Prologue.
I never believed in the concept of love before she came into
my life. I always thought that people confused the sensation
of a very strong attraction to be something more divine then
mere passion of the flesh, and so in their vanity they
invented the lie that was love. That lie was soon entwined
with the lie of god. And love became a celestial attribute
we share with our maker. But I was wrong. Love is real, and
is more potent then any earthly craving.
The power of love is eternal.
I know this now because she taught me. My Angelica, she
changed me forever.

It was a cold February evening, and outside the rain was
pouring down hard. I had just arrived at the office where I
work, I am a reporter for a major daily newspaper, my job is
to cover all the criminal activity that takes place in the
city during the week and to report from the scene of any
major cases or arrests.
As I entered the office that evening I noticed that
something was going on. A group of men was huddled around
one of the desks and talking in raised voices to someone at
the middle that I couldn't see, for the crowd blocked my
view. The women gazed at this strange assembly in a manner I
can only describe as amused contempt.
I asked one of them what was happening.
"A new girl", she replied, with a smile that poorly
concealed the malice in her tone.
Men are shameless. I thought as I was approaching the area
of the gathering, flocking on some poor new girl like
vultures on a corpse. Half of them are married, for god
sake.
I made my way through them somehow and arrived at my desk. I
was opening my briefcase when suddenly the crowd parted and
I got my first view of the young woman in the center of
attention.
Her vision caught me off guard and I was for a second, lost
in her somewhat surreal presence.
After all, one usually does not expect to meet his favorite
movie star at the supermarket. And I certainly did not
expect to meet the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, at
the crummy office, where I have wasted my young life every
evening for the past eight and a half years.
But there she was, sitting on a desk in front of me, a woman
in her late twenties. Her long charcoal black hair was hung
loose around her oval face and flowed down behind her
shoulders, emphasizing the paleness of her skin and the
blood red of her lips. Her bone structure suggested east
European, or perhaps Spanish origins. She wore a gray
sweater dark blue pants and white sneakers. Her hands were
rested on her lap playing carelessly with a sophisticated
camera she held in her long delicate fingers.    
But it was her eyes that got me so transfixed. They were
dark gray, like steel, and shone with wisdom and vitality.
Huge and round, stone cold yet full of emotion. I felt a
stab of pain in my heart, she was simply too perfect to be
real.  
I stumbled at her direction, extended my hand and spoke my
name. She gave me the tips of her fingers smiling and said:

"Angelica".
We exchanged greetings and she informed me that she is to be
the photographer for the new criminals section of the
newspaper, and that we are going to work together from now
on. The others looked at me with unspoken scorn when we left
my desk and went into the editor's office to discuss things
further.

Angelica.
At first I approached her with suspicion.
My heart was no stranger to the anguish of false beauty, and
I knew all too well that a radiant smile is often a mask for
a hollow personality, as rotten and flawed from within, as a
shining diamond with a chipped heart.
As the weeks passed however, my colleagues and I discovered
that Angelica's beauty is surpassed somehow by her charm.
She was sometimes distant, yes. Drifting off to a place all
her own, but it wasn't because she thought herself to be
better than us, but simply because she was a drifter. It was
part of her allure.
She had a great imagination, and an ironic sense of humor,
but she was in no way bitter, or unattached.
Although she was new to our company, Angelica quickly earned
our trust.
She proved to be a great listener.
If you had a problem, or just needed to share your pain with
someone, you could always turn to her.
She would sit and listen patiently to all your ails,
absently curling a stray lock of hair around her finger, and
before you knew it, you were under her spell.
You would tell her everything, your deepest secrets, sins
and weaknesses. It would all come out before her mute
inquiring eyes.
Infinitely sympathetic of the human trouble, but never
selling out her integrity in order to please others, she
would then offer council, and sometimes, a shoulder to cry
on.
She was wise beyond her years it seemed, and she quickly
became our friend, confidant and much more.
The relations did not go both ways however.
We knew absolutely nothing about her. Her own life she kept
to herself, and gave us nothing. Never talking about
Angelica, never answering only questioning. But we trusted
her nonetheless.
And do not assume that this has happened only with the men.

