She's gotta be the one, he thought, pressing down harder.
Tell me I'm the one. Her lips part, words barely making it through. You're the one.
A breath leaving her like thread pulled from a needle. The body trembling beneath him. Then airless. She's gotta be the one. He murmured it again, half to himself, half to her. Her nails raking his arm, scraping for the last bit of life she had left.
He waited for something. Satisfaction? No. Relief? Maybe.
But she was dead. And he didn't even cum.
The clock read 2:22 AM. Always 2:22.
The room smells the same, sheets warm, taste of sweat thick on his tongue. It was almost as if he had seen this before. He swallows. Oh, fuck.
Tell me I'm the one. He spits in her face.
She screams for him to fuck her deeper, choke her harder. Her nails biting into his back, pulling him in. Her body moves beneath him, shaking, pleading.
He’s laughing, and something in the sound belongs to someone else.
Her lips part in sleep. The same lips, the same softness, the same breath steady beneath her ribs. But he remembers her last breath, the way her nails scrapes his arm, the way she whispered: you're the one.
2:22. Time's broken record.
Vodka sweats in crystal while ice clicks like tiny bones. The leather beneath him is warm, sticking to his back as bass presses through his ribs like a second heartbeat.
Inside her, the same rhythm, the same motion. Her hands tangle in his hair, breath hot against his cheek, sticky with vodka and sweat. Her dress hitched up, heels still on - calculated recklessness in the VIP section where money makes monsters invisible.
Names blurred in the next booth - Beckham? Pharrell? Around them, glasses clinks and a blonde laughs too loudly while a man in a suit whispers profits into a girl's ear.
The whole place glows with false power. None of it matters.
His hands grips her thighs, holds her steady as she rides herself toward something she would never reach. Her laugh came chemical-bright, pupils wide from the molly still burning through her system. She reaches for the vodka, takes a sip too fast, excess spilling down her chin.
Fuck me right here, she says, hungry to be seen.
She tilts the glass to his lips, makes him drink with her. I want you. She takes another sip. He watches her swallow. She didn't know what was happening. But he did.
She moves against him, pressing harder, chasing something.
A soft moan, a sharp gasp, a shudder. You're the one, she whispers in his ear.
Heat climbs up his spine, and then—the slow drop. Her breath snags as her body locks. Fingers dig into his arms—no pleasure now, just death doing its math.
Her lips part, twitching once, then again, her body rewriting itself in spasms.The word fuck slips from her mouth, not pleasure, not fear, just the last thing left. Then nothing but the bass counting: thump, thump, thump, time erasing evidence.
Nothing ever happens here anyways. VIP means invisible.
A shadow moves at the booth's edge - a cocktail waitress with a tight dress and smooth skin, just his type. They were all his type.
The Macallan neat catches the low light. She okay? He nods, mechanical. She's fine, just drunk, we're getting out of here soon. Glass in hand, whiskey spinning secrets. He smiles at the waitress, throws down a Benjamin.
Then his throat closes around a question: out of where?
The whiskey glass mirrors a truth he refuses to face. Who was she? And he never came. He takes another sip, the bass vibrating through him, rewriting his bones. He closes his eyes, tries to remember, but memory was a locked door, and it led back—
Velvet now. A different cage, a different luxury.
Silence presses in as the orchestra tunes below, string tension thickening the air.
His watch still reads 2:22, hands shaking against his thigh. No memory of arrival. He turns, slow, to the woman beside him. She smells like roses.
She turns, lips parting: tell me I'm the one. The same words, the same script. She tilts her head back, waiting. She thought this was foreplay. She didn't see the final act.
The music swells as the audience sits frozen, hypnotized by sound, blind to murder. His hands rise—not rough, not rushed, but precise.
The silk napkin is between his fingers.
She laughs, shifting closer, expecting a kiss. She didn't see it coming. They never did.
Her fingers pressing into his wrists, light at first, then weaker as the music climbs, strings stretching the room tighter. Her body searching for air it won’t find.
She shakes once, then again, then still, body slumping into his as the orchestra peaks.
The mirrors splints. The audience doesn’t move.
The conductor lifts his hands, and then they clapp. The applause came slow at first, then louder, hands colliding in perfect rhythm. Not for the performance. For him.
His heart pounds as he turns to face row after row of perfect little soldiers, their faces smooth, eyes vacant. Their hands move in time: clap, clap, clap. The dead woman beside him joined them, her head lolled, lips still parted, teeth red with lipstick.
She’s clapping too.
His stomach turns as the velvet seat sucks him deeper. He looks past the applause, past the faces, to the conductor standing center stage, baton raised. Not looking at the orchestra. Not looking at the stage. Looking at him. The clapping slows as a single white-gloved hand lifts and points up. He swallows hard, his breath stuck.
The mirrors—gone. Nothing above but blackness, a ceiling that wasn't there, a sky that wasn't sky.
The conductor lowers his hand, points at the orchestra.
A flick of his wrist, and the musicians snap to attention. A single violin begins—one note held too long, a wail stretching past comfort. The cellos follow, a deep pulse shaking the floor. His stomach clenching as his pulse beats in ryhtym with the orchestra.
He knows this song. The violins climbing, strings vibrating in his ribs. This wasn't just for him. It was about him. This was his song, his cycle, his life.
He gripps the velvet arms as the conductor's baton slices the air—
White swallows him. The smell of roses and wax burn his lungs as his pulse stumbles.
He looks down—his hands steady now. No blood. No whiskey. No death.
Something heavy at his throat: a tie, a tuxedo. His breath shallow as his eyes lifts to find a veil blocking his view. White lace, delicate lies. A woman. His woman. Love's prop.
His mouth dry. Beyond the veil, past the satin cage, rows of faces watched.
Real this time, not theater puppets. His best man adjusts his collar and whispers static. His mother dabbs at tears in the front row. His chest tightens as the altar holds him still. No memory of arrival. The priest clears his throat and begins.
He turns his back to her. Her head lifts for the first glimpse past the veil. Her lips part, and then—a whisper, inevitable as death: tell me I'm the one.
Love and death. They’re so far apart they’re next door neighbors.
George this is really great writing.