Last Rose For a Rebel - Part 1
SHE was my wife, once ...
long ago, so very long ago ...
we met on the showboat, up-river,
almost fifty years back now ...
I was a young officer for the Confederacy,
working for the Yanks after The Turn,
supplying and distributing petrol
to the businesses on the river.
I had never seen such a smile ...
as it happens it was MY smile that spun her as well ...
she said it was like the sun on the "Old Man Miss",
sparkling at midday on the churn of the boat wheel.
There was magic, you see ...
not just in her smile,
but in her scent ... and touch ... and eyes!
When she touched me the first time
it was as though I had been born again ...
feelings and passions I'd have never thought
I was even capable of ...
but even before that,
on the upper deck as she had walked by ...
a fragrance so sweet and seductive ...
I was compelled to follow her the rest of the day.
Oh, she knew I was watching,
and she would smile every so often,
look right AT me and smile, reeling me in ...
I loved it ... I was hers forever from the first!
And now she was here again ...
to say goodbye ... I, old and failing and in such pain,
and she had not aged a moment ...
not a single moment!
The magic all returned the moment she came in,
my putrid hospital room ...
the smell of death mixed with chemicals,
meant to cover the rot,
but to me it made it all worse,
and I longed for death now.
Oh, I wasn't bitter - I'd lived a full life - I was just READY.
But seeing her here, beside my bed ...
feeling the touch of her powder-soft skin,
as porcelain and wan as China tea cups,
the scent of aromatic passion, pure,
and when she brushed the hair from my brow,
the pain left me ...
oh, not completely, but enough to allow a smile,
and enough to feel what she had always gifted me ...
the joy of just BEING ... with her.
I never told her, you see ...
never told her that I knew -
all the many nights she had left our bed to feed.
In the beginning her touch cast a spell,
and I would sleep the night through ...
but I slowly grew accustomed to her wiles,
and when she'd stroke my forehead as usual,
I would close my eyes, and pretend to sleep.
I had my suspicions for a long time,
and the first time I followed her
it was not a surprise when she found
a lonely man on an alley off Bourbon Street ...
it was still a shock for me to watch her feed, at first,
(though I knew inside it was coming),
but she never harmed a soul ...
she cast her spell and they slept while she drank,
then she'd pass her fingers over the bites in their neck,
and they would close without a mark ...
five minutes later she was gone,
and they would awaken ...
a bit drowsy at first, and confused,
but fine in body and spirit,
and even a bit chipper, to be truthful.
It was the residue of that charm, you see ...
they felt it, too, and it lasted for hours after she'd leave you,
stronger each time you saw her.
Every time, I'd think how silly it was that I could feel MORE,
and yet every time I DID!
I was never jealous ...
oh, she used her intense sexuality to seduce,
but she never engaged in more than feeding,
and she never desired anyone but me, I could tell, not in that way.
It wasn't her choice, you know ...
she did what she had to to survive, like ANY of us,
so the shock didn't last long,
and I didn't follow her much after the first few nights.
Oh, I would every-so-often, when I had sleepless nights,
but it wasn't unusual or novel for very long,
just a part of our daily, (and nightly), lives.
It wasn't long before I actually felt sorry for her -
having to live that way, I mean,
And following her made me feel like a spy ...
I didn't like that at all, and wouldn't have wanted it myself.
SO many times I started to tell her,
especially when friends would notice our age difference more-and-more,
that SHE was still so young looking, while I was ageing naturally.
Ultimately that's why she had to leave, (and I knew it was coming).
It was the reason that I almost told her - the fear of her going,
but in the end I realized she'd probably hate me ...
for keeping it to myself for so long, that is,
or she'd resent me for not having trusted her,
or perhaps even be ashamed,
and though that may seem silly, it's the one thing I couldn't stand the thought of -
she was always so proud of her ability to adapt and fit in - be NORMAL folk ...
I could tell that just from watching her with our friends,
and I couldn't take the chance of hurting her that way,
so I never spoke of the truth ...
ever.
She finally left, as I knew, (and dreaded), she would ...
twenty years to the day after we met ...
no goodbye, no hint of it coming,
just the imprint of her lipstick on a card and the words, "Forever Only, My Johnny Reb",
as she had done on every card and note she had ever given me.
I wasn't angry, but I was profoundly sad, for months.
She really had no choice, you see, for staying any longer
would have posed questions, from me AND others, too difficult to answer.
She had survived this way for what I assumed was centuries,
and I truly loved her, and wanted her safe and alive above all else.
About three months later the divorce papers came, and I signed them.
(continued)
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