Oh no, she had the girls in her embrace as well. True, at
first they were reluctant, they didn't trust the beautiful
new girl who came out of nowhere and was obviously not an
ordinary woman. They felt threatened by her effect on the
men and feared that she will use her influence to do them
harm.
But sure enough Angelica had found her way to their hearts.
Her warm and friendly nature and her charming demeanor has
melted the walls of ice some raised against her and she was
soon accepted and confided by her female colleagues who now
all considered her to be their best friend.
As for myself, I guess her effect on me was the most
powerful, for I worked with her almost every night. She was
my new partner.
We would start the evening by collecting some tips and
updates from our people at the police HQ, and then hit the
streets and listen to the policemen chat on their special
radio frequency. Every few minutes the machine would report
us about a store or apartment that was broken into, a woman
who was raped or a car that was stolen.
We ignored such puny misdemeanors and waited for the real
stuff. Mostly homicide, but also organized crime and major
drug busts were our readers biggest interests, so that was
what we hoped to get.
Once or twice each night we would arrive at a murder scene,
Angelica took pictures of the victims and surroundings while
I questioned the officer in charge and some of the neighbors
or bystanders who reported the deed. I never liked my job. I
did it without joy or interest. It was more of a habit
really, but working with Angelica made it worthwhile.
She loved what she did and we got along well together. She
was an extremely talented photographer. Her pictures should
have been displayed in an art gallery, not the daily papers.

I once asked her why did she not become an artistic
photographer or at least work at a more challenging place
like a designing or fashion magazine, she said only that she
liked shooting dead people. That this was in her view the
most realistic subject...

After we worked together for a few weeks Angelica let me in
on her private work. Chilling images of dead fish washed
ashore, road killed dogs and deer, various kinds of
tombstones and other such atrocities compiled her photo
books. All pictures were black and white, and all appeared
to be shot during nighttime.
The pictures, I must admit, were beautiful somehow.
They possessed a dark and somewhat inviting aura that
grabbed you and sucked you into its discouraging atmosphere,
leaving you confused and emotionally drained as you turned
away from the spectacle. It was an unsettling sensation. The
stuff nightmares are made of.
I realized then that Angelica also possessed a darker side.
When I inquired her about her obvious fascination with
death, she replied simply that we all crave for those things
we cannot retrieve. I let go of the matter assuming that she
was referring to a lost relative or friend.
Only seldom did we have a slow night with nothing special or
interesting to report. We would spend those long hours of
the night idly sitting in the car and talking endlessly
about such unimportant and irrelative topics as we could
find.
It was on those occasions that I really felt like I am
getting to know her. And to know one such as Angelica meant
more than ever- to love one.
It happened on such a night, as I was sitting so close to
her, laughing at one of her remarks, that I found myself
gazing in her eyes, fighting with all my might the desire to
reach out and smother her with my affection. Silence fell
over us for a long moment. I wanted her than like I never
wanted anything in my life, suddenly she meant life and
death to me. The moment passed, and we both turned away
uncomfortably.
The days passed and a bond was slowly being made strong
between us. I was making every attempt to be close to her,
to touch her to squeeze dry every last minute in her
company. But I couldn't find in my heart the courage to
express my feelings to her straight foreword. Afraid I will
lose her altogether if she recoiled from me.
My sleep was broken by bittersweet dreams about her. It was
her affinity that agonized me, for she was there with me
every night, so close. But to unveil myself to her could be
disastrous.
It was during the next month, however, that things changed
forever between us. It was probably the hardest month of my
life, the month of the mannequin maker.

First blood.
I remember in detail the moment when it all started. For the
events that took place that night and in the nights that
followed has had such a grieve effect on me, and have in
fact rattled me so hard that I strongly doubt myself ever
being able to forget them.  Angelica was having one of her
rare bad moods that night. But she would not share with me
the reasons for her sadness. Instead she dismissed the whole
thing as nothing serious. I was frustrated with this. I
wanted to believe that my relations with her were deeper
somehow, and that she was willing to share more with me than
with others.
I was goading her to open her mind to me, when the radio
buzzed out a call of distress. A young policeman has
apparently just walked into his very first murder scene. The
voice calling out of the radio was so panicked and urgent
that we sped off to the scene without hesitation, we both
felt by instinct that this was big.
I remember I felt fortunate then, to be the first media
person to arrive on the scene, a successful and prestigious
children's clothing store at the very heart of the city.
As we stepped over the yellow tape and approached to examine
the scene nothing could have prepared us for what we were
about to witness. At first I did not see anything. It was
like my brain had somehow understood what was going on
before my conscience could, decided it was too horrible, and
shut it out.
The front window of the store was smashed, and broken glass
was scattered on the sidewalk and display ramp. On the
display itself were in lined numerous children size
mannequins in evening clothes, mostly old fashioned style
gowns and dresses. But where the glass was broken a
mannequin was missing. It was removed, but something was put
in its place.
I gazed at it in dumb shock for a long moment, and then
stumbled away from the spectacle. I stopped and vomited
behind a dumpster. My heart was beating fast, tears were now
running freely on my face and I was shaking without control.

