Rabbit Heart - Softcover

August 4, 1891

London, England

There was a dead man in my boudoir. He lay spread- eagle as I dressed his still figure in the midmorning's dark. It was a difficult task, as he was a tall man to manage and death seemed to have doubled his weight. I had to rock him back and forth to re-dress him. And with each cumbersome move, I stopped to mourn the loss of my lover with a prayer or a tear.

"Dear Father in heaven, help me," I cried.

But I don't think he was listening, for I saw no sign of his holy presence, nor do I think he was anywhere nearby. Perhaps my God had another commitment overseas, or was involved in the creation of a better world than this one. In any case I interpreted his absence from my crisis as a godly commentary about my person and a direct reflection of my soul.

I wished for the outcome of a fairy tale: my tears would fall upon my pale lover's cheek; my longing sentiment would enliven him. And then we would ride off together to his castle, where our embraces would have no consequence other than pleasure.

I hoped my lover could still feel my loving caresses as I pressed my cheek upon his. I wanted my lively blood to make him gasp a reborn breath and his cool cheek rush to its rosy color. And then I thought if I pressed his hand, I might invite his dormant blood to again flow freely within his body. But none of my wishes materialized in my loving partner, and my hopes dwindled with each moment he rested on the other side of death's veil.

My maid had prepared my room that day with bouquets of roses and scented my bed with Parisian lavender talc. Now the sweet air of flowers and lace was fouled by the creeping pallor of death.

Once a horror has taken place in a room, the room is never the same. It forever bears the mark of the event's sadness, and I felt my boudoir respond to its recent trauma. Though I was alone, I didn't feel alone. I sensed a thousand eyes examining me -- even the lamp, bed, and chair were witnesses to my lover's expiration. And if they were not enough, I had Denton's sweet face seeing all. All of it. His eyes were startled, yet his lips still smiled, as if he might come back from the dead to resume our courtship. That smile made me shiver in my abandoned state -- and daggered my guilty soul deeper still.

Oh walls, do not tell of me. Lace curtains, do not proclaim my wrongdoing. Let my shoes hold their tongue. Please, none of you tell of my crime --

I heard footsteps coming to my door and a quick hand rattle the doorknob.

"Don't come in. I'm -- "

"Mademoiselle Nicollette, do you have need of me?"

Marie stumbled on the garish scene. It was too late to wish her away.

She was my confidante and closest friend. She would have the right to be horrified at the demise of the vital man she knew to be alive just moments ago. Instead, she closed the door quietly, took my hand, and knelt next to me. So calm was her demeanor that the pause settled me.

She looked at me with a pure heart, not that of someone who would endanger me or spill my secrets -- with no mind to their scandal or consequences. I trusted her.

I didn't know what to say to explain my dilemma, and so I remained kneeling near the body -- as if I were praying over Denton.

But I did not pray for Denton. I prayed for the impossible: an understanding spirit that could soothe my soul.

Copyright © 2006 by Colleen Hitchcock

There's a reason why I'm not married. There's a secret that has caused me to move from town to town throughout England. No one must find out what haunts me. If I tell the secret, it will threaten my freedom. Instead, I'm packing my bags once again.

Denton is still a handsome man -- my deed has not yet spoiled his appearance. He had such fresh boyish looks, fine manners, and wealth. He looked so beautiful with his Derby horses. I would never have wished him to be my thirteenth victim. Thirteen beautiful men gone -- through no one's fault. For I can't take the responsibility for their deaths, it's too great a burden for me to bear.

For he had that persistence men have. They ask to call on you -- and then ask again and again, even when you decline them so graciously. They decide they want you more and keep push-ing you.

I always say no when they ask. I say it quite firmly. But they try again. And eventually I have to smile and accept their invitations, for they've beaten me down. And, I'm afraid, have become somewhat pitiful to me.

I try to look after them. I'm thinking of their safety -- their lives. But they pay no mind. I try to save them, but they don't listen.

When they visit that first night, I let them know that we shouldn't see each other again. I try to leave it at a "Thank you for a lovely evening," but they push me. The next time the dinner is nicer. Or they take me to the theater. I try to resist, but they're charming. They open the doors for me, pull out my chair, put their arms around me, and I know what they want. They want to do all the right things to guide me into their beds. I still say no, trying to protect them. But they don't listen.

