Fan Art by Fraylim: Femme Fatale (Patreon)

Obviously, I'm a big fan of Fraylim's art. But this one's definitely up there amongst my favourites. This is from the very beginning--or is that the ending?--of the story: Cindy with a gun, out for vengence. I love the Noir styling of the image; she could've stepped out of classic 50s femme fatale film, or a Raymond Chandler novel.

Fun fact: the silver dress was inspired by a passage in the Leonard Cohen novel Beautiful Losers.

In any case, here's the relevant passage. The Prelude's pretty short, so here's the whole thing, a bit of a walk down memory lane. It was posted just last week but maybe Fraylim's art will bring it to life in a different way.

Can't believe I wrote this opener nearly seventeen years ago. If I'd known it'd lead to 300k+ words of writing over an 18-year period, I wonder if I would've given up then and there? In any case, I remain commited to reaching this prologue without making any drastic changes: for better or for worse, it's the pole star guiding the entire story.

***

One: Not a Woman

I stand, gun pointed at his head.

            The weight of the pistol feels comfortable in my grip.  A few weeks ago, I would’ve sworn to having never seen a handgun before--not outside of one of those movies Tom likes and I hate, or in some horrible fever dream.  The thought of holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified hysterics.  Now the ugly thing nestles easily in my grip.  The feel of the cold metal is once again familiar: its textured grip, the deadly weight.

            But then, many new things have become familiar in the past two years:  the flash of glossy pink on the painted nails resting at the pistol’s trigger; the sweep of long blonde hair at the edge of vision; the slick taste of lipstick.  The precarious balance and high arch of stilettos is comfortable now.  I’ve learned to love my breasts, their feel and touch and weight—the way they move and the pretty bra that cups them, and even the feel of a man’s strong hand over them.

            But that empty feeling between my legs?  Not that . . . that will never be familiar.  Now one of the bastards responsible sits tied to a chair, hands behind his back, face bloodied and back bowed.  I stand, gun pointed at his head.  There is beauty to the simplicity of the image.  My slender bared shoulder and outstretched arm, with its delicate silver bracelet that flashes in the flickering half-light of the dirty little room, trembles from the weight of the weapon.  It is not indecision that causes the tremble.  There is a metre of empty space, and then Tom’s face, bruised eyes squeezed shut in fear.  Not for the first time I admire the elegance that reveals itself in the ugliness of violence.  After all I’ve endured: finally, revenge.

            The moment he opens his eyes I’ll shoot.  I want to see the look in my husband’s eyes one last time.

            “Oh, God.  Please, no, don’t do this.”  His voice pleads and I thrill at the power I hold over him.  It’s been so long since I’ve felt powerful.  The bastard keeps his eyes squeezed shut.  “I’m so—it doesn’t—have to be this way.  I’m so sorry.”

            I don’t answer.  The gun begins to feel heavy.  In some ways I’m a lot weaker than I used to be.

            “Cindy,” he says.  “Please.”

            “My name is not Cindy,” I hiss.

            He takes a deep, shaky breath.  “David,” he says.

            “Say it again.”  I want to shout but my voice catches in my throat and finally escapes hardly louder than a whisper.  This has already gone on for too long, and there isn’t much time.  The sound of other violence outside the room, of other dramas unfolding, lives ending, retributions being paid or earned, steadily grows.  “Open your eyes.”

            “David,” he repeats.

            “Look at me!”

            He opens his eyes.  He looks straight into me.  His eyes are blue but so clear they seem nearly transparent.  They are the most alluring feature of a very attractive man.  A woman could easily lose herself in those gentle depths.  I did.

            “I’m so sorry,” he says.

            But I am not a woman.  I squeeze the trigger.