There on display, staring at me I could feel her dead eyes,
the eyes of a little girl.
She was maybe ten years old, and was once very beautiful.
Her bright hair, the color of honey, was combed neatly back,
and she was dressed up in a splendid green dress. Only to be
savagely molested and defiled.
Her left arm was sawn off from her body, and was now laid
beside her like a broken doll part. Blood was intentionally
sprayed from this wound, and now covered the dark barriers
behind her back like red graffiti. Her right leg was
scorched from the knee down to her rubber green shoe, which
was now a shapeless molten substance. Long rusty iron shafts
were driven through her shoulders, chest, stomach and
genitalia, and her face was mercilessly sprayed with acid.
The tiny tortured body was sited in such a manner that the
now deformed face gazed to the heavens, with an impression
of unearthly suffering frozen in its ocean blue, lifeless
eyes.
I collapsed on the pavement, and wept. Finally a gentle
touch on my shoulder brought me back to awareness. I looked
up and saw Angelica had joined me. She looked even more pale
than usual, and somewhat startled, but otherwise ok.
I got up and collected her in my arms. We stood like that
for a long moment, then parted without a word, and returned
to the scene to do our job.
The killer was later nicknamed the mannequin maker, for his
habit of displaying the bodies of his victims on the windows
of popular, and fashionable stores in the city. He had
struck three more times during that long month.
All the victims were white young girls ages 8 to 12, all
blue eyed with long blond hair. They were all washed,
groomed and dressed up in exquisite dresses before they had
been raped, beaten and tortured to death.
The mannequin maker was a creative psychopath, he never used
the same method of abuse twice, his techniques ranged from
sawing off fingers and limbs, to inflicting cigarette and
blowtorch burns all over the body, making surgical incisions
and extracting internal organs, impaling the body with
various metal objects, smashing bones with a heavy hammer or
rubbing off a portion of the flesh and skull from the head
with sandpaper. There seemed to be no boundaries to his
sadistic imagination.
The killings were basically without any repeating pattern
except for the dressing up and displaying of the victims.
This series of tragedies had an irreversible effect on me.
They devastated me from within. I thought I had grown
accustomed to visiting death scenes and writing about
cruelty and injustice while staying emotionally detached.
But this was too much. Too sick, too violent, too unnerving
to push aside, I couldn't handle it. Their young mute faces
broke through my walls of defense and denial, and left me
vulnerable.
What was worse, I still had to report these monstrosities.
I was expected to deliver a sober and detailed description
of the killings.
How? I asked myself. How am I to put in writing a true and
accurate description of something that is beyond my
understanding?
I was obligated to study all the bloody details too, how
exactly were the girls hijacked, how they were rapped and
sodomized, and finally how they died.
By the way, nobody could tell me what was the exact cause of
death in any of the three first victims. Simply because
there were so many probable causes available, could have
been the whipping, or the burns, or maybe the nails and
glass wounds, or the acid who knows... the list of possible
death causes was long, but two things we knew for a fact:
He kept them alive as long as he could.
And he gave them no anesthetics or painkillers.
This maniac wanted his girls to suffer without end.
Three weeks and two more victims after the first murder, I
was a broken man. I suffered terrible nightmares and hardly
slept since the whole thing began. I lost my appetite for
food and drink, and my mind was obsessed with thoughts of
fatalistic despair.
Even when I was with Angelica I found no comfort.
During those troubled weeks. She seemed to be almost
completely unaffected by the horrors we faced.
True, she had lost her usual cheer and appeared now to be
more serious and reflecting. But I suspected that it was
simply her idea of how she was supposed to behave, and not a
genuine change in her mentality.
When I shared with her my agonies, she told me she
understood how I felt. But in her voice I felt a patronizing
tone. She thought I was weak. She expected me to be a
professional during such times, and in a way, I disappointed
her.


The Mannequin Maker.
Finally, just when I thought I couldn't take any more, the
murders were resolved.
The cops received an anonymous tip, and traced it, to an
abandoned warehouse down at the docks. When Angelica and I
arrived the place was heavily crowded, and we had to shove
our way in.
It was hard to figure out at first but this place was the
headquarters of the killer himself, lair of the beast, so to
speak. There was vast space inside this hanger like
warehouse. It was very messy and very dirty, full of
unsorted rubble wherever you turned.
After we wondered about the place aimlessly for a while, we
were called to the far side of the chamber to inspect the
main scene of death. Past the yellow tape was revealed to us
the working space of our killer.
The place was part lab, part workshop and part surgery room.
It contained an old, long and very tall library made from
rotting wood and iron shelves, that seemed to barely hold
the load that was stocked on them. In my humble opinion, he
assembled that thing himself.
There were a few books and manuals on some of the shelves.
On others, various tools- hammers, paint brushes, welders
and such. There were logs of wood and wooden boards stacked
on another shelf. Next to it was standing a skeleton model
of the human body, and by its side three large gas tanks One
of them read-HYDROGEN, the others were covered with dirt and
could not be made out.
Behind it was a long iron chain and a large metal hook, the
kind they use to hang frozen meat on. On the rest of the
shelves were stocked other curiosities, a stuffed grizzly
bear head, some very old newspaper articles which were
nailed to a broad wooden board, a collection of decorated
mirrors and chandeliers, an empty picture frame and other
such junk was pilled up everywhere.
Mannequins in all shapes and sizes were spread all over the
place.
This guy was obviously obsessed with them, it seemed like he
fanatically collected them for years.
In the center of the makeshift space was a large aluminum
table, like the ones that are used at big hotel kitchens.
This table however had an attached sink and a large dentist
lamp installed on top. Four leather straps were tied to each
of its legs.

