Hallelujah

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Mala made me do it. Seriously.

It's not a cry you can hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

- Leonard Cohen

She never believed in God. Never drank wine and pretended it was blood. Never let them put a wafer on her tongue and savoured any sacrifice.

But she has drawn blood, she has tasted death.

She was a believer once. Convinced that love had risen from the dead. That he would return and redeem her.

So she went to his tomb, moved the stone, and found it empty. Discovered she was the sacrifice.

And yet she aches for him, her Judas. She wants the betrayal to be complete. For him to take what is left to offer.

She wants to taste him, to feel his coldness boil within her, to know the power she wields. To hear him whisper her name under his breath as she takes him in her mouth. To feel him move with her, his breath hot against her skin as she cries out, the sound closer to holy than body or blood.

She knows he wants her. Knows all the impure ways that he is hungry. But he is silent, he will not be tempted. He will not utter such blaspheme. He will wait and wither and die with his martyrdom to keep his bed warm at night.

But she won't let him be saved. She'll be damned if she'll let him nail himself to that cross.

And so she's tempted. To slip into the room next to his, slam Paul against the dividing wall, and beg him to nail her. To fuck her and make her scream.

And then she'll close her eyes and pretend it's long dark hair she's grabbed hold of, the hard muscle of a trigger arm she's sunk her fingernails into. She'll bite down into his shoulder, draw blood from his swollen lips, have her taste of revenge.

And then she'll scream. She'll scream hallelujah.