The False Revenant
By Penelope Pagan June Sea Witch

The lifeblood of cities are the spires. The towering temples of commerce dictate all aspects of life. Most will never see what they look like on the inside, and only the chosen few see the splendor at the top. Key cards, biometric scanners, checkpoints and surveillance see to that. It's nearly impossible to get in. Impossible, that is, unless one of those chosen take an interest in your body.

And you've taken quite an interest in mine. Your grip left a bruise when you grabbed my arm on the street, demanding my services. I don't blame you that much, you led me exactly where I want to be. Your office, 100th floor, in your lap. I would say it was all too easy; but it really wasn't. Even now your lips are lavishing my neck with slobber and your fingers are squeezing too hard into my soft flesh as if you've never touched a woman before. But I'll let you have your fun, I know what this means to you.

The way that longing creeps into your gaze as you stare into my familiar face all but confirms it. A recognition, a hope, a glimmer of familiarity. And why shouldn't I be familiar? These are her glasses after all, her cheekbones, her eyes. Just enough of looking like a ghost to entrance you.

I'm sure you think you're special, keeping a torch burning this long for a young love. The first girl you ever had a crush on, even. You'd be surprised by how many rich old fucks are the same way. Old school photos can only tell so much, but it was obvious by the way you looked at her. An expression of such intense need I saw in no other photos, not even in your wedding portrait. A look reserved only for a fragile beauty in an emerald green Chinese dress, matched with thin emerald circular frames.

Of course the girl died far too young, perhaps even before you got to tell her how you feel. All the better for me. A bit of surgery, a trip to a custom jewelers and I become irresistible. A chance to get a taste of what you never had. It would be romantic if it weren't so desperate. No, your ill-fated love is dead, and all that's left is little ol' me, here to reunite you.

You shouldn't blame me too much, a girl's got to eat and the price on your head is caviar for a year. Maybe if you spent a little less time pining after a dead girl and a little more time paying attention to your shareholders this wouldn't be happening. But, since it is, you could at least make it easy for me and die quietly.

You don't even notice the wire wrapping around your neck, your face buried as it is in my breasts. True professionals would do it from behind, quick and easy, but I must admit I enjoy this part. The alarm in your eyes, the betrayal as the simulacrum of your lover chokes the life from you. It's to die for.

You struggle for a bit, but you hardly put up a fight. Fat old men rarely can. And so, you die, your body to be found in an embarrassed half-undressed state. As a parting gift I place her glasses in your shirt pocket, I'll no longer be needing them. Taking your express elevator down to the safety of the streets, I look at your dead love in the glass reflection.

Perhaps I gave you a gift, a little closure at the last act of your life. I am sure you were happy to pretend I was really her right until the moment I wrung your neck. It would be better if you thought it was her even then. A revenant of love come to claim you for themselves in the afterlife. A far more romantic ending, don't you think?