Horns
He had never met a person like her before. He had grown up and lived and learned what the red numbers and names above people's heads were, he had seen a man named "A" commit suicide, but never had he seen someone with naturally pink hair. Never had he seen someone with such strange eyes. Never had he seen someone with horns.
It had been pure chance that allowed them to meet. He caught her attention with his forced slouch, isolated expression, and coppery-red eyes. She caught his attention with her unusual hair, glimpse of white bone hidden beneath two purple bows, and the subtle way she avoided contact with anything but her feet on the pavement.
The second encounter involved eye contact between them, two pairs of eerily guarded eyes meeting, and he'd noticed with some alarm that her lifespan wasn't steady; it changed in a way that no other lifespan changed. Their thoughts were exchanged in that glance: You're different from them. A man bumped into her, and he watched, intrigued, when the man dropped dead on the street not a second later.
He never believed in such things as fate and destiny, but he allowed himself to contemplate the idea as various mall shoppers lost heads, limbs, and other body parts in a shower of blood that seemed to be caused by invisible blades. She was standing in the middle of the chaos, eyes wide, grin wide and insanely joyous.
He didn't run with the rest of them, didn't scream in terror; he stood beside the wall and watched, dipping his fingers into his jar of strawberry jam as red as the blood that burst from the dead.
She just did all this before I could. The weapons hidden on his person didn't need to be used yet after all.
Their eyes met, and she seemed surprised to see him there, looking so relaxed and casual.
"You're not like the other humans." It was spoken almost like a question, but he knew, without truly even knowing her, that she was too arrogant and too dignified to actually ask anyone anything.
He licked at his sticky fingers. "Why'd you do it?"
And he was surprised to find that her reasons were the same as his. "Hate."
He coated his fingers in another thick layer of jam and approached her, watching the way she tensed and the way those invisible hands of hers, visible only because of the blood that coated them, were poised to strike at the slightest sign of hostility. Her eyes, those eerie, empty and at the same time full, eyes, stared as he licked his middle finger clean and poked his jam-slick forefinger between her lips.
He licked at the corners of his mouth, ignoring the surprise on her face. "I think it tastes good too."
Her tongue moved on its own in response to the sweetness placed upon it. She'd never tasted anything so sweet. His finger was warm and wet and as his slinger slid out from between her lips she realized he was right about what it tasted like.
"Like blood," she said, "And satisfaction." Her invisible arms were gone.
He nodded, slightly amazed at how well they understood one another. The only other person who he could read and could read him this well was the one he sought to destroy.
He trailed his fingers down her pale chin, across her collarbone, and down to lightly grasp her fingers. "Come. I know a coffee shop that has excellent jam."
Her eyes narrowed. "No. I hate humans. I hate all humans."
What are you then, if not human? He wondered. "Home then." He said, dropping her hand and walking away. He paused when she didn't follow, and glanced back at her. "Are you coming, Kaede? I have someone I need to kill."
He felt a hand entwine with his: invisible. It was warm.
"Okay. Let's go home."
End