayed and scrubbed off her body. Well, the last vestiges of blood in here, at least. In the bedroom, it looked like a murder scene, because...well...
She couldn't think of that right now. It was enough that she was trembling like a leaf. If she went in there again...Instead, she forced herself to march her towel-clad body into the entryway closet, where she had stashed a clean pair of clothes for just this occasion.
Dropping the white towel to the floor, she quickly dressed. There was a wad of cash she had stowed away in her boots, again in preparation for what came next. Maria held the thick stack of bills in her still-shaking palm, appreciating the tangibility of it.
Her hand clasped around the silver zinc-alloy handle of the apartment door. There was still blood caked under her fingernails, obscured by a fresh coat of red-black nail polish. Maria paused before she opened the door.
"I love you. Bye," said a voice that sounded too wounded, too childlike to be hers, but it absolutely was.
Then she opened the apartment door, swiftly locked it behind her, and didn't look back.
Day 1
“Listen, just…don’t expect too much, okay?”
They stood on the threshold of Room 218, James’ home. No, their home.
Maria was trying hard not to smile, as James seemed rather serious in his request that she temper her expectations. But she almost couldn’t help it. This was her first real home, and it was the place they were going to live in together.
James fumbled with the keys—maybe he was nervous—and Maria hadn’t realized that she was holding her breath until the door pushed open and she finally exhaled.
And when she did, it was more of a piteous sigh.
The place was sad. The living room consisted of a television set on a box that contained the parts to an entertainment center. There was another tall, lean box against the wall that seemed to be the parts to a coffee table.
Then, opposite the so-called living area were stacks of boxes that must have contained all of what was left of James’ life. Maria couldn’t see what was in the other rooms, but she didn’t really want to, either.
“You’ve been living like this?” Maria blurted out, more out of concern than judgment.
James tensed up, weighing his words carefully. After a decently-sized pause, he said, “Um...yeah."
Maria didn’t push. It had been an agonizingly long period of...how many hours had it been? How many days or weeks had they been lost in the town? Or maybe it had been months? It felt impossible to tell anymore.
If she was tired, then James had to be exhausted. Maria wanted to give him a hug, but that felt inappropriate somehow, even though here they were, starting their lives together. Instead, she settled for rubbing his shoulder, his green military jacket rough under her soft fingertips.
The action seemed to shake James out of whatever thoughts had had him in a trance-like state. Maria assumed it was related to Mary, because it always came back to Mary, didn't it? And it probably always would too.
“I need a drink,” James declared, but he didn’t venture over to the kitchen. Instead he made a beeline for the booze, one of the only things he bothered to unpack.
Maria still lingered in the doorway. “I thought you said you don’t drink anymore,” she mentioned, crossing her arms. It was chilly in here, or maybe she wasn’t dressed for the weather.
James stopped and looked at her quizzically. “When did I ever say that?”
He hadn't. It was one of those things Maria just knew about him. There were a lot of those things, like how he took his coffee, what his favorite cologne was (on the infrequent special occasion he used it), how he liked his eggs, and even some bedroom preferences between him and Mary.
It was those that Maria tried to block out the most. She didn't need to know; hell, she didn't want to know. That was the kind of thing she wished to discover for herself when the time came.
"You didn't," Maria answered, trying to shake those unwanted thoughts out of her head. "I just kind of inferred."
"Well, good inference," James remarked. In the moments since he had said he wanted a drink to now, enough time seemed to have elapsed that he had begun to think better of it. "Maybe a shower would be better, now that I think of it."
A shower did sound amazing. "You want me to join you?"
James looked at Maria for a moment, as though trying to gauge whether she was being serious about her request. "Yeah, sure. That would be great. I'll go turn on the water."
Maria smiled to herself. She desperately wanted a soft place to sit down, but there was nary one in sight, at least not in the rooms she had seen. Instead, she settled for leaning against the gray-painted wall.
As her back pressed against the hard concrete, she felt a spike of pain in her chest, followed by the strong urge to cough. James had begun running the water already, but the water pressure wasn't the best (the same with everything else in this apartment), and Maria thought it wouldn't do a very good job of hiding any sounds.
