DISCLAIMER: I own, very little in this story. I own the world, and the children, but everything and everyone else belong to Marvel, and I'm not making money off of this.
Remember: Feedback to writers is like water to flowers, so water a writer today! <G>
`But let judgment run down as waters, and righteousness as a might stream.' -Amos 5:24
`Judgment is forced upon us by experience.' -Samuel Johnson
`--Before you judge me, take a look at you, can't you find something
better to do--
--little whispers circle around you head, why don't you worry about yourself
instead--
--Judge not, lest ye be judged yourself-- Holier then thou, you are, you
know not!' -`Holier then thou,' Metallica
She had beautiful lips.
The kind of lips that you could stare at for hours, tracing them with you eyes, wishing it was your tongue. The kind of lips you could suck on from now until eternity.
They were beautiful, exquisitely perfect in every way. Round, but not too round, red, so that they never needed lipstick. They didn't have blackheads around the corners, and were perfectly smooth. They were very kissable lips.
Very suckable.
It was a shame that this wonderful pair of lips now belonged to a dead woman, but then again, now, she was in a place where her wonderful lips could be admired by Angels...and God. But it was a shame, it really was, and mostly because he'd never see those wonderful lips coming down upon his own, never see them kissing lines down his chest-
He shook his head, surprised at his thoughts. He put his silencer equipped pistol back into the pocket of his leather coat and pulled out a pair of matching black leather gloves. He slipped them onto his hands, one at a time, making sure that his fingers were nice and secure, and that none his skin would touch anything.
He detested the way dead people, even dead people with such wonderful lips, felt on his skin, growing slowly cold and clammy. It was better to think of them when they were alive. To think of those lips as they had opened and closed in the rhythm of speech.
He picked up the dead woman, her eyes were still open, cloudy blue in death, and they seemed to be looking right behind him, right at the new world she would be in. There was no surprise, or terror in those eyes, he and pulled the gun, and trigger before she had ever known what hit her. And who would ever think that this nice man would hurt anyone? Not that he was, hurting anyone that is. He had sent her to a better place, a place where there were no humans, and no Mutants, a place where the world was hers and everyone was equal.
She was in a much better place now. Much better.
He gathered her in his arms, she wasn't heavy at all, and carried her though the dining room where they had sat, past the kitchen and out the back door to the pool. He looked around first, making sure no nosy neighbor was looking over the fence at him, but it was nighttime anyway, the moon didn't even have the decency to pay respect for the dead by showing it's face, so there was no light by which neighbors could see his face.
He carried her over to a lawn chair, and laid her down on it, crossing her arms under the back of her head, and slowly, tenderly, closing her eye lids, holding them down so they would stay shut.
He stood back, looking at her.
She looked... peaceful. Wonderfully, peaceful, except for the bullet hole in her forehead, but he could fix that.
He walked back inside, into the kitchen area. It was small, and untidy compared to the rest of the house. There were dirty dishes in the sink, and old food on the stove, it sickened him to see such a mess.
Turned on the water in the sick, stopped it up, and pulled off his gloves, laying them neatly on the side of the sink. When it was full of water, he picked up one plate and began to wash it, then, rinsed it, and put it in the dish drainer.
He repeated the process until there were no more dishes, and then scraped the food out of the pots and pans on the stove then washed them as well.
As a last minute thought, he opened the refrigerator, and began cleaning that out as well, washing pots and pans, plates and bowls, that had food in them from Heaven only knows when.
After all that was done, he cleaned out the freezer too, taking out everything that had freezer burn, ice covering the dish, on it, and tossing it into the trash. He then proceeded to don his gloves again, and dry the dishes, making sure to smear his finger prints, if not wiping them off completely. Then he found a battle of Windex under the kitchen sink, and sprayed everything down, wiping it clean.
>Once he was satisfied that the kitchen was spotless, he opened the cabinets and found two glasses and two plates. Then made two ham and cheese sandwiches with Miracle Whip, not mayonnaise, and trimmed off the crust, and cut the sandwiches into four triangles.
He also poured two tall glasses of milk, and, putting the food on a tray he found in one cabinet, carried it outside to the pool, setting it down on a table, and pulling it over to the dead woman. Then he remembered the whole reason he had gone into the kitchen in the first place.
`Don't worry,' he said, smiling down at the woman, `I'll be right back, and we'll fix that messy little hole in your head.' He half ran back into the house, and found the bathroom, which was almost as bad a disgrace as the kitchen had been. He sighed heavily, then rummaged around in the medicine cabinet, finding a first aid kit.
He brought it back outside, and opened it. After cleaning and bandaging up the wound, it just looked at if the woman had a little accident and placed a bandage on her head, and was now quietly sleeping.
He sat down in another chair, and ate his sandwich and milk while looking at the woman's perfect lips.
Her name was Mildred. Mildred Lucius. She was 29, a children's artist, painting pictures of things people liked to buy for their kid's rooms. She was a widow at such a young age, a car accident had taken her husband, Owen, three years ago, and she was alone. Plus, she had the best lips God had ever created.
Big.
Full.
Round.
Perfect.
Definitely suckable lips.
After the last of his sandwich was done, and he had taken the last gulp of his milk, he got up, leaving Mildred's sandwich and milk beside her, and went back into the house. He washed and dryed his dish and glass, putting them back into the cabinet, then decided to clean her bathrooms, and vacuum her floors.
Then he took out the trash.
And, after all his cleaning was done, he sat down on her couch, and pulled up the telephone beside him. He dialed the number he knew by heart, and heard it ring twice before it was picked up.
`'Allo? Homicide, Detective LeBeau speakin'.' The strongly accented cajun voice said chipperly over the phone.
He smiled, but didn't answer.
`'Allo? Wh- Fils de par garce!'
His smile got larger. `115 Marble Lane, Remy. 115 Marble Lane, and do hurry, she's here all alone.' He put the phone down on the cradle softly.
Then he got up, it would be only a matter of minutes before Detective Remy LeBeau had the SWAT team down here with stun grenades and tear gas.
So, with a damp cloth, he wiped down anything he might have touched before he doned his gloves, and wiped the doorbell he had rung. He walked out back, once more wanting to see Mildred's wonderful lips. Slowly, with care, he bent down and kissed them. They were cold.
Then he calmly walked back through the house, found a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote something quickly. Then out the front door and got into his car, driving out of sight two minutes before the police arrived.