The first time it happened, I was in love -- for the first time. I was enjoying the world, viewing it through glasses that could see no wrong. My heart was beating with desire and passion.

I would be lying if I told you that he noticed me first. I noticed him the moment I came around the corner on the Champs Elysées in Paris and saw a striking man with the gentlest eyes. I was not alone. Other women on the street watched him walk toward us as if a young Adonis were approaching. And he seemed oblivious to their attention. He had his head down in a book, repeating terms as if he were preparing for an exam.

Twenty feet before me he raised his head, as if told to look up, and his eyes locked with mine.

But his mouth had not stopped moving. He continued to mutter medical prefixes in Latin and biological terms.

"Cardi. Pertaining to the esophageal opening of the stomach or the heart..."

"But the heart is connected to everything that matters," I said.

He said nothing. He continued to look at me, then walked by me -- right into a brick building that was closer than he judged.

"Are you all right, sir?" I knelt next to him and took a handkerchief from my purse.

"Allow me to help -- you're bleeding."

"Who could refuse?" He sighed with a blissful smile. "You smell like a lavender field on a fresh spring day."

He seemed to inhale my scent. I could tell he loved my nearness as my body pressed against his shoulder.

"Thank you. I've never seen you before. I'm Robert, Robert Moneter. Who are you?"

"I'm Nicollette Caron."

He had a small scratch on his nose, and I pressed the linen cloth on his wound until the bleeding stopped.

"I'm on my way to take a medical examination, may I call on you later?"

"I'm just fifteen -- I don't court yet."

"I will wait. Let me stop by and learn more about you. Where do I find you?"

He took out a pocket watch and checked it as he stood up. "I'm going to be late. Where do I find you, Nicollette?"

"I don't...I mean I don't know where I will be -- "

"I will find you. If you're anywhere in France, I will find you," he said as he ran to his exam.

Robert did find me, at church on Sunday, and over the next year we began to see each other secretly.

"My friends would think you too young," he said.

So we met as often as we could. He told his friends he was at the library studying, I told my chaperone I was reading Shakespeare at the library.

"I treasure every moment I'm with you, Nicollette," Robert said every time we met.

And I would nod shyly in agreement. Our love continued to grow over the next year. When I became sixteen, he started borrowing his father's carriage and taking me to the countryside.

Oh, the kisses! Oh, the sweetness of the sun as we rolled in meadows, the fresh scent of the grassy hills as we courted beneath the clouds. For a long year we had desired each other. And now I knew it was time to give my virginity to my beloved.

Robert was so aroused his hands were shaking. My dress fell off easily at his touch, and there were only he and I on the blanket with only God's eyes to watch, as he studied my nakedness. He took his time at first and slowly slid his hands down my sides, in no hurry to remove his own clothes. He cupped my breasts with his hands and when he sucked upon them I felt my body moving in a new direction for me.

My body grew heated with our passion and my mind broke through into some euphoric state I had never experienced. Almost a delirious state in which my soul and spirit were empowered and overruling my thoughtful mind -- I could no longer think, only feel. Even though his jacket was a bit scratchy, his metal buttons rubbing into me, I felt only the pleasure of his touch. And soon he was peeling his clothes off to the sweetest pleasure yet. He was pressing his firm young body into mine.

Robert was strong and he pulled me underneath him. Lifting my bottom with one hand, he positioned me on the blanket where he wanted me. Then his legs pried mine open and he entered me. He was gentle -- the man with the gentle eyes, just as I'd imagined, for he entered me slowly, pausing -- to allow me to adjust.

At first he couldn't enter me, but his patience prevailed as he let me ready myself for him. And then when he had managed to penetrate me fully, he did so with strong rocking movements that took my breath and made me shudder with bliss. I moaned my pleasure in our union, and I loved it. Dear God, how I loved it.

And that is how it began.

I wanted more. More. Oh, so much more. I wanted to consume my young lover. I wanted our movements to never end. And I heard a voice come out of me. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop, my darling!"

And so he didn't. As if I had put a spell on him, his body continued to pump on top of me. Again, and again.

Robert loved me -- until his death. He collapsed after loving me, his life force sucked dry by my insatiable appetite.

"Robert, Robert!" I cried. I tried to save him. I ...