It was on this table that the mannequin thief composed his
gruesome masterpieces.
He would use the leather straps to tie his screaming victims
to the table so that they won't be able to resist his
twisted will.
Behind the table was a wheeled stand and on it were placed
various kinds of needles and knives. Some used by doctors,
others by butchers.
A large and fully stocked medical cabinet was standing near
by. On the floor around the table was thrown a large
chainsaw, the blades were covered with dry blood. Tonight
however, the table was not used, nor was the chainsaw.
There on the dusty ground, just a few feet from the table,
was laying the mannequin thief himself, this was his last
vengeful statement against this world.  When we saw the
bodies, they were still laying in the position in which the
police originally found them. I looked down at the man who
was responsible for all this misery, and I was filled with
horror.
He chose to die in his uniform, the bastard. That is how I
recognized him. Not only was this man a cop, but he was also
the very same cop who reported with such convincing dread in
his voice the discovery of the first victim, almost a month
ago.
And I recalled how well he kept his act, when I interviewed
him on the scene that night!
He appeared to be so helpless and sad. And I felt sorry for
him, I believed him completely.
I felt my sanity escaping from me. All that time he was
mocking us, all of us. And he won. He got away with it. I
could not stop my tears as I studied his last diabolical
display.
He was a tall, thin man, in his late thirties, and the loose
blue uniform made him look more robust then he really was.
His face was long and unshaved, and his eyes were the color
of dirt. His graying hair was originally black, and was
messy even though it was cut short, his appearance was
generally inconspicuous.
In his arms were embraced two young girls, identical twins.
They wore matching yellow gowns and shoes, and their golden
hair was styled in the same fashion.
All three of them died the same way. Their throats were cut
open and sideways, imitating a macabre laughing face. The
bodies were covered with blood. A small bloody kitchen
knife, the instrument he used to cut the girls and himself
with, was still held in his lifeless left palm.
He wanted us to find him like this. This was his moment of
triumph. I gave this smiling mask of death one final look,
and turned disgusted away.
I wanted to run away from this accursed warehouse, and
continue running. Never to look back, to forget all about
this place and what happened here. But I couldn't. The
flashes from Angelica's camera were already blasting around
the scene, and I had a job to do, so I stayed.
At first the detectives were not even sure that this is the
same man who killed the other three girls.
After all, serial killers usually kill all their victims the
same way. For them, killing becomes a ritual, and they
rarely stray from the pattern they have developed.   So it
didn't make sense that the same mannequin thief, who made
such extravagant acts on his victims in the past, will
settle for something so plain and vulgar as cutting
throats...
But eventually the facts proved to be conclusive. The
mannequin maker wanted everybody to know who he was, what he
did, and that he was no fraud. The detectives found Polaroid
pictures of the three first victims, when they were still
alive, with their would be killer. This was evidence enough
that this man was real.
That was why he chose to end his life in his own home. He
wanted everyone to know that he was the one who made the
rules, and finally broke them. He had the last word, and the
upper hand at the end of the game.
But one disturbing question remained unanswered.
Why pick innocent young girls as your target? There seemed
to be no possible motive for such a grotesque choice. Did he
hate them? Unlikely, maybe he was a misogynist, but surely
he had no reason to hate women at such a young age.
Was he simply too fucked up to understand what he was doing?
Impossible, this man was a cop. That means he was mentally
stable enough to pass the rigorous psychological tests
required for police academy. He was not an erratic loon, who
obeyed ghost voices in his head. He picked these little
girls for a reason.
Did he love them? Feared them? Again no. His murders were
planed ahead and were orchestrated as exhibitions. They were
not acts of passion. He killed them because he wanted to
make a point. So what was he trying to say?
Many theories were suggested.
But if you ask me, I think his message was simply that
beauty, innocence, and youth were not divine, that in this
world nothing was.
Anyone could one bright day be stolen from his safe life,
and be raped, molested, sodomized and killed. This was his
epitaph, be ware, vain and beautiful people of the world,
for you too are like mannequins on display. The thin glass
window will not protect you when your hour comes, and
neither will your kindness, your righteousness or your
virtue. In this fucked up life, they don't mean anything.
If a young girl can coincidently be picked by a psychopath,
and be kidnapped from the street in broad daylight, then the
message to all the rest of you should be clear. There is no
higher guidance.
No one is safe.
It was a long night, probably the worst night of my life.
When it was all over, four maybe three hours before dawn, I
was sitting exhausted by myself.
I felt like shit. Not because I was tired, but because it
all seemed somehow pointless.
Earlier that evening I was overflowed by memories. Memories
I tried to shut away for years. I could not contain them any
longer, and finally I collapsed under their pressure.
I knew I could no longer work around death and stay even
minded about it. It was getting to me, soaking into my soul.
I could no longer ignore its presence.
Now however, I was drained of emotion. I just sat there
silently reflecting on the vanities of this existence.
Angelica came to check up on me, she was smiling wearily as
she approached. "Hey", she said.
"Hey" I replied, not bothering to insult her with one of my
fake smiles.
She sat next to me, looking in my eyes, and asked me if I
was o.k.
I said I will be.
"Don't let it get to you" she said, and got up.
"Lets go"
I looked at her perplexed for a long moment.
"I don't know how you do it," I said finally.
"Do what?"
"How you manage to detach yourself from this tragedy, as if
nothing happened", "Listen," she said, slightly agitated.
"I have my ways of dealing with things, and you have yours"

