My screech of surprise and terror gets muffled as he forcefully kisses me. His kisses are sloppy, wet and openmouthed and even with this sense of fervor that seems to have overtaken him, I get the sense he is holding himself back. Like he actually was a mere beast, and I was his helpless meal. My hands helplessly flail as I try to grab onto his face to push him off, but he does not even flinch or tell me to stop. Maybe if my nails hadn't been cut short for the sake of aesthetics, I could actually scratch him and do some damage. His kisses trail down towards my neck, and I want to scream for help or for him to stop, but all that comes out is a broken suppressed sob. Thomas lets out a low noise resembling a growl and I feel the air grow cold. He isn't satisfied with merely forceful kisses. The beast hungers for something more. Something much more. Unlike his gentle hold while we were dancing, his hands are rough and frantic as he grabs my waist and turns me around, slamming my chest against the railing and knocking the wind out of my lungs. He has no regard for my comfort; this is all about him and his satisfaction. 

My hands try and grab at anything to stabilize and orient myself, but all they can grasp is the sharp thorns of the rosebush. A soundless gasp escapes my mouth as I feel his shaking hands try and unbutton the back of my dress. For a few moments as he fumbles with the buttons, I can imagine him as a man again. A rough and terrible man, yes, but still a man. But that moment of reprieve does not last, and the beast returns. He grasps onto the fabric of my dress, and I hear and feel it start to tear, as my back gets exposed to the cold night air. His hands feel like sharp talons tearing into the flesh of a helpless victim. The sight of me so exposed seems to encourage him more, as he grabs into the fabric and keeps tearing. His ice-cold talons leave marks into my back and my whimpers of pain receive no sympathy. I'm clearly not even a human to him anymore. I'm just a tool to satisfy his urges. Satisfied with my state of undress, he uses one hand to press into my back to keep me still and starts fumbling with his belt with the other.  

My gaze flickers from the rosebush to the distant tree line and that's when I spot it. A large, shadowy figure with two sets of dead white eyes. It's him, I'm certain of it. The specter of death himself. Is he here for me or for Thomas? Or perhaps for someone else entirely? We make eye contact, and he begins lumbering towards the gazebo, his figure jerking and cracking as the smell of death wafts to my nose and the buzzing of flies grows audible. Thomas seems to notice him too, the spell his desires had over him shattering as he steps back, letting go of me completely. Neither of us speaks a single word, both utterly transfixed in the moment. As the specter reaches the edge of the rosebushes, I hear Thomas silently gag. He is shivering again, but not from desire. He doesn't even bother fixing up his now open belt, gaze totally locked onto the strange being. I tear my gaze towards him. He opens his mouth to say something, but his teeth are chattering so hard from fear, nothing intelligible comes out. A single tear falls down his cheek.  

The specter does not show any sign of emotion to this as he makes his way around to reach Thomas. Thomas remains still, like a baby deer in the way of an oncoming carriage. His eyes grow misty, like he is seeing visions of something. And whatever he sees must be terrifying, as more tears begin to fall and drip onto the wood. He makes no effort to wipe them away either. A decaying hand reaches out and the specter pulls him into his firm embrace. Thomas stops breathing, but his eyes frantically begin to look around. He seems to finally find his voice again, wheezing out a single word: “Please.” His plea receives no response or sympathy, not from the specter or me. The specters jaw cracks as he opens his mouth to whisper words I cannot hear into Thomas's ear. But this feels different from when it happened to my sister. His hold is not loving, its forceful. His whispers are harsh and fast, not comforting. Thomas's face remains frozen in terror and his mouth open as I hear him suddenly struggling to breathe in ear. It takes several agonizing minutes of those horrible noises of a man choking from nothing before it finally stops and Thomas becomes limp. The specter tosses him aside with zero care, his job now done.     

“Thank you.” I whisper and he finally seems to acknowledge my presence, eyes silently studying me for a moment. I feel safe again. Safer than I have felt in a long time. I find myself wishing for his embrace again. But I would feel foolish to say those words out loud. He takes off his ratty cloak and hands it to me, exposing every bit of his rotting body. He is almost a skeleton, barely covered in flaking rotting skin and what meat is there is oozing with unknown fluids and has holes eaten by maggots. I step closer, reaching out towards him too, but my hand makes its way past the cloak and grasps onto his shoulder instead. His shoulder feels cold and sticky, but somehow, I don't mind. “Your turn will not come tonight, my child.” He croaks out, echoing the very words he said when we first met. “When will it come?” I ask, surprised by just how eager my voice sounds. He doesn't respond right away, wrapping his cloak around me, shielding me from the unnatural cold. “Your soul is closely tied to mine, domina. We will meet again.” He whispers, hand softly caressing my cheek as he disappears, leaving just me, his cloak and the already rotting body of Thomas behind.