She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world when she wrote. She wrote because she needed to write, because she hoped someone will listen or because writing will mend something broken inside her or bring something back to life. She was stubborn, she was wise. She was immoderate and volatile. She spoke through her eyes, and mostly wore a disguise.
She woke up with a loud pounding noise in her head. She was dressed a skimpy red dress, her fishnets were torn in a few places. A leather jacket lay on the floor next to the strange bed. In a state of acute delirium, all she could recollected was leaving the hospital in her nurse’s uniform.
She dragged one foot after the other in the direction of home. Like most days she was lost in thought. Going home worried her. The time she spent there oscillated between exhilarating and dreadful. “Last night was the scariest, I have had in a long time” she thought as she caressed the teeth marks on her wrist.
Crimson roses were placed on the table next to the bowl of drunken strawberries. The sheets were changed to black satin and the lights were dimmed. The Bordeaux was chilled. He was cooking her favorite spaghetti in marinara sauce while he waited for her. This was only a prelude to what was on offer that night.
As the skies turned to the darkest shade of blue, she walked brazenly through the woods, onto the crossroads for her next kill. With the last light reflecting softly from her curvy waist, thick long hair loosely braided, she stood there draped in a black lace sari alluring everything that set eyes on her.