"Yes, but you have been acting like nothing has happened
since the whole thing started. You have to admit, that's not
a way of dealing at all."
"Its called being a professional" she said sharply.
"Wait," I got up too.
"I don't want to fight you Angelica, and I am not saying you
don't feel pain for these girls. I am only trying to be
there for you, like you are there for me. But I cannot do it
if you don't let me. It is all over now. You can stop being
a professional, look around you, we are alone".
Suddenly I became aware of the fact that we were indeed all
alone, everyone else has left the scene. We were standing in
the middle of the makeshift parking area that the police and
media people used before, for their cars and equipment, an
accessible dirt field, which was conveniently located behind
the notorious warehouse.
Angelica got closer to me now, a spark lit in her eyes.
"Oh," she said.
"And If I was to share with you my thoughts, would you still
be there for me?"
"Of course", I answered.
"Even if I told you I don't feel any sympathy or pain for
these girls?"
Now I was confused, why would she say something like that?
"Even if I say I couldn't care less about them, will you
still have my back then, partner?" she continued.
"Yes!" I snapped.
"Even then. I will always have your back. You know that"
She was now practically standing on my toes. Her hand gently
pulled my head to her, and she was whispering in my ear.
"And why exactly is that?" she asked softly.
"Why will you always look out for me, even after I made you
sick?"
"Because" I muttered,
"Because I love you."
She turned, and faced me again. Her eyes were glittering.
"How can you love me, when you don't know a thing about
me?"
I was shaking without control. My body was overwhelmed with
enthusiasm and mad lust.
"I know enough" I replied.
I brushed away the hair from her face with my hand, and
gently stroked her cheek. She smiled awkwardly, her hand
strolling up my back to my neck. I leaned closer, and we
kissed.
A bitter kiss it was, salt with tears, but also sweet, warm
and comforting.
She drew back from me. She looked disturbed.
"You don't know what you are getting yourself into" Her
voice was full of pain.
"I don't care, as long as I am with you".
It was almost dawn when I dropped her at her building, she
didn't say a word all through the ride, and neither did I. I
guess we both needed some time to contemplate on our
emotions.
As she got out she turned to look at me.
"If you love me, and you want me to be with you, you will
have to prove it," She said.
"What do I need to do?"
"Take me out tomorrow, and prove your love to me".
"You mean like a date?" I was baffled.
"Yes, it will be our first date" she said completely
serious, and walked inside without saying goodbye.
I sat in the car a while longer, watched the sunrise, and
then drove home.

