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Her heels make an impossible clicking sound, almost as if she’s wearing taps. This both infuriates and intrigues him at once. Powerful, annoying, that is the rhythm of her feet. She’s beautiful. Swinging gait, large breasts bouncing as she stomps to the car. A darling dimple deep in her left cheek as she smiles at nothing in the half-light. He vows to sip teardrops from this, later.
Like always when watching her he finds himself unsure as to whether he wants to worship or wound her – inhale the sweet fragrance of her long, auburn ringlets, or gauge out her hazel eyes with his thumbs.
She’s going to be the best one ever.
He moves swiftly because he knows that she is strong. He runs through the shadows of the parking lot, barefoot. Not even a soft sound from him. One, powerful hand to the throat, and the other pressed firmly against her mouth, the ridge spanning index finger and thumb blocking her nostrils. This always makes them panic; having the airways covered. It intensifies his pleasure to feel their heartbeat so like a hummingbird, and to smell the thick stink.
Her skin is electrifyingly warm beneath his palms, heartbeat steady beneath his grasp on her throat. From the very beginning she is so unlike the others in every way. Not fighting, no scratching. No panic.
He is stunned by this, unsure of his next move.
Normally buoyed into swift action by their fear, ravenous and on auto-pilot, he finds himself remarkably knocked out of character by her entire absence of reaction. He tightens his hold on her neck and presses harder still against her mouth and nose. He can feel her teeth mashed into the palm of his hand. And then, yes, there it is. He can see her pale brown skin turning red, magenta, purple. He hums softly, tunelessly during the ecstasy of this color progression.
He takes a moment to inhale the sweet fragrance of her hair, even closing his eyes briefly to block out all other senses. He is just preparing to issue a soothing, “Shhhhhhh” when suddenly she is all rigid muscle and not so out of breath. Purple indeed! The color of her face, and the last color he ever sees. Her thumbs come driving up and out go his eyes.
“Aaaaauggh!” He is no longer a soundless cat. He is bleeding, dizzy, uncertain. He can hear the opening of her trunk, feel the coldness of the concrete through his palms and the knees of his jeans. There is a cold stringy fragment of something hanging from his eye socket that caresses his cheek. He vomits. She lifts the tire iron and swings it at his head. The first blow is only to let him know that the second is coming. One pro knows another; he is stunned when he realizes that she is savoring his fear. He finds unconsciousness.
He awakes in her trunk, in a darkness that can never be taken away. He prides himself on his silence, deaf to the high-pitched whines that issue from his own throat. The car stops moving. She comes around to the trunk. Powerful. Annoying. That is the rhythm of her walk.
“I’m going to have a real special time with you boy. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to make your move.” She pauses, and he can feel her smiling over him.
“You’re going to be the best one ever.”
She laughs like a hyena as he hears the sounds of his own terror for the first time.
Dawn A. Green is a single mother of 4 girls,currently residing in Bay Point, Ca. She has been published in the Verse Maurader, Demons, Knights & Angels, as well as in a 2006 anthology entitled “Color Him Father”.
- The Theory Behind My Flash Fiction (pittsburghflashfictiongazette.com)
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