Tea Noir

TEA NOIR

 Tea. Yes. That was her sanctuary. Evan James clung to that thought as he slumped forward, dragging himself along the rain-slick cobblestoned path in the dead of night.

 It was the fall of 1952.

 The wind howled, stinging his face as it danced with the beads of rain that pelted his skin with merciless fervour.

 Evan was a man of few words, fewer still when it came to her. Tall and lanky, with broad shoulders, he carried himself with a quiet intensity. His jet-black hair was shaved close on the sides and back, longer on top, his side bang carefully covered his left eye—hiding a deep, gnarly scar that made strangers shudder. Not that many ever noticed it; few could look past the burning intensity of his crystal-blue eyes. A rare blue, the kind you see on postcards of tropical paradise waters.

  He always wore a clean shave. Always had that mysterious air that made women curious and men wary. The epitome of tall, dark, and handsome—if one could stomach the demons that clung to him.

 He had admired the love of his life from afar since grade school; always longing from a distance. She was his solace, his quiet refuge in a world steeped in violence.

 No one prepared tea the way she did. Her daily ritual.

 Evan’s kitchen window was directly across the street from her own. From his view he could see her kitchen and front stoop perfectly. Every day at exactly noon, she followed the same ritual; to prepare her loose-leaf tea.

  She would step outside, her delicate frame would prepare the small blue metal table and chair in the sun’s golden glow. The warm rays of light always seemed to find her, even in the dimmest of days, reflecting off her emerald-green eyes, turning her honey-gold curls into liquid honey. While other women favoured deep rouge lips, she preferred a soft, blush pink—a shade as gentle as she was.

  She had a gentle soul brimmed with kindness. A beauty inside and out. Evan never let himself be diluted with any ideas that she may have liked him. That she may have waved and smiled to him all those times to invite him over for a simple ‘hello’. Evan felt he did not deserve her, yet he was consumed with her.

 Evan closed his eyes as he allowed the wind and rain to beat against his skin, reliving the moment she had smiled and waved at him through his kitchen window. She had never known the ritual he performed at the same time. The cleaning and polishing of his Colt semi-automatic pistol.

 To him, it was an act of cleansing. A way to wash away the sins of the previous night bathed in her light. He felt ashamed of it, but it was his only reprieve. Life, as he passionately believed, was about choices. And the spaces in between them were nothing more than deciding the lesser of two evils.

 A violent cough tore through his chest, warmed blood dripped from his lips as it snatched him away from his blissful memory. Evan barely managed to keep his footing as pain seared through his body. He clutched his chest as his Colt pistol slipped from his grasp, thudding with a clack onto the wet cobblestone at his feet.

 Evan knew he had been shot—more than once. He could barely walk; his right leg was going numb. His chest felt as though a boulder pressed down on it, his lungs filling with blood.

 Still, he had to keep moving. He had to for her.

 Evan bent slowly, fingers wrapping around the handle of his Colt, his breath ragged.

 In all his years in this line of work, he had never been shot. Not by those he hunted, anyway.

 No, his first wound had come from his own boss. A sadistic brute of a man who had shot him upon hiring him, saying, “A man needs to know what a bullet feels like, so he never gets hit again.”

 Evan hated himself for never having had the courage to leave that world. To never apply himself to something greater. He had been too afraid to want more. Too afraid to walk away. Too afraid to tell the only woman he had ever loved what she meant to him. To listen to his heart and follow a dream to its bitter end. Instead, he became a coward, fell in with the wrong crowd who used his talents for a darker purpose.

 Tragically, fear binds us all to our twisted fates. When we become consumed by despair and blinded by our own suffering, the devil comes.

 The devil did not put us there. No, the devil waits for us to do work. He waits for us to sink deep enough into our own misery, and be blinded by our own suffering. And then he whispers, offers to be our eyes, our saviour. We believe him, desperate to be led to what he offers as our freedom. And we pay the price with our souls, the devil’s only currency.

  A flash of lightening split the dark clouds, illuminating the path before him. Thunder began to roar across the petulant sky. The wind again began to pick up as he leaned forward into it. Delirium from the loss of blood had long begun to settle in as he looked ahead.

