Sleep Tight

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He hovered over the unmoving girl, deftly drawing a thick black line on her eyelid, curving it upward at the corner. That was followed by a smidgen of rouge to her colorless cheeks. Next came the lipstick, blood red in a gold metal tube.

He could hear his own rasping breath as he carefully applied the color to lips that had been soft and full but were now chapped and cracked. As carefully as a mortician he worked, and as he did he could feel his heart beating in his head.

He had the desire to kiss her and leaned closer.

Wake up, my princess. My little princess…

Her cracked lips opened under his. He felt her deep inhalation sucking the air from his lungs-a cat, trying to steal his breath. He pulled back to see her staring silently at him, her pupils dilated and glassy from drugs and the dark, windowless basement where she'd spent the last two weeks. Had she learned her lesson? Would she finally act like a lady? Would she ask him how his day had been? Would she ask him what he wanted for supper? Later, would she sit on the living room floor near his feet while he listened to music? Would she bring him something to drink, with perhaps a slice of cake, and rub his temples until his headache stopped, saying in the most soothing of voices, "There, there"?

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