First Date.
The sun has already set when I woke up the following
evening. I lay on my bad and absently gazed at the passing
shadows on my ceiling for about half an hour, recreating in
my mind all that has happened the night before.
An uneasy feeling was creeping on me. I should have been
delirious with joy, I wanted Angelica more than anything,
and now I had a chance to make her mine. But instead I was
suddenly filled with doubts. This was not how it was suppose
to happen. Angelica broke the rules, she took advantage of
my weakness yesterday, and now I was stuck with this date.
A date, what a juvenile idea, and I was terrified by it. She
is playing with me, I thought. She never loved me and she
never will. She is incapable of love. All she is capable of
is deceit.
I got up and looked out from the balcony at the city lights.
All my life I had never once did anything exceptional or
adventurous.
My mind was made up.
I will do this, no matter what her intensions are. I will do
this for me.
Two hours later, I was parked in front of her building,
waiting. The hour was late, half past eleven approximately.
We both needed sleep after all we have been through last
night.
It was a pleasant winter night, and the sky was surprisingly
clear. I could see the stars. The moon was huge and round,
and its pale light blended with the streetlights causing the
pavements, still wet from last week's showers, to glitter
and spark.
I saw someone coming out of the building,  it was Angelica.
She was wearing a red dress and red high heel shoes. They
emphasized her marble white skin and her black hair, which
was hung loose behind her back. As she approached I noticed
that she didn't put any makeup, nor was she wearing any sort
of garments, no rings no chains or necklaces, nothing.
The sight of her, however, was nonetheless breathtaking. Her
beauty, which I thought I grew accustomed to, struck a chord
in me so deep that I simply couldn't take my eyes off her.
I got out of the car and greeted her, I then opened the door
of the car for her, held her purse while she was sitting
inside and finally closed the door behind her.
The whole thing felt phony and ridiculous but I did it
anyway. I knew that for some reason these things meant a lot
to her. It was like an unspoken connection between us. I
knew how she expected me to behave when she was around.
I drove us down the shore to a nice place I know, where they
have good wine and music and a mesmerizing view of the
ocean. The place itself was relatively secluded, and we were
almost the only ones there when we arrived.
We sat at one of the tables on the large wooden porch, when
we looked down we could see the water, as black as the night
sky, and the crashing waves silver like the stars. The
relaxing monotone sound of the waves below us, accompanied
by the soft lights and music gave the place a distinctive
atmosphere of peacefulness and ease that was enchanting.
"What do you make of this place Angelica?" I asked, breaking
the long silence between us. "If you are not satisfied with
it, we can leave"
"No", She said. "I love it. Its perfect"
I took her hand in mine and kissed it gently. A waiter
showed up, handed us menus and disappeared back inside.
"So," I tried again to stimulate a conversation, "Care to
tell me a bit about yourself?"
She smiled teasingly at me: "You can ask me whatever you
like, but I do not promise I will answer..."
"Very well," I said, trying to decide where to start.
"Where are you from?" That is a harmless enough question,
right?
"I was not born here," she said. "My family lived in Europe
for many years. Ten years ago I came to this country".
I was shocked. This was too easy. Usually whenever I dared
ask her something personal she would shut me out.
"Where in Europe?" I continued.
"It does not matter. Sufficient to say it was Europe".
The rules were getting clearer now. She will allow me to
collect from her only general information, but no details. I
will have enough pieces to construct the frame of this
puzzle, but not enough to figure out what the whole picture
was.
I though about her unspoken proposition for a minute, and
decided it was better then nothing. And so we continued.
Our conversation was pleasant and illuminating. In spite of
her restrictions, Angelica seemed to be happy to finally
share with someone her secrets. And I was grateful for any
bite and piece she was willing to throw at me.
She told me how she felt bored and unfulfilled in her
homeland, and decided to travel to the new world and seek
new opportunities for herself. She did not have any money or
skills then, but she had no worries either. She said
something that stroke me as very odd, she said that times
were different then...
But, I was too fascinated to interrupt her, and she probably
would not explain herself anyway.
When Angelica was still an immigrant to this country, she
heard about some interesting new developments in the field
of photography. After attending a certain exhibition, she
decided she wanted to become a photographer.
At that point we entered a dark era in Angelicas life, she
would not say anything about that time of her life. She only
said school was a difficult time for her, then dropped the
subject all together.
A few years later she moved to a big city and started
working as a newspaper photographer, she liked the fast
paced work and the people she met, and decided to make a
career of it.
The last chapter in her life was moving here, and working
with me on the serial killings of the five young girls, she
considered the pictures she took on those four scenes to be
her best work yet.
Paradoxically, I somehow felt that I understand her even
less after I heard her story. It wasn't only the
contradictions and gaps in her tale, but also the way she
chose to tell it that got me perplexed.
 She regarded more then once her first years in this
country as "The old days". And her tone turned absurdly
nostalgic whenever she spoke of those not so very long lost
days. She was younger then me but she spoke to me like an
old woman.
 I was just about to comment her about her strange attitude
when the waiter showed up again and delivered us our ordered
entrees and wine.
We ate and drank in silence. She hardly touched her food,
and only drank half of her glass of wine before she pushed
her plate away, signaling that she was done eating.
"Was it good?" I asked her. "You did not seem to enjoy your
meal, did you not like it?"
"The food was excellent," she replied, "and so was the wine,
I just don't feel like eating right now".
 I focused on her face for a moment trying with all my
might to somehow crack her shell, and see her inside with my
mind. What was it that she wanted me to do or say? Was she
happy, miserable? She obviously did not want to talk any
more, and she had no appetite, maybe she wants to leave. She
had enough of me, and now she wants me to take her back
home.
 I got up and took her hand. "Care to dance?"
 She smiled and nodded. We walked to the center of the
porch. It was an open space without tables, wide enough to
dance. We took off our shoes and stood barefoot on the wide
wooden boards.
 The music was soft and inviting, and the cool ocean breeze
was whistling gently. Fireflies were spiraling around us
adding their colorful lights to the already surreal
atmosphere.
We stood for a while facing each other. Then we got closer.
I looked in her eyes and wrapped my arm around her waist.
She placed her arm on my shoulder, I took her hand in mine
and we started moving slowly to the music.
It was our perfect moment.
Angelica and me.
Dancing on the porch by the ocean.
I will cherish it forever. It seemed like the world stood
still for us, and we were the only ones moving. The colors
and sounds all seemed to blur in the background while we
were spinning in the middle.
Her head rested on my chest. I touched her chin with my
fingers, and she looked up. We kissed passionately, madly.
We were in a state of trance. We stopped moving, but were
still embraced in each other's arms. We just stood like that
for a short eternity.
"I'll love you forever," I whispered to her ear, and we
parted.
"Show me," she said, and started walking to the car.
Half an hour later we were parked outside her building. I
opened the door for her and held her purse. I couldn't help
my self from peeking inside it.
It was empty.
She got out and faced me, smiling.
I waited patiently for her invitation.
"Care to come inside and escort me to the apartment?" She
asked finally.
"I would love to". I replied.
We crossed arms, and went inside the building together.
The first thought on mind when we entered her place was; how
could a newspaper photographer afford to live in such a
palace?
It was a huge penthouse apartment, built for some reason as
a circle. In the middle was a single large room, probably
the master bedroom, surrounded by a wide corridor that led
to the other rooms in the house, and to the entrance and
lobby.
The walls were colored in dark Bordeaux and decorated with
elegant iron lanterns that hung from the walls themselves
rather than from the ceiling. There were also numerous
pictures on the walls, mainly photographs, but also
drawings, all in black and white.
It was somewhat creepy, like standing in the center of a
ring of fire. I felt confined, trapped like a rat in a maze.

