Rated M for violence, language, and maybe some sexual scenes. This will be an Angsty story. Just warning you.
Oh, and its supernatural.
Disclaimer: SM owns all recognizable characters and anything Twilight related.
Rule one:
Always leave some blood behind.
The girl walking down the street is dressed in all black. Black boots over black leggings adorned with an unnecessary black belt. Her black leather jacket hangs open, revealing a black, ribbed sweater and the only non-black item in her ensemble; a silver chain with a vial at the end of it.
She walks with her head down, her hair up and her hands in her pocket pulling the sides of her jacket in against the cold. Her breath crystallizes in the frigid air. Her feet carry her in a slow, rhythmic pace. Unusual compared to that of her fellow pedestrians, whose steps are hurried and scissor like. All but the dark girl seem eager to get somewhere warm. They pull their hats and scarves close, their mittens closer as they shiver. She does nothing. She keeps her pace.
After about five minutes of walking down the busy street, she turns down an empty alleyway and strolls through the sudden blast of ice laden wind. She hears laughter. Men, four of them, are giggling drunkenly at the end of the way. She continues on and she does not turn back, as any other well to do girl in Chicago would do at this time in this kind of location under these kinds of circumstances. Then again, she really isn't like any other girl.
She gets close to them, strolling past as if they were decorative bushes.
"Hey sugar, what's a pretty thing like you doing all alone back here?" One of the men slurs. He and his buddies eye the frozen girl, mistaking her stillness for fear.
"Walking down this alley all along, dressed like that is asking for me to come and give you a taste of a real man?" He giggles. The other three nod solemnly. Funny, intoxicated morons being solemn. She feels the urge to laugh at them. Like a farmer does at his cattle occasionally.
But she chooses not to.
Instead she stays completely still, breathing evenly as they circle her, their stumbling steps echoing off the damp stone walls surrounding their small group.
She breaths in through her nose, out through her mouth. In and out, concentrate. The men do not find her stillness and silence strange, are too wasted to worry about her calm. The alcohol sloshes through their systems, clouding their senses. They do not see her tense.
They do not see her fangs.
"C'mon sugar, what's your name?" She smiles and turns to the lead man. The one who had first spoken to her. The other three are on her west, east, and south. He is north. She always did love exacts, like directions and circles of even numbers. It makes what she is about to do seem less heathen and more of a ritual. And rituals are religious. They are practiced by those who hold belief in souls.
The man facing her is a young man, in his twenties. He is beyond drunk, any more alcohol and he'd be passed out on the floor. His mind is foggy, making him approach the girl. She is unnaturally pretty, he thinks. Then some chord of reason breaks through the mist of liquid poison, like a beam of light in a storm.
Unnatural. She is unnatural.
He sees the red eyes, the pale skin. He sees how she does not shiver in the cold. Alcohol warms him; what warms her? He sees her smile. It is sharp like a blade. His heart starts to beat faster, his palms sweat and smolder. He can feel his eyes widen and his veins pump blood through his heart as if he were running. Her nostrils flare and her eyes close as she takes a deep breath, her head tips back.
His friends are still oblivious of what his body already knows. She is a predator.
She recognizes the fear in his eyes, the clarity in his heartbeat, the lusciousness of his fluttering pulse. The blood pools beneath his skin, beckoning her.
"My name is Bella. But you can call me Death." The other men are confused. Who would call themselves death? But the leader understands, realizes who she is and what he is to her. Finally he knows.
He is about to die.
And as his foot falls back as if to run from her she pounces. There is frenzy as the woman sinks her daggered teeth deep into his neck. She growls, the blood bubbling around her lips and trickling down his chin. His eyes are wide open, staring at his horrified comrades as they are shocked to grim awareness. They turn and run. He watches their retreating forms as his vision turns black.
The carcass lies on the alley floor. She drinks most of the blood, then slits the throat. There, it is as if he were mugged.
The liquid left paints the dirty ground in crimson.
She empties his pockets, finds his driver's license and sees his name. Patrick Morgan. She hangs her head, silent and solitary. It begins to snow.
White flakes fall upon the prone body and his pool of blood. The snow is pure, until it is stained by her filthy need; her forbidden desire.
She is now ten blocks away, her coat held close as if cold. Her eyes are a brilliant scarlet, bright as the flames but lacking their warmth or life. She stops beside a tree and tugs at the vial on her necklace. Inside are three items: a strand of hair, a small piece of fabric, and an eyelash. She opens it and sniffs.
It is his smell. It is his fault and her reminder. He is the reason behind it all. He made her what she is, a monster. Him.
She knows the scent well, it is her reason for this half life. She sniffs again and then closes the vial again. Her tortured eyes turn to the angelic, unmarked snow and she wishes that she could cry. That she could feel something other than the pain and the guilt and the shame and the burn.
And then, for the thousandth time since she'd been thrown into this hell, she vows that she will find him.
And when she finds him, he too will call her Death.
Thoughts? Intrigue?
If so, review. :)