End of the Line: Gerald’s Epilogue

She Will Never Know

sun-through-the-parsonage-window Frida slept as the hint of dawn crept across the horizon, her lifeless body resting on silk sheets. And Gerald locked the door to her sanctum with the solemnity and care of a priest locking away the relics of a saint. He stood at the door, placing his palm against the painted steel. His shoulders slumped.

And then Gerald took a deep breath and straightened himself. He walked down the dark hallway and into the main room of the French District haven. He let himself fall into an soft leather armchair. His hand rested on his brow, covering his eyes.

His mind was already running through the checklist of things he would have to do. He might catch two hours of sleep, but he had to make sure Frida was taken care of. The night had cost hundreds of dollars in drugs and other… necessities. His wallet needed refreshing. He always had to have cash on hand every night, for whatever Frida would want. He would check Frida’s purse and replace whatever she had spent of what he put in there the day before.

Frida never thought about such things. That was what Gerald was for.

The front of Frida’s dress was soaked with Sophia’s blood. Frida had asked him to have it cleaned. He would burn it. He knew her measurements by heart and he would spend whatever money was needed to get another of the designer garment. The duplicate would just show up in her closet one night. She might even compliment him on how well he managed to get it cleaned.

And Frida would never know what he had done.

Dawn light cut through the windows of the room, and came to rest on the coach across from him. Just a few nights ago, Sophia and Frida were touching and embracing on that couch. Now Sophia was dead.

“Worthless whore,” Gerald muttered, remembering. Frida had drained her dry, making her last moments a pleasurable ride into oblivion on the Kiss rather than the pain of an overdose. Frida had been convinced Sophia was a hopeless addict who could only be helped by ending her suffering. Gerald had convinced her of that.

Never mind that part of the convincing involved Gerald shoving Sophia against a wall and forcing heroine into her veins, so Frida could find her in a doped up stupor.

And Frida would never know what he had done.

Gerald leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. Another of Frida’s toys had been disposed of, another worthless piece of trash who wasn’t worthy to even look at her, much less touch her, kiss her… FUCK her. He ran both hands through his hair. How long till there’s another one that needs to be shuffled away? How long till there’s another body lying on the floor? How long till Frida realized that she did not need these playthings when he was there for her?

Dawn was breaking. And in that short time while the monsters of the night slept and the human monsters had only begun to stir, with his mistress’ ears dead and unable to hear, Gerald let himself weep.

And Frida would never know.