  Then—

  He saw her.

  She stood beneath a lamppost, her pearl-blue dress twisting violently in the wind’s hands, golden curls billowing.

  Evan froze.

  His breath choked in his throat, his eyes burned pelted by heavy rain.

  “No…” His voice barely a whisper.

  “Please forgive me… I could not… I could not save you.”

  The lightening cracked like a mighty whip once more as it struck the lamp above her. A violent explosion of light and sound like fireworks made him stumble back.

  When he looked again—

  She was gone.

  Only a shattered lamppost and fallen debris remained where she had stood.

  Evan had to keep pressing on. He did not know how much longer his body could hold on. His head had begun to feel heavier. All he wanted to do was lie down and rest a little; but he knew that was not an option.

 Then the memory came.

 The scream.

 Her scream.

 And the gunshot that silenced it.

 Evan’s vision now blurred as he saw her again—not as a specter in the storm, but as she had been that night.

 Falling.

 Her body crumpled with a deafening thud to the cold floor.

 Silence.

 The world had become so deathly still in that moment.

 Slowly, Evan knelt beside her, took her hand in his own. It had still been warm.

  He had killed enough people to know a dead body when he saw it. His world had come for her. His demon’s punished him for stealing her light to lessen his own torment.

 He stared at her listless body for a moment longer with great confusion. ‘How could this have happened?’ he thought to himself.

 A single tear had slipped from his blue eye, falling onto her wrist.

 And there it was.

 The thin golden bracelet she always wore. The small oval plate engraved with L.B.

 Lorelai. His Lorelai.

 All this time she never took it off. He would never be able to confirm if she knew who had gifted it to her that day. The day he snuck to her stoop and left the red velvet box for her to find. The one and only act of courage he mustered in his life.

  Evan jerked the bracelet loose, clenched it in his fist, fingers digging deep into the metal as he reached meticulously for his Colt with the other and cocked it. He had known, then and there, that his life had ended with hers.

 But not before he made them pay, not before he killed each and every one of them in that warehouse.

 He did not remember the rest after that.

 Did not remember the gunfire, the bloodshed. Only that his pistol was now emptied, and no one was chasing him.

 Another coughing fit stole his breath, collapsed him to his knees. His pistol clanged on the stone in his grip. Here he paused, watched his blood pooled around him, washed away by the storm.

 “No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

 Evan gritted his teeth, pushed himself up and looked down at the bracelet in his palm, pressed his lips to the cold metal, and limped forward. His one leg now all but useless.

 Each breath now extremely laboured, and you could hear the gurgling of blood in each one he took.

 He was thankful for the storm this night for it meant no one would be out. The down pour alone masked the sounds of his struggle. Any other circumstances and someone would have noticed him by now.

 The pathway ended.

 “Just a little further,” he whispered.

 He dragged himself slowly passed the first building, then the second. His fingers clutched the wet iron railing, eyes lifting to the stoop.

 There it was.

 The little blue metal table and chair.

  A ghost of a smile stole across his lips.

  ‘Stairs,’ he thought, ‘Just what I need right now.’

 One last push.

 The storm raged on, thunder roared, but it was nothing compared to the roaring thuds of his own heart.

 Evan gripped the railing with both hands, hauling himself up, step by agonizing step. He used every ounce of strength he had left. His soaked frame collapsed against the table, his vision now swimming.

 The storm’s rage had masked the sound of his struggle up the steps.

 Memories flooded his mind.

 She had been so beautiful sitting here, so at peace, so unaware that her picturesque serenity had been the only thing keeping him from slipping entirely into his own darkness. The earth seemed to stand still, and all time ceased to exist as she sat here.

 His trembling fingers stretched forward as he set the bracelet out on the table. His vision abandoned him entirely for a moment in a thick haze before returning.

 Evan felt as if he had brought her home.

 Death had begun to wrap its claws around him, seducing him into its grasp.

 He had to hurry.

