Maura Elizabeth
Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 9:38 pm"Mau-ra-E-liz-a-beth..."
The sound of her full name from the guttural throat of Louis Wrightman made her skin crawl. In her youth, whenever she heard the six syllables of her name being called, it belonged to her mother and she was being summoned inside after playing stick ball for hours on end on Eastview Avenue. Back then, the two names put together had the effect of Pavlov's dogs, and Maura came running to the six-story apartment building in search of food. Now, however, when it slipped past the pale lips of a serial killer, Maura's spine turned to steel and was just as straight as a construction beam. She had not seen him since the end of the trial, when he was escorted by three armed guards and led out of the courtroom shackled at his hands and feet. Louis' appearance had not changed in the last seven years; his shaggy hair spilled over his noble brow and the hawk-like bend of his nose was subdued by the growth of whiskers along his jaw, drawing attention there rather than anyplace else. Except his eyes -- those immensely black eyes were framed by dark as sin lashes.
"What brings you to my humble abode?" He asked in a manner of speech that could have been humorous, as if he welcomed her to some lavish villa off the coast of Italy instead of the Collingsworth Correctional Facility. He was escorted to the lone chair opposite a thick pane of glass that separated inmate from visitor, and neither of the guards offered them any privacy, taking up positions by the door and a stance that hinted they expected Louis to react violently. Small circles allowed for the exchange of words, long since abandoning the notion of using a telephone since, more often than not, they were broken by either side when smacked against the partition. Louis lounged back in the chair, legs stretched out as far as the length of chair between his ankles would permit. His fingers splayed on the top of his lap, secured together at the wrists while another leather band circled his waist and hooked a leash of a chain from his midsection to hands. The bright orange of his jumpsuit was atrocious and ill-fitted, yet he wore it as regally as an entrepreneur wore an Armani suit. A cut of white cloth underneath added just the right touch of subdued elegance, and it covered only a portion of tattoos which littered his neck and chest in a macabre myriad of colors -- all his victims' names, each one in a different hue, surrounded by hideously dark petals of orchids.
Maura's gaze struggled to stay in one spot, haunted by the sight of his eyes and sickened by the display of color along his throat. He had once promised her a spot all of her own -- her name scripted over his heart. "I needed to see for myself."
"See what?" He dangled the question in a game that only he knew the rules.
"That you're still here," her hand rose and motioned to the chair. In truth, Maura suspected that Louis did not even realize he was seated under the watch of armed guards or that glass and wrought iron bars surrounded him at every turn.
"Where else would I be?" Louis grinned then, bringing his hands to fold under his bearded chin. "Here I thought you came to wish us a happy anniversary."
"You thought wrong," her voice was clipped and cold, and she tried desperately to alleviate any emotion from it. He fed on that -- carrion for any trace of weakness or reaction. Rising out of the seat, she caught the quick glance from one of the guards, curious or confused by the incredibly brief visit.
"Mau-ra-E-liz-a-beth..." it was sing-song, a melody that haunted her dreams. He had to have known the sound of his saying her name would give her pause, and he was correct. The night they met -- the night she stumbled upon his hellish world of murder and torture -- he taunted her with it, giving slow chase around the elaborate maze of his Long Island estate, fully confident that she'd never escape. "I'm always here," his hands fell away from his chin and spread as wide as the shackles allowed. "There is no place for me to go. But that's not to say I'm not with you. I'll always be with you... you'll always be with me. I remember..."
Stilled in place, the chill of the glass by her arm permeated through the layer of a beige jacket. Yet, it paled in comparison to the icy flow of her blood as it pumped from a hollow heart. She did not ask what he remembered, but the very faint lift of her brow acting on its own accord prompted the question.
"I remember... how you taste."
The sound of her full name from the guttural throat of Louis Wrightman made her skin crawl. In her youth, whenever she heard the six syllables of her name being called, it belonged to her mother and she was being summoned inside after playing stick ball for hours on end on Eastview Avenue. Back then, the two names put together had the effect of Pavlov's dogs, and Maura came running to the six-story apartment building in search of food. Now, however, when it slipped past the pale lips of a serial killer, Maura's spine turned to steel and was just as straight as a construction beam. She had not seen him since the end of the trial, when he was escorted by three armed guards and led out of the courtroom shackled at his hands and feet. Louis' appearance had not changed in the last seven years; his shaggy hair spilled over his noble brow and the hawk-like bend of his nose was subdued by the growth of whiskers along his jaw, drawing attention there rather than anyplace else. Except his eyes -- those immensely black eyes were framed by dark as sin lashes.
"What brings you to my humble abode?" He asked in a manner of speech that could have been humorous, as if he welcomed her to some lavish villa off the coast of Italy instead of the Collingsworth Correctional Facility. He was escorted to the lone chair opposite a thick pane of glass that separated inmate from visitor, and neither of the guards offered them any privacy, taking up positions by the door and a stance that hinted they expected Louis to react violently. Small circles allowed for the exchange of words, long since abandoning the notion of using a telephone since, more often than not, they were broken by either side when smacked against the partition. Louis lounged back in the chair, legs stretched out as far as the length of chair between his ankles would permit. His fingers splayed on the top of his lap, secured together at the wrists while another leather band circled his waist and hooked a leash of a chain from his midsection to hands. The bright orange of his jumpsuit was atrocious and ill-fitted, yet he wore it as regally as an entrepreneur wore an Armani suit. A cut of white cloth underneath added just the right touch of subdued elegance, and it covered only a portion of tattoos which littered his neck and chest in a macabre myriad of colors -- all his victims' names, each one in a different hue, surrounded by hideously dark petals of orchids.
Maura's gaze struggled to stay in one spot, haunted by the sight of his eyes and sickened by the display of color along his throat. He had once promised her a spot all of her own -- her name scripted over his heart. "I needed to see for myself."
"See what?" He dangled the question in a game that only he knew the rules.
"That you're still here," her hand rose and motioned to the chair. In truth, Maura suspected that Louis did not even realize he was seated under the watch of armed guards or that glass and wrought iron bars surrounded him at every turn.
"Where else would I be?" Louis grinned then, bringing his hands to fold under his bearded chin. "Here I thought you came to wish us a happy anniversary."
"You thought wrong," her voice was clipped and cold, and she tried desperately to alleviate any emotion from it. He fed on that -- carrion for any trace of weakness or reaction. Rising out of the seat, she caught the quick glance from one of the guards, curious or confused by the incredibly brief visit.
"Mau-ra-E-liz-a-beth..." it was sing-song, a melody that haunted her dreams. He had to have known the sound of his saying her name would give her pause, and he was correct. The night they met -- the night she stumbled upon his hellish world of murder and torture -- he taunted her with it, giving slow chase around the elaborate maze of his Long Island estate, fully confident that she'd never escape. "I'm always here," his hands fell away from his chin and spread as wide as the shackles allowed. "There is no place for me to go. But that's not to say I'm not with you. I'll always be with you... you'll always be with me. I remember..."
Stilled in place, the chill of the glass by her arm permeated through the layer of a beige jacket. Yet, it paled in comparison to the icy flow of her blood as it pumped from a hollow heart. She did not ask what he remembered, but the very faint lift of her brow acting on its own accord prompted the question.
"I remember... how you taste."