Calypso

Inspired by the boldness of red in the midst of desolation.

“The secret,” she whispered, “is that she killed him, not me.” She bore a tight-lipped smile behind the bars that separated them. “My love for her may have been a lie, but not hers for me. She saved my life and I could do no less for her.” She predicted the question on the reporter’s lips before she asked it. “I plead guilty but you will note that I’ve never said that I committed the crime. Only that I am guilty.” The journalist waited.

“Both the evening and my outlook were bleak. I remember the steely sky and the merciless winds battering the trees as I walked toward the cracked cement steps. I shivered as I knocked on the door, but I suspect from disgust instead of chill. He expected me, of course, since he had summoned me here. When he called, it was easier to come of your own accord.

The door groaned as it opened, exhaling a stench of stale cigarettes and unwashed bodies. He lounged in a ratty recliner, facing me. It was possible to tell by the stains where his greasy ringlets brushed the shoulders of the garish satin robe. It hung open, showcasing the cheap gold-plated eagle resting in a mass of thick hair. I tried not to lower my gaze. He carried himself with an undue regality amidst the peeling chartreuse paint and splintered furniture – the king of this trashy little trailer.

My stomach roiled but I would do what I came to do. After all, it was no different from any other time. I endured his verbal salivation. He had bought me another of his gifts – red mesh  – and bid me change into it. Despite his protests, I stepped into the small washroom, feigning the need to make an entrance. I needed to give myself a moment. I sat poised on the edge of the toilet seat, grimacing in the direction of the box.

It happened then. I did not see it, but heard it. The creak of the door, the crash of glass and torsion of wood. Rage, hers passionate and raw, his confused and betrayed. The roar of a gunshot. The thud of a body. It didn’t last long, this cacophony of justice. An eerie quiet settled, and she opened the door of the room, smiling. Her auburn hair lay matted against her sweat covered skin, her clothes were torn and blood trickled from a gash on her forehead. She’d never been more beautiful.

Well into the early hours of the morning she revealed her true identity to me. She was undercover, working to expose a larger menace. In spite of that, something awoke in her when she discovered where I would be that night. A single moment of passion had bloomed into pure destruction, eradicating our tormentor, her case and my semblance of safety in one horrifically romantic blaze.

If her heart was ablaze, mine was scattered ashes. The woman I loved was fiction made flesh. I went cold at the thought of it. But she was both betrayer and saviour. I could not bear the burden of her unfinished crusade if she lost what she had been working toward in her foolishly noble attempt to rescue me. I fled in the night, taking the culpable firearm and leaving a note with my intentions in its stead.

Therein lies the tragic irony of being imprisoned for something meant to liberate. Instead of bearing love I cannot return, I bear the punishment for something done in its name. I plead guilty, and I am, for she would not have done it if not for love of me.”