Destructive Passion. Short Story.

My week had been progressing slowly, which probably isn’t a huge shock. I’m all mucousy and gross. I didn’t even know it was possible for the body to create this much mucous. It seems almost impossible.

In other news, books arrived today! Well, book. By which I mean MaddAddam by Margaret Atwood. I’m looking forward to reading it, but I’m a bit torn. I’m reading through the Dark Tower series again, the plan was to slot Wind Through the Keyhole in its proper place, but now I have a new book I’ve been eagerly awaiting, so switch books? Read both? I don’t know what to do! Part of me wants to reread the first two in the MaddAddam series as well. I’ll figure it out eventually I guess!

On with the show!


He stood in the street, looking in at her.


The street was dark, large trees and sparse lights created shadows which danced occasionally as the breeze pushed and shoved at the branches. Everyone was indoors, it was a chilly night. There were no shops in the nearby area, no one left their house at night, not here. Why would they? They had no need. Delivery services could bring everything to them. The area was wealthy and the roads were strategically blocked off so people wouldn’t drive through them unless they had business at one of the houses. The sound of a car engine swelled, the diminished as it turned away from him. He smiled and moved into the garden. The curtains were open, she was practically begging him to watch. She sat on the couch, an Ipad in her lap and some movie playing on the TV. He knew she wasn’t watching the TV, nor was she paying attention to what ever was on the Ipad, she was aware of his presence, everything she did was calculated for him and him alone. She was home by herself, she had made sure of that. Her parents gone off somewhere, they would be alone in the house tonight, they would finally be together. No more looks from afar, sly winks and sultry glances. She would finally be his. She shifted on the couch, her nightdress rising slightly, exposing some of her thigh. He shivered.




It was torture waiting for her to turn off the lights, he knew he couldn’t cross that barrier, not while any passing bastard could see. It had to be secret. No one could know. They were too different, he too old and too poor, she too young and too rich. The same love story that played across a thousand different cultures, and burned into the stars with longing. People would talk, so they needed to be discrete. When darkness finally began to cloak the house he approached slowly, a light went on upstairs and he stopped, waiting for it to go off. After ten minutes he grew impatient and began to move toward the house again. The side gate was locked but that was no bother, he easily scaled it. The back garden was large, the shapes of the furniture and decorations loomed in the darkness, protective sentinels. He would beat them tonight. His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the paving before the backdoor. He gripped it in one sweating palm and, after a moment, he pulled. His breath caught in his throat as the door moved ever so slowly, making that comforting, smooth sound. He stepped into the kitchen and closed the door, this time quickly. He didn’t want the wind to knock anything down. He didn’t want to frighten her, make her think he was some criminal, planning to do something untoward. Not tonight. Tonight they would create beauty, together.


He moved through the house silently, he had never been here before but it was as though the layout had been seared into his brain. There was no worry of creaky floorboards, or fear he’d knock something over. He moved through the house smoothly, his shadow occasionally flaring out behind him as he passed windows.

He had made it to the first test. The stairs. Every great love story had an enemy and some kind of test, the stairs were both. They could lead to greatness or be his downfall. He moved up them confidently, rolling his weight forward, easing into the creaks. When he reached the top he stopped, released a breath and smiled. He had made it. There had been two creaks, both sounded natural. He knew that if he stopped suddenly it would be over. He could see light spilling into the hallway, she was so close. He breathed deeply, smelling her. Faint and sweet, almost like vanilla, with a hidden spice. He listened, over the sound of his rushing blood and thudding heart. There was silence save for her gentle, deep and steady breathing. He waited a little longer for the turn of a page, or the thud of fingers against glass, but there was nothing. He crept forward, stepping into the light and peering in at her. She was asleep. Of course. She was so pure, so delicate she would sleep with the light on so darkness couldn’t touch her skin, she shunned its caress. He stepped into her room, his hand slid to his pocket and gripped the reassuringly hard weight that rested there.
He sat on the chair in her room, staring at the red slashes on the white walls, transfixed. It was so beautiful. He looked at her body, contorted in its final death throes. It had been perfect. He shivered as he thought of her, writing and moaning beneath him in ecstasy as he plunged the knife into her supple flesh.

He stared at her, unable to look away, feeling a deep sadness come over him. It was over now, they could never be together again. He stood from the chair and went to her dresser, there he found a small necklace, slipping it around his neck he left her cooling body. He walked through the house confidently and exited through the front door. He was unlucky in love, the paragon of unrequited romance. Romeo was merely a disillusioned teen compared to him. He always was and always would be a victim of tragic love. For every women he loved, it would end this way, it always had and always would. They could never be together, but for those few, brief second of unbridled honestly, lust and love. His fingers reached up to his neck and ran along the chain. This memento would help him remember the burning love and how she, in her final moments, loved him too and would continue to love him, all through time. Before he left he had kissed her, every so gently on the lips, they were cold. The cold seemed burned into them, but her love would keep him warm for a little while yet.


About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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