Ghost of summers past

The weight of dawn crushed any hopes of reconciliation between Alphonse and me, but maybe he didn't know it yet. Mist glistened on his black suit as we stood in the alley outside my hotel, both waiting for the other one to make the first move. Impatient, he lit another cigarette. Time darkened his hair and melted the joy out of his face, leaving it sharp, solid, and suspicious.

He didn't smoke this much the last time I saw him all those years ago when he called himself Albert and promised to teach me all about the job. His hair was shorter and lighter back then, and his eyes laughed when people lied to him. It only took a brief conversation for his languid smile and lukewarm charm to convince me I could trust him.

“You really need to stop staying in the same 5-star hotels,” he whispered with a voice hoarse from tobacco and the February breeze. I expected an ambush in my room--a struggle, an interrogation, a private settling of accounts, not a calm conversation in a quiet alley. I pretended to shiver and shoved my right hand in my pocket, where I kept the pocket knife he gave me all those years ago.

"I'm supposed to be a billionaire's wife tonight, remember? I can't stay anywhere else."

With a slow, knowing nod, he closed the distance between us, his hand reaching out to brush against mine.

"Let's make a deal. I know you have the list there," he pointed at the right hand in my pocket. "Delete my name from the list. You get to complete your mission and I get to live another day. For old-time's sake? We had so much fun together once, remember?" The more he smiled, the colder his gaze became.

His promises from all those summers ago still echoed in my mind. For a moment, I yearned for the girl I used to be -- wide-eyed, full of promise, desperate for his approval, unaware of his betrayal. Rage burned in my chest with the memories of the last time I had heard his voice, cold as the knife he had plunged into my chest to pay for his life with mine.

"I remember. It was you." I shot back, wrapping my arm around him to pull him closer and sink my knife into his chest. "You did this to me! You left me in the out on that beach to die."

He let out a quiet cry and clung to me despite himself and I couldn't help but smile at the feeling of his hands tensing up on my shoulders. First comes the shock, a painless wave of disbelief before the blood makes a thick, syrup-like river on your clothes. My resentment relished in his pain, but the girl from all those summers ago teared up at the smell of blood, his blood. He grimaced as a thousand needles pierced him on the chest and down his legs when I helped him sit down on the ground. In a few minutes, he'd start struggling for breath.

I was glad his voice couldn't bewitch me anymore. Alone in that alley, I refused to name what I had just done--it could be revenge, justice, or survival, but I knew the glass of wine I'd have that night in my hotel room would be enough to drown the sorrow of the girl from summers past.

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