Instead, she made a beeline for the balcony, figuring out how to unlock the glass door and push it open just before a worrisome, horrendous cough ripped from her throat.
The coughing was nothing new. It had been happening for as long as she could remember, which was admittedly not long. But it was the new sense of urgency driving it that scared her.
Maria tried to think rationally. She had been running around in the cold in a mini skirt for God knew how long. Of course, she was bound to come down with something.
That was all it was, she tried to convince herself. She just had a cold, maybe the start of a flu, but nothing more serious than that.
As though her body was in agreement with her, the urge to cough immediately subsided, allowing Maria a few breaths of the crisp, cold air to calm herself down. She hadn't even realized that she was shaking, and it had nothing to do with the outdoor temperature.
Opening the door, she stepped back into the paltry living room, the cold flooring uninviting. She'd have to add an area rug there; she made a mental note.
James was standing outside the bathroom door, looking almost concerned. "You okay?"
Maria nodded. "I was just..." If she said she was smoking, he'd expect her to smell like cigarettes. She thought quickly. "Checking things out. Getting a lay of the land, you know?"
That was Lie #1 between them, although the biggest lie was the one she was telling herself. Maria just didn't know it yet.
"Oh...yeah. There's not much to see out there," James shrugged, looking almost apologetic. "Are you still coming, or...?"
"I'm still coming," Maria said brightly, hoping to ease the tension of the moment like massaging a tight muscle knot.
She walked into the bathroom as James shrugged out of his green field jacket. She had never seen him without it, and Maria suddenly found herself strongly desiring to undo each of the buttons on the collared shirt he wore underneath, going tantalizingly slowly.
Instead, she focused on her own outfit, the boots that were giving her blisters, the red leather jacket that felt too constricting, and the black patterned second-skin minidress that consistently left her cold.
She undressed quickly, the feeling of being free of her grimy garb liberating. Whether it was because he was wearing more than her or that he was feeling shy, James had only taken off his shirt by the time she was standing naked before him.
Of course, at the sight of her sultry figure, torso adorned with crimson-red butterfly tattoos, he lost focus. Maria watched with pleasure as his cheeks turned red and a bulge grew in his jeans.
It was the kind of control she liked; the type she was used to. Her sexuality was a weapon, and she wielded it with pride.
And it was the first taste of control in the days to come.
Day 2
The diffused glow of the morning sun warmed Maria's face, eventually causing her to stir. Outside, she could hear birds chirping.
James was behind her, holding her close. Last night, he had insisted that they sleep on opposite sides of the bed, you know, out of respect for Mary, as though they hadn't just fucked in the shower that the sick woman had likely bathed in every day for a while.
But Maria had obliged. Once he was asleep though, James was a lot clingier, pulling her in and keeping her close. It was all that Maria had wanted to begin with, so she wasn't about to argue.
As she lifted her head from the soft pillow to check the time, she wondered for a minute if perhaps she had died, really died this time, and went to heaven. She would have believed it with how perfect everything felt.
She shifted in bed a little and felt that horrible sensation rise up in her throat again, the one telling her to cough, cough, cough. Shit. Not now. Please, not now.
Maria freed one of her arms and covered her mouth with her hand. Her palm pressed over her lips, willing away the cough like one tries to ward off a sneeze. She took a few slow, concerted breaths, waiting for the sensation to leave. It was either that or come out as the loudest cough known to man, and she couldn't risk that.
Amazingly, and perhaps it was through sheer willpower alone, but the urge to cough subsided. That was not the sound James needed to wake up to on their first morning together. Maria sighed as the sensation passed, closing her eyes and just soaking in the moment yet again. Had anything ever been so lovely? Not that she had ever experienced.
Almost as if in protest of that, she felt another strong rumble rise from her chest that threatened to become a cough. Again, she covered her mouth with her hand, but the full-body tremor that shook through her was enough to cause James to wake.
Well, at least he hadn't heard her coughing.
"Hey," he said, his voice sleep-drunk. It was adorable, Maria thought, but she had no time to focus on that. "What happened to staying on separate sides?"
Although it felt a bit risky given that her throat had just settled down, she laughed. "Why don't you tell me? You're on my side."
