The Dispossessed

He had killed the woman he loved.

The acknowledgement was like a sobbing breath, inhaled, yet never released.

Again, he stared into those wide clear eyes in the instant before the lids fluttered down and she collapsed to the floor, limp as any rag doll.

She was dead. He had killed the woman he loved.

His mind swam with horror and guilt as his body stalked down the corridors of the facility seeking a way out, escape, somewhere to hide.

And the memories assaulted him.

He'd been a lost man the instant she walked in the door of the meeting that first day - if he'd only known it. Confident in the face of the attitudes of the men she would be working with, a successful woman in a world of men.

Her competence impressed him, her intensity amused him, and her intelligence and character attracted him.

Content to admire but not touch, everything between them changed in a single night.

They'd been working late on some reports.

A bottle of wine sat on the table between them, long since emptied of its smooth fruity vintage.

The report was getting nowhere fast, and he'd made a witty comment to try to get her to laugh. She was beautiful when her brow was wrinkled with concentration on her work, but she was exquisite when she laughed - and he put effort into breaking that serene visage whenever he could.

It was a lame joke, and his tongue stumbled over the words, causing her to giggle while he glared. The glare had slowly softened as he regarded her.

She'd been flushed with laughter, eyes sparkling merrily - for once, not the beautiful, untouchable woman she usually projected, but a lovely, desirable siren. Intoxicated by more than just alcohol, he'd leaned across the table and kissed her.

He regretted it the instant after as she drew back, eyes wide at his boldness. Lovely and desirable she might be, but she could also shatter his hopes with a shake of the head, or a whispered rejection.

To his surprise and delight, she'd done neither, but leaned over the table to kiss him back.

And so began their affair.

It wasn't public knowledge. In her position, she had a lot more to lose in the revelation of their relationship, and while he wanted to shout it to the world, he kept it quiet - for her sake. They continued to work in their roles. He'd give the directions, and she followed them accordingly, and nobody knew that they were anything more to each other. Maybe the people closest to them guessed, but they never said anything about it, choosing discretion over disclosure, and for that he was thankful.

The corridors down which he walked were darker now, unused and dimly-lit. Few people came this way - and that was what he wanted.

No. Not him. He didn't want that…

He wanted…

He wanted to forget the look in her eyes as he killed her. He wanted to go back and cradle her in his arms and grieve over her death. He wanted to tell her he hadn't meant it, that it wasn't him…

He wanted to tell her how much he loved her.

He couldn't.

His body would not respond to his commands, and his thoughts were not his own.

The creature he'd thought to use to cure him had done its work, but now it controlled him and used him to escape into the world.

And as his feet trod down the subterranean labyrinth of corridors beneath the empty hospital, Adrian Conrad cursed himself for a fool.

His desperation had killed the woman he loved.

He had killed Diana.

*