Finally they made it to the boy’s humble abode. It was evident that the boy made his own furniture and the walls were decorated with mediocre art hung in unusual ways.
“How… romantic” she bemused after looking around. “Quaint”
She draped her long arm across his back, “do you have paper?”
He irritatedly searched through a nearby drawer. He shoved the paper into her hands and began to kiss her neck and ease up her dress. She stopped him with the push of one slender finger against his large chest.
“One moment” she directed. She handed him the pen and continued “remember what you were telling me in the cab?”
He shook his head.
She leaned in a little closer “write down what you remember”
“I can’t-“he started but she cut him off
“Hush!” he was clearly in no state to write anything coherent “I’ll tell you what to write”
“But. I don’t want to… fuck this English class” he slurred.
She pushed him into a wooden chair and circled him like a vulture “do it for me and then we can have a little… fun” she said, in a tone that promoted wrong doing.
She coaxed him into writing a very messy very short letter that made her point.
She then slipped off her dress to reveal a particularly lacy pair of underwear and stalked off to what she assumed was the bedroom. Like an eager puppy he followed.
She pushed him down on the bed and kissed him like she loved him.
This was his heaven, drunk, comfortable, a warm pair of boobs and no commitments. He even liked that it was kind of wrong, and he was nowhere near sad. She pulled him up from the bed and kissed her way to the bathroom where she sat on the sink as he eagerly fondled with the straps she knew where way too complicated for anyone under the influence to handle. Her long elegant fingers slid their way from neck, to shoulder catching fabric and skin along the way, elegant fingers that tickled the skin and found their destination at the wrists.
Against the wrist a small unnoticeable poke of something foreign against hot thick skin.
In one swift movement she cut through the thick hide of his wrist and dragged the fine blades vertically up his arm.
He screamed so she kissed him, he didn’t kiss back but it muffled his drunken wails. He reached for his wrists and stumbled backwards.
She smiled and hopped from the counter and led him forcibly to the bathtub and pushed him in, his body hit the porcelain with a sickening thud, and he lie in a ring of soap scum. She expertly took his wrists in her hands coaxing out blood in a twistedly nurturing way.
Hot fresh blood came from him. It was bright and beautiful and she let it flow down her arms looking particularly vibrant against her light complexion. She took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her as the life sputtered out of him. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks while his paralyzing blue eyes stared into hers, the focus so afraid and hateful, until the fog rolled in and he was swept away.
She liked most to see them leave, the solidarity of knowing they will not be back to look her in the face and ask what she’d done. Looking into the eyes of the dead is one thing but looking through the eyes of the dying is something special. She thinks that’s why he does it.