"Oh...yeah..."
With that, James got up, leaving her devoid of the warmth and comfort she had been enjoying more than she had realized. Perhaps it was because of her sudden vulnerability, but that was when she let the first cough slip.
The first of many. Too many.
It wasn't a sound that James was just going to gloss over. It must have sounded like nails on a chalkboard to him. He stopped and immediately turned toward her.
"Are you okay?!"
They both knew the answer to that question. Maria was never going to be okay again.
"I think I'm coming down with something."
Shit, now her voice even sounded scratchy. It was like admitting it allowed the floodgates to open, and another cough broke forth. She averted her eyes in shame until the coughing let up. When she next looked at James, his gaze was hundreds of miles away.
She had never wanted to do this, to be the one to wreak upon him the particular kind of pain that is relieving the most hellish moments of one's life. Yet that was exactly what she was doing.
He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"
Because she was in disbelief? "I figured it would go away on its own." That was half-true, at least.
"Okay, well, I don't think it will. Look, I'm going to go to the pharmacy and get you something to take so you'll feel better, okay?"
There was no anger in his tone, only concern, yet Maria felt a bit like a scolded dog anyway.
"Alright," she agreed.
Maria took a shower while James was gone, hoping that the steam and the heat would help clear her airways or something. But no. She didn't feel any better after she was done, just soggy and sad.
James comes back with the whole pharmacy. There were enough cough suppressants and throat soothers to knock a grown man on his ass, but Maria was well aware that she was going to have to take whatever drug cocktail James asked of her. It was either that or break the already-fragile peace.
Day 3
If over-the-counter cough medicines could have put a dent in whatever Maria was feeling, surely, she would have had access to the right one. James had made sure of that. But rather than get better, her symptoms persisted, fiercely and frustratingly.
And while swallowing various tinctures seemed to ease James' anxiety, at least as far as she knew, in her gut, a deeper truth was bubbling. If this was merely a cold as she had initially wanted to believe, it would have responded to something by now.
But it hadn't. Because it wasn't.
This was a death sentence.
Day 4
Relevmid. Berolmin. Xalprazinax. Imatnelimed.
The names were making Maria's head spin.
"What is all this?" she asked in a voice that no longer belonged to her. It was hollow and raw, roughened by four days of consistent coughing.
They were in the kitchen, with the drugs presented on the counter like one would display fine wares or jewelry. Except Maria wasn't browsing; she knew this wasn't optional.
"They're the meds Mary used to take."
Maria wanted to laugh, but that would just make her cough, so she didn't. "And how well did that work out?"
Shit. That was mean. She was already becoming more thoughtless because she was so miserable.
James looked wounded for a moment, then decided to let that comment go. "Yeah, well, we caught it earlier this time."
There it was; the confirmation that they were both on the same page. They knew she was sick, hopelessly sick, deathly sick. And James could have been reaching for the final solution, but instead, he was trying to cure her.
It would have been noble if it wasn't so sad. They both knew how this story was going to play out. When these meds didn't help, what would happen? Would he ply her with more, or something worse?
Maria didn't want to find out.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Maybe the pills really would work. After all, she was cursed with the same illness that had left Mary a shell of her former self, right? So, maybe they would have an effect.
The meds were of varying sizes, thicknesses, colors, and shapes, some horse pills and others tidier and smaller. James watched Maria take every last one, which she didn't like. Maybe it was out of concern, but it felt too much like control.
Day 5
Maria opened her eyes without having been aware that she was asleep. She was in bed, and the covers were twisted and tangled around her ankles. As she gained her bearings, she realized that she was sweating profusely through the pajamas she didn't remember putting on.
She turned, looking at the bedside clock. 6:18. It was dark in the room, so that time could have meant anything. A.M.; P.M. Her mind began spinning with possibilities.
Forcing her lethargic form to sit up caused a body-wracking wet cough to tear through her, wetter than the others have been. Maria's trembling fingers found the button for the bedside lamp, revealing crimson red all over her palm.
She was grateful that she was clad in a black shirt, rubbing her hand up and down the garment until the blood disappeared. She was just in time, as the door opened then, James peering in from a lit hallway into the dark space.
