Written for the Song to Story Challenge, May 2022. Stories were written from the prompt song, Shut Up and Kiss Me, by Mary Chapin Carpenter
3rd Place Winner, Public Vote & A Capella Award
The Song to Story Contest was created by Frannie Walsh, of It All Started with Twilight.
Please check out all the great entries listed under the author name Song To Story Challenge.
Disclaimer— Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. I am not Stephenie Meyer.
As always, thank you to Raum for beta'ing.
The Silent Whisper
The bus is almost empty this early in the morning. It always is at this hour. It'll fill soon. All the people in a hurry to get somewhere. I sit all the way in the back and adjust my hood. Slouching in the seat, I put my earbuds in and turn to gaze out the window. I'm in no hurry. I ride because I am bored, not because I have somewhere to go. I ride the bus, and I people watch because I have nothing better to do.
People come, and people go. I watch them, but they don't notice. They glance in my direction but quickly look away. That's because of my hood. It hides my face, which is why I wear it up. If they saw my face, they wouldn't look away. I am breathtaking. That's not vanity speaking. It's resignation. I wish I wasn't. More than anything, I wish I was plain looking, like they all are. If I was plain looking, I might have somewhere to go, like they all do. Someone waiting for me to get there, like they all do.
The truth is, I envy them. I used to have somewhere to go, someone waiting for me to get there, but that was so long ago I barely remember how it felt.
It's raining, and I am so damned bored I could count the raindrops hitting the window just to have something to do. There is a crowd of people waiting crammed under the shelter at the next bus stop. They all have their eyes glued to their phones, every one of them.
No. I'm wrong. One doesn't. One of them has their eyes in a book. A real, honest to goodness book. Hmm. Will wonders never cease?
The doors open, and people get off before the next group climbs on, the book reader included. A few people stand to let others sit. It's nice to see. The passing years have left me cynical and jaded, but it's nice to be reminded that there is still some kindness left in the world. The book reader grabs one of the overhead straps. The movement of people settling themselves and the closing of the doors stirs the air, and new scents swirl with the old.
In the blink of an eye, everything changes. One of the new people's scents hits me, I am engulfed in fire. It's a fight to stay in the seat. I groan in need, causing the lady sitting next to me jump and slide to the farthest edge of her seat. It's not far enough apparently, because in the next beat of her heart she leaps to her feet and finds a spot near the doors. She could've stayed in her seat and been perfectly safe. That scent isn't hers. She doesn't interest me. It's you, with the book. Your scent attracts me to you like a silent whisper, calling me to come closer. My fingers curl around the seat, and the plastic cracks. I have to be more careful. I know better. I'm hardly new at this, but it's been so long since I felt anything like what your scent does to me that it has caught me off guard. I didn't expect to be in this position.
I watch you, and I wait. It isn't easy. The bus travels through town, and stop after stop people continue to get on and off. You don't. You don't even glance at the window to see where we are now, but eventually you will. Knowing that is all that keeps me in my seat. I watch your eyes as they move across the page. I watch the muscles in your throat work when swallow, and I can already taste the skin covering them, the blood flowing your veins.
Can you feel me watching you? Do you have any inkling?
I don't normally do this. Normally, I resign myself to wildlife. I haven't given in for so long. Even now, even with as acutely as I crave you, I don't want to do this. Or at least, part of me doesn't. Part of me wants to rise above, to be better than this. But that part isn't in control right now. The part of me that is in control wants it, demands it. I am what I am, but I already feel the guilt for what I will do. Others like me don't understand why I even try to abstain. I don't fit in with them anymore than I do with all of you.
Inevitably, we come to your stop, and you make your way to the door. I rise like a cobra uncoiling itself and lower my hood. I begin to attract attention immediately. I always do. It's the face. I am a demon with the face of an angel. One pair at a time all eyes turn to me, save one. You don't turn.
I'm sorry it has to be this way, but we are locked in a tale as old as time. Hunter and prey. I'm sorry for you, truly. I'm sorry you will never get to see how your book ends. I'm sorry for whoever is waiting for you to get wherever you were going. Or I will be after. I'm always sorry after, but knowing that isn't enough to save you. I can only promise you that I will make your last moments your best. I can give you that much, at least. A parting gift. Then, finally, at the last touch of my lips to your throat, all you will feel is a kiss good-bye.