Blood and broken mirrors

Some evenings don't ask for much: stretched on the couch, indulging in weed and Whiskey, watching self-made videos. The stress of the day slowly drowns in recollection. The mind gets calm with the lights getting darker.

Blurred by aromatic smoke bittersweet images flickered across the screen, reflected in drowsy, half-closed eyes. Francis knew these filmlets by heart. He knew every movement of the "actors", every non-spoken word, every muted scream. He knew the enticing rattle of fading breath, the splatter of blood, the echoes of whispered lies. He knew the muffled shots of his Glock and the thud of a bullet hitting a bone. He knew the unstable drumming of dying heartbeats and the sweet low chime of a fleeing soul. He knew shadows and ghosts and all these eloquent nuances of silence. He always filmed without sound. It wasn't necessary to hear what's going on: he listened between the lines. With all his senses. And it repeated in his head. A thousand times: the darkest of mantra.   

The broken radio played oldies on such evenings. Santana. Cohen. The Doors. Melancholic lyrics and bewitching tunes, perfectly fitting the entire atmosphere: perhaps it conked out around this time. 1968... When Jim was still alive and the desert was full of brand-new perceptions. When artists stunk of Absinthe, and all poems were filled to the brim with wolves. (Except one, the most beautiful of all. This poem I've written for you.)
Francis' lips curled to a smile. The pot kicked in and his thoughts spread their wings, circling the dimmed ceiling lamp, throwing obscure patterns along the walls.   

On the screen Lydia Sanderson died another time. A pan of the camera, a zoom: a close-up of the tattooed orchid on her left shoulder. He watched himself licking the outlines, recalling her last words while he slowed the pace of his thrusts: "Please be gentle." Hush, my darling, I'm always gentle. His thumb caressed her wet cheek while his gloved hand covered her mouth and nose. Well... nearly always; but always in moments like this one. The last moment. This precious shortage of time he led them to the final doorstep.
A shiver ran throughout their bodies: the perfect climax, Eros and Thanatos combined. Fragile. Fugitive. Endless. One moment... This moment; before he withdraws and gets out of bed to bathe in the magic of the full moon. Naked, smeared with crimson, his widened eyes shimmering golden coins. The Dragon danced. To honor the hunt and to praise his priest for the sacrifice: a slick reptile, powerful, beautiful. In moments like these they were not Francis but Shahar. Eosphoros. Son of Dawn, bringer of morning light. Born before time, in the pastel colored break of the first new day.   

Francis moaned. Everything appeared so easy on screen.   

But it wasn't so easy. Sometimes the children refused to stop crying. Sometimes their souls shrieked like banshees, accusing him for his deception. Sometimes he could see their ghosts, helplessly staring at the mess he has made. Blood and broken mirrors... common people called it a crime scene. He called it art. Unique masterpieces he left for the FBI to decipher.
They know his signature, his DNA and the color of his hair. During the years they have given him a lot of fanciless names, some annoying, some amusing, but none of them grasping his truest self.

Sometimes not even Francis was able to grasp his truest self completely. When his blue eyes turned gold. When his tongue forked to nervously lick the scar on his upper lip. When his shoulder blades grew bony fingers breaking through the dermal surface, when the skin of his back slowly stretched along with these fingers to finally unfold a pair of tattooed wings. When his spine elongated, vertebra by vertebra, to a strong thick tail. When horns unscrew from his cranial vault... This pain was maddening beyond words. Impossible to grasp. Reminding the Dragon that his vessel was (still) mortal.   

Then he needed hours to soothe the broken man he possessed. This trembling puppy he sometimes called a coward and sometimes admired for his reason and strength.
Shahar adored Francis: his body, his mind, his soul. His passionate poetry and his will to survive. He loved the wounded child in his deep blue eyes. His desire. His desperation. His shy curiosity. His brutal gentleness. He loved the fact that Francis wasn't cruel. He has chosen him wisely. Cooing sweet promises he coaxed him training the transformation. It wasn't easy. Francis was scared of this pain, and his fear was legit. Humans don't grow wings, horns and a tail. It simply doesn't happen.     