"Want to take the grand tour?" She suggested.
"Sure". I replied, and let her lead me by the hand inside.
Around the large corridor we went as she showed me the
kitchen, the bath, the dinning room, her studio and dark
room. Finally we ended up in the living room, the only room
in the house with any windows.
She went in the kitchen to get us some red wine, and came to
join me on the porch.    The view of the city from up there
was amazing and the air was reviving to my soul, I was
suffocated inside this heart shaped jail of a house.
"Cheers". She said, and handed me a glass of wine.
We drank together. Then I turned to admire her beauty one
more time.
"Do you like my house?" She asked me.
"Well, it certainly reflects your personality". I replied
with a smile.
"How is that?" She inquired, obviously savoring the
opportunity to embarrass me.
"This place is a locked vault," I answered. "Do you fear for
your secrets so much, that you will hide them even from the
light of the sun inside this fortified tower?"
It was her turn to smile now.
"Yes". She left her half empty glass, and walked pass me.
"Even from the sun, especially from the sun, but not from
you. Not any more. If you will follow..."
I watched her leaving the porch, and walking down the round
corridor. Her fingers stroking the smooth wall behind her, I
saw her open the door of the central room, and go inside.
I lingered for a minute, something inside me screamed. I
should just leave, I thought.
Simply walk away now while I still can. This place is a
trap, and this woman is dangerous. Whatever are her secrets,
I do not want to find out.
I put down my glass and started walking down the corridor.
I studied one of the pictures on the wall.
A victim shot from some forgotten murder scene. An elderly
white man, probably in his late fifties, he had numerous
shot wounds in his chest, shoulders and face. His features
were hardly recognizable they were covered with blood, the
black and white photo made it look black rather then red.
Soft hazy light poured out of Angelicas bedroom and lit the
corridor floor.
Candles, I thought. How appropriate.
I arrived at her bedroom door.
It was opened for me. I walked in without further
hesitation.
The room was a large oval space. The walls were blood red
and the furniture was all black.
Approximately two hundred candles were scattered around the
room and illuminated it with their lazy flames.
The walls were bare of any decoration, scarce for one large
picture that was hung right above the bed.
It was a black and white picture of a girl. It was not
Angelica, but the resemblance was undeniable. The girl in
the picture was younger however, a teenager. Her face was
frozen facing the camera in mid motion. She had an
expression of urgent anxiety in her large eyes, like she was
fleeing, or terribly in a hurry. Her long black hair was
covering parts of her face as a result of the wind or the
motion itself.
She was very beautiful that way. Her fragility. Here for a
precious second, then gone forever.
Behind her, in the background was a large square, with a
statue of a soldier on a horse in the middle. It looked
ancient, very European.
On the broad wide bed Angelica was waiting for me.
Her naked body in candlelight is more than I can describe
with words. She looked like a goddess, a perfect figure made
of ivory.
I approached the bed slowly, wrestling with my clothes, my
hands trembling. I released myself from my shirt, as she
pulled me on top of her. I ran my hands on her body
fanatically. Hugging her with all my strength.
I kissed her desperately. Like I was drowning in a black
ocean and her lips were oxygen.
I felt her hands unbuckling my belt, and opening my pants. I
kissed her neck, her shoulders and her breasts, and studied
her face with my fingers.
I was burning for this woman.
The passion I felt was like fire in my belly. Consuming my
inside, it was endlessly painful and pleasurable at the same
time.
I was inside her now. She was mine, and I will never let her
go again.
She recoiled from under me, and pulled herself on top,
forcing me to slow down. Hypnotized I watched her moving on
top of me like she was possessed.
She bent foreword, and took my face in her palm. We kissed
slowly, and she whispered in my ear.
"Are you ready to prove your love to me?"
"Yes!" I gasped. "I will do anything you want"
She opened one of the bedside drawers.
"Are you sure?" She mused. "Will you grant me all that I
desire?"
Her body was moving faster now around me, she held me with
her thighs like a serpent.
"Anything. Just name it Angelica"
She had in her hand a small golden knife, the kind that is
used to open letters.
"I want you," she said. "Forever. Will you give yourself to
me, Are you ready for eternity?"
I hesitated.
Something in her tone was suddenly alarming to me. And what
is with that knife? This was the time to decide, I realized.
Am I into this all the way, or not at all, there will be no
turning back from here.
"Yes" I said finally.
She was moving as in a trance. She was giving me all of her
passion.
I could not take it anymore, I felt myself burst inside her.

