Sleep Don't Come Easy

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Authors: Victor McGlothin

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Sleep Don't Come Easy
J.D. MASON
VICTOR McGLOTHIN
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
The Lazarus Man
J.D. Mason
By the Light of the Moon
“S
top and let me explain!” he said, gritting his teeth, struggling to keep her still. If she'd just stop fighting him he could think, and he could calm the fuck down and find some semblance of rationale in all this crazy bullshit.
He straddled her, pressing his weight down on her petite frame, but somehow, she found the strength to struggle, kicking him, clawing at the sleeves of his shirt, reaching up to claw at his face. She kneed him in the behind and she tried to scream. But he couldn't let her do that.
The thought never occurred to him that if he squeezed too hard, if he held his grip around her neck too long, that she might die. He hadn't thought that far ahead. It was all a matter of
now
and what was happening
now
and of what he needed to happen
now
. Words, images, revelations all flashed quickly in his mind, and he couldn't put together one cohesive train of thought or plan of action. Flesh melted in his hands. Bones and cartilage crushed in his palms, and the terror on her face was just one more image he couldn't see clearly enough.
He had never killed anyone. He'd done some terrible, dark things in his life, but he never believed he was the kind of man who could actually take someone's life. The look in her eyes begged him to stop, her mouth moved, breathless, pleading for him to let her go. She couldn't believe it was him. She never said it, but the stunned and horrific expression on her face shouted it loud and clear.
Snow fell quietly from the sky, dissolving in the heat of his breath. Illumination from the street lights in the distance cast a soft sheen across her, reflecting in her brown eyes the slow fading of life. She was a beautiful woman, quick to smile at a man, and say his name in that way that left him weak. She was the kind of woman a man loved at first sight. He had been one of those men.
It wasn't long before she stopped struggling, and with the final flutter of her lips, stopped begging for her life. It wasn't long before the life from inside her faded to nothingness, and all that was left was the hum from the outside world. Slowly, he released the grip he had on her neck, and crawled off her. High on adrenaline, he started to finally catch his breath, and let the cold night air cleanse him from the inside out. The surreal moment seemed frozen and him along with it, while traffic passed by over the bridge above them, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that the rest of the world was still moving, still living, still on its way home.
He looked down at her, and then he raised his hands, and stared at these weapons of destruction he'd never even known were there. His memory drifted back to a conversation from earlier—moments before that changed the course of both their lives.
“Tell me it isn't what I think it is,” her voice quivered, out of anger? Maybe shock? Disgust? “Tell me I'm wrong, and that this is all a terrible mistake! Please!”
She confronted him after everyone else had left. Why would she be so foolish? He wondered, shaking his head, and rubbing the weariness from his eyes. The weight of what he'd done started to bear down heavily on his body. He was tired all of a sudden, exhausted and empty.
“It's not how you think it is,” he had tried convincing her. “I'm not a monster.”
“You're fucking evil!” she screamed. “Worse than a monster, because you're real! Pretending to be someone else—I can't believe you would actually do something like this!” she sobbed, and then she turned abruptly to leave, and he knew. Oh, dear God! He knew she'd tell the world.
He grabbed at her, but missed. And for a moment, time held them both hostage, and their gazes locked onto each other's, and instinctively, they both understood what he had to do. Her eyes grew wide with fear, and his narrowed with determination. She ran for her life, and like any other frightened prey, she panicked, and ran away from safety instead of towards it. She ran down a path, into a part of the city abandoned this time of night. It was only a matter of time before he caught her.
He was surprised when he realized he was crying. Hot tears burned his face. Tears for her? For himself, perhaps? Tears for the depths of this mess he'd gotten himself into, for the corner he'd painted himself into, and for the loss of this beautiful woman?
Her body lay carelessly splayed on the dirty ground, and he gently took both arms and folded them across her midsection. He straightened each twisted leg, and pressed them close together, replacing the shoe that had come off in the struggle. He never meant to hurt her like this. It was an accident, but of course, no one would ever believe that. So he walked quietly away, destroyed and for the time being, relieved.
 
In the dark, they looked like lovers.
A whore and her trick
—
getting it on,
Lazarus thought, lying still like stone, and quiet as a mouse, watching the couple take care of business, struggling to recall what it was like to make love to a woman. He waited until the shadowed man crawled off her, caught his breath, and then left her lying there in the cold, night air, with the snow falling. She never moved. Lazarus watched her for what seemed like hours and she never moved.
Death wasn't a brand new song to him. Lazarus knew death, and he knew all the words to it, too. He'd seen it a million different ways, heard it in a thousand different sounds, and he'd smelled plenty of it. The shit stunk, like garbage, but on her it didn't. On her, it smelled damn good, good enough to eat and to drink and to sleep next to. She was one of them pretty women—picture pretty, like she shouldn't even be real. Soft pretty, like if you touched her, she'd disappear in a puff of smoke. She looked like someone had painted her, and the mothafucka had a hell of an imagination too. He chuckled, gazing down at her, gently touching the mass of tangled brown hair on her head. Lazarus leaned down close and inhaled. “Damn!” he said breathless. Truth be told, he was grateful for this moment. A woman like her wouldn't let him within two feet of her if she was alive. It took death to bring him this gift, and in a revelation, he smiled knowing that sometimes, even death had its moments.
He believed he'd seen her before, countless times or maybe only in dreams. He was blind to people most times because people were blind to him. He leaned down again and lowered his mouth to hers. The last time he'd kissed a woman—when was it? Back when he was a young man, and clean, and drove a fancy car. He'd fucked plenty, but he hadn't kissed many. Snow lighted on her face. He pressed his lips to hers and lingered there until he realized that she'd never be able to kiss him back. But then, what did he expect? A woman like her would cringe at him being this close, if she were alive. She didn't belong here with him, dirty, old, crazy Lazarus, kneeling over her, and wanting to kiss her one last time before they came and took her away. Angels. Or the police. Whoever got there first.

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