"Hey, you're awake."
He was so nonchalant when Maria was in full-blown panic mode. It upset her. "How long was I out?!"
"I don't know. A while. You clearly needed it," he said, his tone still the same.
But did she? Sure, the cough kept her up most nights, and if not that, then it was the body aches. James had already begun sleeping on the couch, which was offensive in its own way, but Maria refused to let herself go there.
She knew that she was rapidly losing herself, whoever the hell that was. She was losing weight, her skin was white like a sheet, her eyes were ringed with dark circles, and her cheeks were hollow.
Still, Maria wasn't so tired as to have slept away the entire day. The thought of losing time in large clips like that was terrifying. It must have been the medication making her drowsy. She really was taking so many drugs.
But that was the end of that. She had done things James' way, and it hadn't worked.
Now she was going to do them her own way.
Day 6
Making a plan to kill yourself felt easy, but to kill the one person you loved, the one who was responsible for you existing, the one you lived and breathed? That wasn't so simple.
But Maria knew it had to happen. The question was how.
Poisoning, maybe. But if all those pills had only knocked her out, then what would it take to kill a grown man? Strangulation seemed apropos, but she worried about being overpowered if she tried. She would have to act quickly and decisively. She'd need something that could do the job well but wouldn't be too loud. So, no firearms.
That morning, when James divvied up all the pills again, already pulled back into the role of caregiver like a magnet, Maria couldn't help but start sobbing.
He was by her side immediately. "Hey, it's going to be okay. You're going to be okay," he insisted, rubbing her shoulder.
Maria knew that wasn't true, and it wasn't why she was crying. She was just going to miss him so much. She had never wanted to imagine a world without him in it, and now she was going to bring about the very thing she feared most.
The good news was that her crying distracted him enough that he didn't notice that she failed to swallow the pills. Instead, she flushed them down the toilet the next time she used the bathroom.
And later that day, she pretended to cough so much that she squeezed the pills into her palm hard enough to leave indentations. Then into the toilet they went.
As the day continued, with her awake to be able to participate in it, Maria revisited the idea of poisoning. The only other thing she had come up with in the past few hours was pushing him down the stairs, or maybe over the balcony.
But she couldn't think of a way to do either that didn't seem overly contrived. Plus, it would be very obvious to police that it had been murder.
What was she talking about? It was going to be obvious no matter what. And it didn't matter, because she wasn't going to be there to see it.
Poisoning seemed more humane. Maybe she could volunteer to make dinner and just dump as many nonedible substances into the meal as possible. But would it work? That was difficult to say. And there were too many variables. If she got it wrong, then James could just end up in the hospital, probably braindead.
Sure, she would have achieved her objective in a sense, but not in a way that she could live with herself.
She hated the grisly thoughts propagating in her brain. It was so much easier to sleep and waste away, take the pills she was offered and let fate do its thing.
Why was she fighting inevitability so hard?
Day 7
"I'd like to cook something for us tonight," Maria announced, keenly watching James' reaction as she spoke.
As she expected, he looked immediately alarmed by the idea. "No, no. You should be resting," he insisted.
She knew she'd get an answer like that. She had planned and rehearsed this since last night.
"But I'm feeling better. I'd like to celebrate a little. I admittedly don't feel up for going out quite yet, so we can just do something here."
To James, she must have looked at least somewhat better. It was all smoke and mirrors, of course: bronzer to give her face more color, a push-up bra to restore the curves she was sadly losing, foundation to hide her eye bags, and contouring to make her cheeks look fuller.
She had never taken those pills again. Instead, she kept feeding them to the toilet, and James was still none the wiser. Sometimes, she felt a little guilty when she thought about how she was literally flushing money away, but that wasn't something she could allow herself to dwell on.
Her words stopped James in his tracks, and he thought for a moment. Surely, he liked the idea of her getting better. That was all he had been devoting himself to, much to her chagrin. Maria had never wanted to be Mary 2.0, but she had realized with futility that that was the role she was destined for, one way or another.
"Are you sure?" he asked at last.
