The day when Benny and the Khans caught her in the desert, it was only because she trusted them, the Khans. She often brought them packages when few others would, with candy and fireside stories for their children. It was simply the money that Benny offered, the promises, that moved their hand. For in the harsh embrace of the desert they too had their backs to a wall and this appeared to be a way out.
Lying there, bound and baffled, watching the faces of Jessup and McMurphy, both men that she knew, if only at a distance, she realized this was the end even before Benny spoke. She thought briefly of her mother, of her little sister. Her mind imagined a time in which she might have intercepted them before they caught her, of some sign in the miles between Red Rock and Goodsprings in which she would have known. But there was none, and as Benny held his 9mm to her face, her eyes were caught by the picture of the beautiful woman engraved on the side, her head and half her body visible through Benny’s clenched fingers and the firelight.
The shot which sinks her into darkness is warm, numbing, like being blinded by a thousand of the stars above falling into her brain. She shudders once, as the young woman that she was is burned out into the sand, the earth hungrily stealing the blood which traveled so many miles in both tribulation and need.
And then the Mojave is silent, but for the shushing sound of a shovel hitting grit, and a lone coyote calling her soul back from the avenging moon.
Re: Lorilei (1b/1)
Lying there, bound and baffled, watching the faces of Jessup and McMurphy, both men that she knew, if only at a distance, she realized this was the end even before Benny spoke. She thought briefly of her mother, of her little sister. Her mind imagined a time in which she might have intercepted them before they caught her, of some sign in the miles between Red Rock and Goodsprings in which she would have known. But there was none, and as Benny held his 9mm to her face, her eyes were caught by the picture of the beautiful woman engraved on the side, her head and half her body visible through Benny’s clenched fingers and the firelight.
The shot which sinks her into darkness is warm, numbing, like being blinded by a thousand of the stars above falling into her brain. She shudders once, as the young woman that she was is burned out into the sand, the earth hungrily stealing the blood which traveled so many miles in both tribulation and need.
And then the Mojave is silent, but for the shushing sound of a shovel hitting grit, and a lone coyote calling her soul back from the avenging moon.