---*---

Stretching his muscular form he turned his back to the screen. A sequence of pictures was shown, the face and figure of a naked young woman tied to a tree, her form embalmed with mud, her arms adorned with leaves and branches. The images were dark, too dark maybe, but like all other photographs and films Francis knew every detail by heart. This darkness was merciful, like the quick death he has bestowed on her. A shot in the nape of her neck, 22 gauge, hollow point bullet, extremely short distance. Her name was Sandra. She was 19, inspired member of the local drama group, on the way home from a club outside of town. Wrong place, wrong time... "You're heavens sent", he recalled her voice and her long slender legs. Francis moaned again. She was the only one with the allowance to haunt his dreams. (What a strange kind of love...)   

Exhaling a deep sigh he closed his eyes and listened to the radio. "Sister Morphine" by Marianne Faithful, the singer's smoky voice a perfect lullaby for his dizzy mind. He wasn't as stoned as he wished to be, but he was close to doze off.
"It's Friday night", a silent voice whispered to his ear. Francis shrugged and yawned. The entire day has been hot and stressful, so he savored the cool of the house, the breeze from the garden, the scent of roses that swung through the air. He was not inclined to go out. He did not seek company tonight, and though he missed his lover and the priest of Saint Michael's, who has finally become his lover, too, he indulged in the solemnity of loneliness, ready to surrender to Morpheus' arms, pictures of a new crime scene flickering across the screen. He tried to remember how many people he has killed already. The number differed. It wasn't important. Actually he has killed none of them. Actually they have been sacrificed to the Dragon. Francis has taken their lives in exchange to get a life himself. A real life: all pleasures included.   

Born in the middle of the Bible Belt Francis didn't believe in God. The good Lord, his mother used to pray to, has left him when he came into this world. With just one look into his innocent disfigured face the warmth has died instantly. The love faded, all hope was gone. ("Where is my baby? This monster isn't mine!")   

Why the fvck have you chosen me, he has yelled at his own shattered reflection. All these broken mirrors throughout the years, each silvery shard representing a piece of his broken soul. Because you are full of passion, despair and poetry. Because you're a technician and an artist. Because you're perfect. Because you are the one allowed to use my name as your own.
But I'm not you! I'm not Shahar, I'm Francis Dolarhyde.
Wait and see, Francis...   

"Why don't you shut up and let me sleep?" Francis snarled and turned round again. The screen was black, and he was grateful for that. Though he was all too well aware what the reptile could do to his body Francis took the risk and spoke to him this way. Usually they lived in symbiosis. Usually they respected each other's needs. Tonight was different. The Dragon appeared restless, and slowly but surely Francis could feel it, too. An uncertain presence: a tickle on the edge of his dazed perception. His hackles rose, his skin covered with goosebumps. "Who?" he whispered into the twilight of his living room. Rubbing his eyes he sat up and ignited a cigarette. Sleep trickled from his forehead.
"I have no idea", the Dragon frankly replied, "But it could be dangerous. Most of all for you."     

---*---

One hour later he found himself in front of a club he would never enter, not for anything in the world. The bouncer looked at him and smiled. What are you waiting for, he seemed to ask. "Good evening, Sir", he actually said.
"Good evening", Francis nodded and ignited a cigarette. He seriously wondered why this guy was talking to him. He neither looked interested nor was he attired for such an establishment. Wearing a washed out gray boxer shirt, black cargo pants and likewise black combat boots even the doorman in his uniform appeared overdressed compared to him. "You will not ask me...", he grinned and took a drag from his cigarette, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the damp Baltimore air. There was not the slightest breath of wind here in the inner city, not even the usual breeze from the coast. Bathed in neon light and a cloud of perfume oozing from the club's door he missed the comforting cool silence of his home.
"We got air condition", the bouncer grinned as well.
"Air condition and dress code", Francis replied nonchalantly and dropped his cigarette. "And I don't even wear a tie. So..."
Suddenly he sniffed the air. An icy shiver ran down his spine. His glance darted from the man in dark blue to the polished wooden door and up two marbled columns framing this door as if it were the entrance to an ancient temple. Involuntarily he snarled. Then he stepped back. His eyes turned golden. The flirtation was over. "No thanks", was all he managed to say. Without a second glance he turned and walked down the street, leaning against the wall when he felt out of sight.
"Evil", he exhaled with a growl. His heart skipped a beat. "Powerful. Beautiful. Misguided evil."