Maria smiled. "I am. Don't worry. I'll keep it simple, okay? Just, like, salmon with rice or something."
James cocked his head at her, probably questioning whether to believe any of this. He was wise to doubt her, but he ultimately didn't. "Okay." He almost smiled. "But if it gets to be too much..."
"I'll let you know."
Maria wanted to cry. That was almost too easy.
--
Just do it already.
Maria was standing at the laminated kitchen counter, raw fish on a wooden cutting board and liquid bleach in her hand.
Or maybe cook it first, or you could explode this entire apartment, her inner voice cautioned her.
So she did, almost on autopilot. As the fish seared on the pan, turning golden and crisp, she flipped it, her heart hammering harder with each second. If James came in, he'd know something was immediately amiss, and then what?
Even with that thought causing sweat to trickle down her back and her heart to pound like a bird stuck in a cage, Maria found herself unable to do it.
She didn't want James to die, but time was running out. An onslaught of fresh tears began flowing; trying to hold back sobs almost made her have a coughing fit, but she prepared the rest of the meal without attracting attention, nonetheless. James was probably too busy basking in the normalcy, and to his credit, he hadn't hovered over her shoulder.
As Maria plated and served their meals, then finally sat down at the dinner table, she had a single thought.
Tomorrow.
It had to be tomorrow.
Day ???
The gut-churning feeling that accompanied Maria as she awoke that morning had nothing to do with her illness. At least, she was pretty sure it didn't. Yet, as she had had to do with so much of this, she tried to compartmentalize the feeling.
Her behavior today had to be perfect. That meant sneaking away time to do her makeup, choosing bright colors to wear that made her look more alive, and guzzling daytime cough meds to keep the dreaded wheezing at bay.
She wanted to be a pretty porcelain doll, a siren on the rocks.
It was the only way that this plan would work, and it had to work. She needed her old charm and allure. If it was lacking, if she created any reasonable window of doubt, then she would fail again. That simply wasn't a possibility.
The day expired and the time drew closer. It was harder and harder to hide her...what was it? Excitement was the wrong word. It was more likely anxiety masquerading as excitement, the same kind of adrenaline-raising, heart-pumping feeling, but for an entirely different reason.
Maria figured that if she asked James if he wanted to have sex, he would initially have a half-dozen reasons why they shouldn't: reasons that were all very valid. So, she wouldn't ask. Instead, she'd shimmy into a little white lingerie set—white because it made her look healthier and more vibrant—with a satin robe in a deep, crimson red over top.
It's funny how even in the throes of the disease, looking at herself in the mirror, she still had that it-factor that made her such a draw on the stage, that made men throw their dollars down when she took to the pole.
The only difference between now and then? This was all hollow, fake, pretend. The illusion could burst at any second.
When the sun was low in the sky and the hour grew lazy, Maria knew it was showtime. She pushed a few strands of blonde hair away from her face and tried to empty her mind. If she thought too hard about what was going to happen, she would cry, and then she'd ruin her makeup and reveal the sickly person under the smooth facade.
James was at the kitchen table going through the mail, his expression serious. It was probably more overdue bills from Mary's mounting medical services.
See? Maria wasn't going to do that to him. There would be no lengthy hospitalizations, no end-of-life care. It all ended tonight.
"Hey you." She tried to sound equal parts casual and coquettish and felt like she failed on both fronts.
James looked up, almost startled, and did a double-take when he saw her.
"Hey," he said, his eyes remaining glued on her.
"You busy?"
Finally, his gaze, which was ravenously and hungrily memorizing her figure, met her face. "No, but are you sure this is the best idea? Between you making dinner last night and this, aren't you overdoing it a little bit?"
Maria not-so-subtly undid the robe, exposing the plunging push-up bra that was working overtime, a lacy garter belt with matching stockings, and a barely-there thong.
"I don't know, am I?"
James was a weak man, and she was serving sex on a silver platter here. Of course, he folded.
"Maybe not," he said, already forgetting about whatever expensive bill he was looking at. It would never get paid anyway, so what did it matter?
As he stood, Maria confidently took his hand and led him to the bedroom. She had even painted her nails for the occasion, a red so dark it was almost black. She was keenly aware that she had to lead like this was some sort of choreographed routine that only one of them knew the moves to.
