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A Beautiful Thing
THIS STORY IS A BONE-CHILLING TALE OF UNSPEAKABLE
HORROR. PREGNANT WOMEN AND PEOPLE WITH HEART
CONDITIONS MAY NOT READ IT. THE AUTHOR DISAVOWS ANY
RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY EMOTIONAL, PSYCHOLOGICAL, OR
PHYSICAL DAMAGE RESULTING FROM DISREGARDING THESE
WARNINGS.
Heh heh heh...As you may have guessed, this is for the
BOB Halloween challenge.
A BEAUTIFUL THING
By Serin
Warnings: BOB is mean. Spoilers for series finale.
---------------
"Love is a beautiful thing," I said to myself, as I
had many times before. I said it out loud because I
liked the sound of it.
I meant it, too, you know. To fully experience love, I
think, you can't just stand back and admire it. You
have to get inside it, render it, consume it, savor
each subtle permutation as the tender buds of joy and
devotion and hope blossom into pain and fear and
despair.
That was why this new vessel was so promising. He had
freedom, yes, and power. But most of all, he was
widely, deeply, richly loved. Unfortunately, attempts
to get close to Annie and Audrey had failed. Not
because anyone suspected me; I had them all pacified,
convinced that my earlier display, that first
celebration of triumphant possession, had been a
temporary breakdown due to unbearable emotions now
once again fully under the control of Dale Cooper's
iron will. The problem was just that the monotonous
panopticon of the hospital where my pubescent
sweethearts were installed had proven no place for
fun. But I had other possibilities. I was pursuing
one now.
I rapped on the door of Room 242, smiling broadly as
it opened a guarded crack and a dark eye looked out,
becoming instantly, flatteringly alert at the sight of
me. After the briefest hesitation, he stepped back to
admit me.
"Always working, Albert," I said, teasingly, waving my
hand to indicate a metal evidence case lying open on
the table. Amidst a meaningless selection of small
tools and vials a little gleam of steel winked like a
star. "You haven’t even unpacked your clothes yet."
He made some reply I didn't listen to as he turned to
move his neglected garment bag out of the room's only
chair.
As I had suspected, the gleam belonged to a very
pretty scalpel. It fit nicely into my hand, and I
pocketed it. When he turned to invite me to sit I was
standing very close to him. "Do you sleep in your
suit and tie?" I asked him, drawing the latter between
my fingers, holding his gaze as his composure slid
completely away for a second, a rapid succession of
emotions flaring in his eyes, too many to name but all
suffused with that warming, flattering intensity. He
drew a sharp protesting breath but no biting quip came
from his lips. Then he stepped away. Stepped away
and into a perfect position to be backed onto the bed.
I almost laughed, because I never would have credited
him with such unerring instincts. But mortals’ secret
dreams of love tend to follow a pathetically limited
number of scripts.
Obligingly I moved closer to him again. He moved
back. The tension in the room was like some air-borne
drug. I knew my perfect engaging smile was already
thisclose to breaking into an eyetooth-baring grin of
pure feral glee, but I didn't care. I could lunge and
bite his face if I wanted.
I didn't lunge though. I said, "Albert, love is a
beautiful thing." His posture still rigid, he wrapped
his arms defensively around himself and stared at me,
his eyes bright and dark like an animal's. Then he
nodded. "A beautiful thing," I repeated, so close to
him I could feel the heat pouring off of him. His
eyes had not moved. I touched his face and he
shuddered. His arms unfolded and hovered uncertainly.
I kissed him, softly at first, then insistently,
possessively, pressing against him. His body yielded
like the wall of a fortress giving way to a battering
ram and we collapsed onto his bed. His passivity was
provocative, and I didn't mind his brittleness– in
fact I was looking forward to smashing him. But I
sensed another element in him which I could not name
but did not like.
Perhaps I had just overdone the seduction, I thought.
I didn't want him to open the door and come out to
meet me, after all. I wanted to break in and corner
him in his most private inner places. I drew up a
little and looked at him. He looked back, his eyes
wild, almost crazy, in his still face.
Experimentally, I drew back my right hand and slapped
him sharply across the mouth. He blinked and his
entire body froze as if a giant unseen trap had sprung
shut on his neck. But he didn't pull away.
Interesting. I slapped him again, harder. A drop of
blood appeared on his lower lip. His blinking was
like a tic. So many conflicting tensions pulled at
his body that he seemed about to unravel in every
direction. He was so close to the edge. When I
kissed him again his lips quaked and then parted and I
tasted the pungent blood. Every fiber of his proud
being was screaming in protest at this abasement. But
he made no move to stop it! It was delicious.
Joyfully my hand slid toward my pocket, my tingling
fingers twisted around the handle of the wicked little
blade. But not that, not yet...I pressed my mouth
against his throat, not a kiss, no, pressed my bared
teeth hard against the skin. A slight sound of
protest escaped the man's lips, even as his left hand
rose to hold my head where it was. His right hand...
I didn't know what his right hand was doing until I
felt the hatefully neat little jab underneath my left
ear. I knew instantly then what had happened; I could
smell it, not the Haliperidol but the faint smoky odor
of the drug's other active agent, the arcane additive
of Mike's tireless researches. It wasn't possible! I
reared up and, with my free hand, seized the glass
hypodermic still embedded in my skin and crushed it,
the odor assaulting my senses much more painful to me
than the damage done to Dale Cooper's flesh. I howled
and rage flooded my veins like acid. The scalpel
flashed up, but an elbow was suddenly lodged against
my adam's apple, and I was shoved backwards off the
bed, staggering a few steps before I fell. I
struggled to rise, but it was too late. The last
thing I saw as Dale Cooper before the oblivion of the
Black Lodge rose to reclaim me was the face of the man
who had approached, cautiously, his expression a
combination of wariness and searching concern. And
knowledge. The last thing I said as Dale Cooper was,
"How did you know?"
The End
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Serin
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