Dance of the Gypsy continued
With steps that made no sound he crossed the floor, pulled back the curtain and took his place within the confession box before drawing the fabric back across the doorway.
"Forgive us Father for we have sinned." The stranger didn't cross himself.
"You can only confess for yourself, my son." Father Thomas frowned, for the first time since finding sanctuary within the church he was scared.
"Tonight Father we shall both confess."
"Who are you?" Father Thomas wanted to leave, but something held him in place.
"That is why we are here," the stranger chuckled. "So that you remember."
* * *
He waits until his friends are gone, though he realises they aren't real friends. They see him as a safety net against bullies. They use him and he lets them, but he knows they see him as a bad apple. Not that it bothers him; he doesn't need anyone to tell him he's bad. He also knows that some things are best done alone.
He moves forward quietly, watching the couple embrace tightly in a fond farewell. He has seen her in the town recently, but he's sure that soon she will be moving on. Her kind never stays in one place too long, always moved on by disgruntled villagers. But before she leaves he must have her. He doesn't understand the yearning that draws him towards her, but she has filled his every waking thought and teased him through endless dreams. He needs to touch her skin, needs to see her body up close and now he must punish her for loving another.
The knife feels good in his hand, the blade sharp enough to slice his thumb as he absent-mindedly rubs it along the honed edge. He feels a power surge through him like nothing he has ever experienced; his eyes fixed on the prize soon to be his.
He is close enough to smell the musky odour of her sweat and it floods him with wave after wave of indescribable arousal. It's as if she pulsates with a magic that draws him in.
Closer now, he's within touching distance and they have yet to notice him, too involved with the sharing of tongues and the heat of their intimate kiss.
"Mind if I cut in?" As he asks the knife is already at her lover's neck.
She pulls back in horror, but a flame of excitement burns in her eyes.
"Lorca?" Tears quickly quench the fire and concern for her love takes over.
"Just tell the pretty lady to do as I ask and all will be fine." He pushes the tip of the knife into soft flesh, a fine point of blood rising where steel meets skin.
"What do you want?" Just the sweet sound of her voice makes him hard.
"Dance for me," he makes the order with a grin from over Lorca's shoulder.
With tears now running down her cheeks she begins to sway to a beat that only she can hear, a beat that matches the pulsing of the blood in his veins as he watches.
* * *
"Why are you doing this?" Father Thomas choked back the fear in his throat.
"You will soon find out, Father," the stranger replied. "But first I must finish, I must unburden myself."
Father Thomas fell silent, the Lord's Prayer running through his mind in an endless loop.
* * *
He can almost hear the music as her gyrations intensify; her hips sway from side to side as her arms swirl around her body.
So engrossed by the sight of her he lets the knife arm drop away. It is only for an instant, but the man known as Lorca sees his chance. He runs. He has no wish to die for the woman he has spent the afternoon professing his love to. After all, she is his brother's wife, his wife's sister. At least this way she may never tell the others of their forbidden love.
"LORCA!" He hears her cry and ignores it, hating himself for such weakness, but glad to be alive.
She tries to run, but the knife plunges deep into her gut, the steel burning as it passes easily through flesh and organs. She slumps into her tormentors arms and he looks down at her with a smile that hurts deeper than the fatal wound.
In his mind he knows he should run, get as far away as he possibly can, but the sight of her blood as he withdraws the knife works a new magic on him. He can see her breast rise and fall with each shallow breath and his earlier feelings of need grow tenfold.
With the knife he cuts away her clothes, the blade tearing fabric and peeling skin without prejudice. The more he sees of her the more he wants, the knife a frenzy of movement as he strips her down to bare muscle.
He strokes her moist, truly naked being with one hand and throws the knife aside so that he can stroke himself with the other. No longer able to hold back he spreads her out on the leaf littered ground and takes her.
* * *