She playfully pushed him onto the bed, slipping off her robe as she stood before him. Then, when his eyes were stuck on the contours of her body and not what was hidden underneath, she climbed onto the mattress and straddled him. Tears were beginning to prickle in her eyes, so she kissed him passionately, allowing her eyelids to sink closed and keeping James from seeing the tears that ran hot down her cheeks.
When they parted from the kiss, mouths panting and the energy palpable, James raised her brows at her. "You really are feeling better."
"I am, and I really want you," Maria said, peeling off his shirt and already going for the button of his jeans.
James looked surprised. "I want you too, but what's the rush?"
"I'm impatient," she insisted, which was true. She wanted to get this all over with.
He seemed to accept that response, kissing her as her hands found his dick and guided it toward her entrance. She sank down onto him one more time, fresh tears washing away her makeup in rivulets, leaving reddened cheeks.
Maria began rocking on him, blinking furiously to stop the tears. One hand was on his chest, while the other drifted to the garter on her left leg, where she pulled out a pocket knife.
She wanted to close her eyes in fear, like she was sitting in the safety of a comfy couch watching a horror movie where someone else was doing the things she was about to do. A movie felt like an apt descriptor; she no longer felt like she was in her body.
Forcing herself to focus, she kissed James as she pushed the blade in deep in one swift motion, feeling warm blood ooze out of the fresh wound she had created. He gasped in her mouth, not out of pleasure, but pain.
But no. The pocket knife was too small and wasn't going to go in far enough to finish the job. How had she not thought of this? Hiding the knife was more important to her than its length, which was a major oversight.
James pulled back from the kiss, a panicked look in his eye. He stared down at the blood spilling from his midsection, almost dumbfounded, then up at Maria, then down at the wound and up at her yet again.
"Did you just—did you just stab me?" His tone was as delirious as his expression suggested.
Maria didn't answer. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be swift and over all at once. James reached for her; whether in defense or comfort, she didn't know, and she would never know. Brandishing the pocket knife again, she quickly swiped it across his throat.
Blood began immediately and almost theatrically spurting from the thick red line she had carved in his neck. James' eyes went wide, looking at her. She quickly covered his throat with her hands, but she was already bathed in the hot, wet splatter. Who knew that severing the jugular could produce so much blood? Her entire lingerie set was now stained crimson.
Maria finally let the tears flow freely. It didn't matter. She had done it, and she was free. They were both free.
"Shh, shh. Don't try to talk," she soothed, meeting James' terrified, confused eyes and watching as his mouth fell open. He was probably trying to breathe more than anything else, but what did she know?
"I'm so sorry." She was openly, unabashedly crying now. "But now you don't have to kill me. You don’t have to go back. I won’t make you do it again."
James' breathing was becoming more labored, and his eyes glazed. Maria knew that they were running out of time, but she still didn't move her hands. "I did this for you. I did it for me, so I can make one last choice of how I die. I love you, James."
She wanted those to be the last words he heard; it was incredibly important to her.
Maria stayed just like that until all the life faded from him, down to the last gurgle from his gaping throat gash. She then rested her head on his bloody chest as more blood seeped from his wound and soaked her hair, listening to his heart stop and feeling the warmth drain from his body.
Her vision was blurred by a veil of tears that she swiped away with a bloody wrist. Her fingers closed James' eyelids, and she adjusted him so he was lying on the pillows. He didn't look anything resembling peaceful, but she had done her best.
Tossing the pocket knife under the bed, Maria stripped off her sticky, blood-soaked lingerie and walked into the bathroom. She started the shower, waiting for it to steam up. She heard some awful broken sound emanating from what she thought was the pipes. Then, with horror, she realized it was coming from her.
She kept expecting James to come in, to hear his footfalls from the other room. She gave the bedroom one last glance, looking at his bloodstained corpse, then weakly stepped into the shower.
The water ran red, then pink.
Maria watched the discolored water swirl the drain, the last of his blood on her body disappearing. Well, the last of his blood in here. In the bedroom, it looked like a murder scene, because...well...she had made it one.