TW - death, mild gore
Prompt: "I always knew I'd take a bullet for you," I say as pain ebbs through my chest. She crouches beside me, clutching at my shirt. Sobs echo from her as my lids grow heavy from the weight. "And I always knew you wouldn't take one for me".
Blood seeps through my shirt, pooling beneath me. Its cold embrace tugs at my soul, pushing it away from my body. Lea wails and beats at my chest, but not so strong she bruises my ribcage. My eyes drift shut and my breath ragged; with every second I am closer to death. I can almost feel the pale lady standing guard with her long scythe dangling above my body, staring at me from the void of her black hood, reveling in the iron scent my blood emanates. Lea can't see her; she's too close to the realm of the living.
Is this how death feels? I ask myself as the curtains begin to close and the audience cheers, their roars vibrating all through my diaphragm. I didn't get up until Lea tapped my shoulder, making sure the dramatic death I had acted remained ingrained in the minds of the public. Nothing makes the heart shudder like seeing a woman cry over her lover's dead body and Lea was the best wailer the acting industry had ever known.
The public roars for us to emerge, and I tale Lea's hand, leading us in front of the curtains, grinning at the audience as the fake blood drips on the stage, staining my bare feet. It would take hours of scrubbing to get the paint out, but it would be worth it.
"Wait till the critics release their thoughts," Lea whispers in my ear as we bow endlessly, showing off our colleagues and dodging flowers being thrown our way. "We'll make the front page," she giggles and places a kiss on my cheek, sending hundreds of spectators into a frenzy.
One of the women in my life would kill me when I got home, but surely when one read the newspapers, she would forgive me and welcome me back. I was a loving husband and an expecting father; I would never abandon either of them, not for a prude like Lea. That never stopped my wife from being on my ass every hour of the day, but she was just doing her job.
As was I. Kayla was a smart woman and, even if I did dare to cheat on her, she'd smell me a mile away.
People begin filing out of the room as soon as we disappear out of their sight, shuffling, groaning, and whispering about the play, no doubt complaining my death has been too dramatic. There would always be one who grumbled, but it was up to the critics to make history and get me to the Hall of Fame. Or, at the very least, to a larger theatre.
"They loved it," my killer slaps me on the back as I undress and points an invisible gun at my head. "Bang."
"Oh, Joey," Lea hugs him, drenching him in kisses. "You were brilliant."
Joey laughs; there really isn't anything better than getting Lea's undivided attention right after a show. She'd be bubbly with excitement for hours and would hug just about anyone provided they came up to her and made a half-decent joke. As a married man, sometimes I wished my wife would do that too. As the man of the house, I soon realized those were fat chances, so I consoled myself with late-night repetitions and, once in a while, a shot or two of vodka. Kayla wasn't allowed to drink anymore, which meant she'd glare at me and be angry for no reason.
Could I really be to blame if I didn't want to go home sometimes?
"I gotta run, guys," I wave and leave before anyone can look at me with fake pity in their eyes.
When I told them Kayla was pregnant, they hadn't cheered. Not even Lea. They had stared at me with doe-eyes, sighing and slapping me on the back, making sure I knew my life would somehow go downhill from there, leaving me to wonder when having a child became a burden on society.
Our house was quite literally ten minutes away from the theatre, so I walk home without a care in the world, clasping the butterfly knife inside my jacket pocket in case some junkie decides to jump me.
Kayla is waiting for me, as she most often does, reading one of her pregnancy books. She was already showing, even after only three weeks.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," she smiles as I kiss her on the forehead and urges me to pull up a chair. "How did it go?"
"The audience seemed to like it, but you know how these things go. Everyone is waiting for LeRoux to spit out his amazing critique and, as he always does, he's waiting for the suspense to build."
"You know that's not what I meant," she chides, closing her book.
Of course, she knows when I dodge the real meaning of her questions.
"It wasn't my best work," I smile sadly, imagining my career crumbling around me as LeRoux points out exactly what I fear most.
"What happened?"
"Well, for one, the paint was bright red, definitely not the color of blood. And I died, despite it not being part of the script."
Kayla stands up, pulling me into her arms. "You know sometimes life goes off-script," she mumbles, pointing to her belly. "Like this hot-tub accident."
"How do you know it was an accident?" I grin and press my lips against hers.
I won't lie; it felt good to have her support me and my heart skipped a beat when I opened the door, unsure of which Kayla I would find. The woman who loved me, or the one who loathed me and my touch?
I grunt, feeling a sharp pain in my side. When I look down, tiny droplets of blood pool around our feet and Kayla has me in a tight grip so I can't put any distance between us and confirm what was going on. My consciousness slips away from me; this time it's real. My vision blurs and my head swims in dizzy circles as Kayla lets me down.
Figuratively as much as literally.
As I lie on the hardwood floor, heaving, I realize the blade went through my chest. Judging by how much it started to hurt, it had probably touched a vital organ too. I cough and Kayla draws away so the blood gushing out won't stain her face and clothes.
She strokes my cheek. "It's okay," she whispers. "Just let go."
"Why?" I manage to ask, regretting it already when my throat constricts, and I choke on my blood.
I never got an answer.