 Evan then went to head for the entrance as he coughed up more blood. He held up his soaked body on the edge of the doorframe. Then reached for the handle, pistol still in his grip. The Colt clattered and grinded off the metal handle as it turned to open.

 “How fortunate,” he whispered again with a slight air of amusement.

 Evan entered her suite, blood and rain pooled at his feet. He looked around him as he shuffled along the hall to the kitchen.

 His vision blurred again. His limbs felt impossibly thick and heavy.

 But he made it to the kitchen.

 He gripped the back of one of the dining room chairs and peeled off his wet trench coat. The coat splatted to the floor as he missed the chair.

 With the rain no longer beating upon him, he noticed blood running down from his shoulder and arms. Evan watched as his blood drizzled from his hands and leg to the once clean floor. He could not care about that right now. He had one last job to do.

 Evan ran a hand through his soaked hair to push it back from his face, ignoring the pain in his body. He then turned to face her kitchen sink. Blood from his hand now gently clung to his forehead and ran down the side of his face. Here he hopped over to the counter and clutched it.

 “Just a bit more time,” he whispered.

 He then clunked his pistol down on the countertop, leaving it as he searched the cupboards for a small pot. Evan found one easy enough and filled it with water as he found a match to start one of the burners. He then looked over and saw what he was after, her teapot.

 Evan used the counter to shuffle himself over toward it. Gently he stroked the delicate pink flowered porcelain, having smeared a thin trace of blood across it.

 Slowly, he lifted the lid.

 Inside, fresh leaves and flower buds waited for morning.

 A tomorrow that would never come.

 Tears spilled from his eyes, hot against his freezing skin. A guttural cry tore from his throat as he slammed his fist into the counter. The storm outside raged with him, lightning cracking like a vengeful god. But there was no god here.

 Another coughing fit seized his body, and this time, he could not catch his breath. He fell to the floor as blood spilled from his lips. He lay there on his side for what seemed like an eternity, before he began to slowly regain consciousness. Delirium took hold again as his bleary eyes landed on her.

 She stood by the sink, gazing out the window, her smile wide as she waved and giggled. A soft light seemed to glow around her, a reflection of her pure gentle soul.

 Evan knew exactly who she was smiling at across the way. And still, he never had the courage to approach her, to simply speak to her.

 “Death, do not take me just yet,” he whispered.

 With great effort, he scrambled to his feet, clutching at the cupboards for support, then the counter. He dragged himself toward the boiling water, pushing the teapot along with him. With trembling hands, he poured the hot water in and placed the lid on.

 His blurred gaze of crystal-blue drifted toward the dining room table, and, conveniently, there it was—her soft pink teacup, already waiting.

 Evan slid the teapot across the counter toward the table, and then in one swift motion, banged it down onto the surface. He nearly slipped on the wet, bloodied floor, but managed to catch himself as he gripped a chair.

 He slumped down into it and carefully pulled the cup toward him. Pouring the tea halfway, he felt its warmth through the porcelain, a fleeting moment of peace that calmed his frazzled mind. His breathing, laboured moments before, began to slow.

 Evan lifted the cup to his lips, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of lavender, vanilla, mint, and honeysuckle. Closing his eyes, he let the soothing essence of the tea wash over him, feeling the turmoil in his soul quiet.

 For the first time in what felt like forever at this point, he took a deep breath without triggering another coughing fit.

 He wiped more blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

 He sipped the brew, letting it slip down into his cold, aching, bloodied body. Each sip seemed to erase some of the pain, leaving behind a warm, blissful state. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as the tea worked its magic.

 Delirium swept over him again, and as he looked across the table, he saw her there, cup in hand, smiling back at him.

 Evan placed his cup down with a chuckle. He thought how curious it was all that one good cup of tea could do.

 “We will meet again in another life,” he whispered to her. “I will search for you, for eternity. And when I find you… I will not let you slip away. I am sorry.”

 She simply smiled at him, nodding her head gently.

 In this peaceful moment, Evan inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. One final breath. One last sip of her tea. He smiled once more and, with his final breath, whispered, “I’ll be seeing you then… thanks for the tea, Lorelai.”