It's Not Over

Trifecta: Week Eighty-Three   
and
Write at the Merge, Week 26

After my Trifextra offering, I was inspired to create a new character in my ever changing world of Anne Marie McClarren.  So I'm throwing two prompts together this week,  this image from Write on Edge..

and, from Trifecta Writing...

This week's word is:

RUSTY
1: affected by or as if by rust; especially : stiff with or as if with rust
2: inept and slow through lack of practice or old age
3a : of the color rust  

  b : dulled in color or appearance by age and use <rusty old boots>
4: outmoded
5: hoarse, grating

- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.31EjgJ5O.dpuf

Damp air touched his face, a soft caress awakening him.  Jean Philippe Michel L'Parre struggled to raise rusty eyelids.  As consciousness returned, so did memory.

She'd been there, in his lair under the lighthouse.  Lying in wait for his return at sunrise.  He remembered the surprise followed by the pain.  Excruciating, burning pain.  It immobilized him as she sealed the entry of his cavern.  His final memory had been of black, dry silence.

His eyes adjusted to the dark as he slowly moved his weakened extremities.  Arms lethargically drew his hands over his body.  When they reached his unmoving chest, he grasped the rotting wood of the stake driven there. 

He twisted the shaft free, the accompanying scream reverberating in the small space meant to be his tomb.  The elder memory of pain blotted out by fresh agony.

He lay still, willing strength to return.  Vengeance growing hotter as the burning wave of pain subsided.  He threw the offensive wood, its clatter echoing more softly than his cry.

Hours passed before he became aware of the sound dripping water.  Then the scuttling of tiny clawed feet.  Here was the creature that had breached the seal, inviting the wood moldering wetness.

Curiosity drove the rat closer.  L'Parre waited patiently as it sniffed and shuffled about his feet. When it moved within his reach, he snatched it with one emaciated hand.  Not bothering to bring it to his fangs, he simply twisted its head off.  He held the body over his open mouth, letting the crimson flow run down his throat.

When the blood no longer ran freely, he used both hands to wring the remaining rusty drops directly into the gaping hole in his chest.  

He tossed the empty body  the same direction as the stake.  Then closed his eyes once more, resting, to let "nature" take its course, while he dreamed of the demise of Mademoiselle McClarren.