Rating/Classification: PG-13, Lorenzo/Mary-ish.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Summary: "MarLo in the morgue" would've been better than Lois, someone said on SoapZone...and, lo (not "Lo"), I had to go there. Heh. Naturally, I didn't go *all the way*.
ne·cro·sis -Death of cells or tissues through injury or disease, especially in a localized area of the body.
The room is cool, sterile, smelling strongly of chemicals. Formaldehyde, bleach... and the underlying coppery scene of blood and waste. No one stops his entry. No one could. The double doors close behind him, the sound of them dragging along the tile floor only slightly quieter than his sharp in-take of breath.
Death lives here. It lingers on the gurneys, on the spotless steel table and the tray of instruments covered, loosely, with paper. And it hides in drawers.
He pulls out four before he finds her. There is no need to read the tag tied haphazardly around her toe.
She was pale in life, like porcelain, and she is paler still now. Perhaps even more flawless with the faint hue of blue at her lips. A doll. Her dark curls perfect, her body stiff. He could, no doubt, pose her at a tea party. He could do any number of things to her now. And she would deserve them.
"You killed her, Mary," he whispers. "Are you as cold as she was? As alone?"
In his imagination, her long eyelashes flutter, saying "yes." And he nods, satisfied. Good. That's as it should be." Belying his words to Emily Quartermaine. He told that pathetic girl that Mary was a good woman, a lost woman... but, apparently, his charity...his charity was short-lived. Like his niece.
Still...something of his heart must remain, because he's come to see her. He's come to bid her 'adios' and toast her with his flask of Patron and wish her a speedy journey to her dead husband. If she is not with him all ready. Perhaps there will be a tea party there. In the Great Beyond. And they will pour for Sage, for Luis, for Sophie and pass his regards and regrets around like a plate of biscuits.
Her cheek is cool against his fingertips, her palm icy against his neck. He cradles her in the grotesque parody of a lover's embrace.
They could have been. Lovers. He thought about it, most often late at night. Erasing the cries for Connor with the press of his mouth against hers...eradicating the imprint of Nikolas's body from hers as he wrapped her legs around his waist and carried her to bed. Perhaps she would have chased away his ghosts, too. Banished Carly and Sophie far beneath his nether regions. Perhaps he could have stopped her becoming a killer. Perhaps she could have made him forget he had ever been one.
"Perhaps" died with her, will be buried with her, in a shallow grave.
"Damn you, Mary Bishop," he hisses, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as he settles her back in purgatory. "Damn you to Hell."
And he'll see her soon enough.
Because he's all ready there.
September 10, 2004.