Author: Child of a Broken Dawn PM
One move in a game that has lasted for decades. Sarah is wicked, liquor flows freely, and Jareth seems to be absent. Rating for violence.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Horror - Words: 825 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 08-05-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7256290
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Sing along if you know the words: I don't own "Labyrinth" or any characters therein. This came along when I was bored at work, of all times and places. Enjoy!
This time, I am the one not to be trusted.
Your last words echo in my mind as I lean back against the bar, reveling in the sensation of cool wood against my skin.
Let me go. Please, Sarah.
I smile and take another sip of the red concoction in my glass; it burns my throat pleasantly, but I wonder with some concern when I forgot what it was. Not that it matters, but just how many drinks have I had? Dimly, I remember sliding the glass back to the bartender along with another crumpled bill. I never asked him for anything in particular.
You could have easily gotten me that time, I reflect, watching the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor a few yards away. Slipped a tasteless, odorless powder in my mystery comfort. You know I need it too much to quit now and would drink; it wouldn't be the first time you'd gotten me like that.
But whatever-it-is seems to be innocent, at least for an alcoholic beverage. I set the glass down and scan the dim haze of flashing colors around me. Any second now, you could make your move.
I jolt slightly at the unexpected sound. A man, probably not more than 21 years old, has sidled up to the bar and is staring nervously at me. His tanned skin gleams with sweat from dancing; dilated pupils and unbelievably rank breath say he's likely had even more drinks than I have. Add the fact that he's grinning like a moron, and the whole picture spells, "not worth my time."
I decide to be polite, just for fun. "Hi."
"I'm Matt," he says loudly, extending a hand. The remnants of a markered X on the slightly red skin lower my age estimate to 19.
"Sarah," I reply, shaking his hand.
A moment of silence stretches between us, during which I can practically hear his snail's-pace thought processes over the pounding music. Finally, he speaks.
"So, uh…do you come here often?"
"Never been before," I reply.
Once again, my brilliant conversational partner has run out of things to say. This time, rather than wait the hours it might take for him to come up with another cheesy line, I resolve to play with him until you show up. I know you won't mind; you're my only real challenge.
"Listen, Matt," I say, leaning forward slightly so that the cowl neck of my top gapes widely. It's simple enough to pass off as an accident, and a fresh sweat breaks out on the boy's forehead. I grant myself a mental point.
"You're really handsome. Your girlfriend is pretty lucky to have you."
"I-I don't actually have a girlfriend," he stammers. A note of masculine confidence has crept into his voice.
I let my lower jaw drop in feigned surprise. "No! You're kidding me."
He laughs before replying, "Honest. I haven't got a girlfriend. But I bet a beautl- buat- a pretty girl like you has a boyfriend, right?"
"Nope." Husband, yes, but no boyfriend.
"Wow," Matt slurs, running a hand through his already carefully tousled brown hair, "Tha's weird. You don't have a boyfriend…I don't have a girlfriend…" He slides closer to me along the bar in what he probably believes is a subtle way.
As he attempts to unobtrusively maneuver his arm around me, I slip my hand into my pocket. Fingers closed around the cold, twisted hilt of my dagger, I wait.
"You know, I'd really like to get to know you better, Sarah."
His lips are uncomfortably close to mine. I can smell the beer on his breath, beer and a crucial something else. I lean forward, and the nauseating alcohol scent vanishes entirely, leaving behind only the breath I'd know anywhere.
Hello, old friend.
Our lips meet, and I almost want to end this whole thing now. Forget our game and succumb, losing myself forever in the warmth of your kiss.
But my blade still slides quietly between your ribs, because I love to watch your eyes as you crumple to the floor. I love that look that says I've won again, and the trace of fear behind your tiredness because you know it's starting once more.
"See you next time, my love," I whisper, wiping the steel on my shirt (lucky I wore the red tonight) and walking off toward the crowd of dancers. I don't have to see you rise again; it's nothing special. The song throbbing in my ears makes my lips curve into a smirk.
Don't trust me.