She held me down under her, and with the sparkling knife
made a small incision just above my heart.
The cut was tiny, hardly a scratch.
I watched with disbelief as great amounts of blood started
gushing out of the wound. This is impossible, I thought.
Angelica locked her lips above the wound. I could feel her
tongue liking the inside of it.
I started feeling dizzy the room was spinning around me. The
candles were like blurry dots of yellow all over me. The
pain I felt all over my body was becoming insufferable.
Vaguely I noticed that Angelica was making a funny sucking
voice with her mouth, like she was seeping hot tea or a bowl
of soup.
I knew life was leaving my body, and there was nothing I
could do about it. I was doomed.
Angelica finally rose up from me licking her lips and the
tip of the knife. Her veins were pumping under her skin, and
her complexion was reddish somehow, as if she was blushing.

She raised the blade over her left breast, and made a quick
cut, her face winching for a second with pain.
Blood immediately started filling out the wound.
"Quickly my love" She said sharply.
Bending over my head, and letting the first red drops land
on my face.
"Drink".
I did not want to drink.
The first drops were bitter and they burnet in my throat.
But this blood was life for me, and I was soon gobbling on
it like it was nectar from Olympus.
I clang to her breast like a leach, collecting with my
tongue the stray drops that escaped my mouth.
"Yes, that's right. Drink it all" I heard her say, her hand
stroking my hair.
I felt life returning to my body. My vision and strength was
slowly restored.
I loved it, the warm blood was more intoxicating than wine.

But she was gently drawing me away from her.
I did not want to stop.
In drunken ecstasy I fought her.
"Stop it!" She finally commanded, and with both hands she
pushed me off her.
I landed on the pillow, and looked back at her, offended.
Her left breast was covered completely with blood.
"Very messy, lover" She said, gasping for breath. "But you
are still new at this, you will get better".
I took her by the shoulders and pulled her under me.
"You are mine now" I said. "Mine forever".
"Yes" She said, holding me tight with her long white legs.
"And you are mine".
I nodded.
"I have a million questions"
She closed her eyes with pleasure.
"Not now" She whispered. "Tomorrow"
We kissed. Her lips still had some dry blood on them and I
licked it off with pleasure.

Epilogue.

I am lying next to her now. She is asleep.
It is morning outside. The light of the sun is an enemy to
the likes of us. But the nights are all ours.
I do not worry, night will come soon enough.
I watch the flickering lights on the ceiling of the room. A
few candles are remarkably still burning.
I know the candle of my life will never flicker, and my
flame will never be snuffed away.
I am ascended, more powerful and more alive than ever
before. It is perfect, for the first time in my life, I am a
complete thing, and truly satisfied with what I am.
I look at her pale white back rising and dropping steadily
to the rhythm of her breathing.
And I have you to share eternity with, my dark queen of
hearts.
I gently stroke away the hair from her long narrow neck. She
mumbles something incoherent in her dream.
I lie on my back beside her, and give the room around me a
last approving glance. Then close my eyes, and let darkness
take over.

24.7.2004
Inspired by- "Diane"
From- Husker Du