Empty: Book 2

33 : Come and Find Me

PANA

Come, it's an evening for alive of the same death living, momentous for this time of captivating allure caressed by glasses kissing, gentle giggles with smart chatters exchanging with a thought. It's a beautiful noise of liveness, elegant as the glistening hall in mild lights left partly on, letting the spaces glow beyond the exquisite dresses and suits of their sinful portraits reflecting through every truthful liquor. How I wish now to be there, instead of being in this washroom cubicle doing business with some risky parasite I've captured at the venue's backdoor.

"Who invited you?" I calmly ask, tying my long hair up in a ponytail for its strands' defense against any reek. The sharpness of my well-heeled foot confined this stranger's head from moving out of the toilet base where his face qualified, "...who do you work for?" I remove my leather coat in action sinister, daunting him the way I folded my sleeves up to my elbow for a more sensational hold.

It's a destiny that I desired not choosing a dress. But I still am the king of the night— on my white button-up sleeve tucked beneath my black trousers, looking lesser dead with a tie. The fit allows me also to move accordingly in case of a sudden dispute, just like this quandary I'm currently in.

His coward eyes fix upon my dominant empty stares, and his loud suffering speaks, "I'm just one of the peop--"

So much more aggressively as I yank him up through his thick sticky nest, I leaned down to his eye level, "Yes. Of whom?" I replied, clutching his hair tighter in the indulgence of his head too hard, head belonging to the platter.

Dead lovely woman supposedly enjoying a dance teeming at the ballroom, drinking, having pleasure like in movies, having something real like imagined. It's still a party for at least a little while, it is, regardless if is merely conducted for an undercover target we arrange the event for, but not for this piece of ugliness with whom he's working for.

"Let me g---"

"Of whom?" I restated through a solid whisper— aware of someone across this cubicle with a possibility to gossip or join his time of death. But the bastard loves a lethal tease, relying upon a loud groan as I violently thump his face on a toilet seat spilling his red sap of piss. Now it's certain, an ordinary restroom citizen heard his humorous cry for help.

Why there are humans who don't fear death? Because I, I do.

"Hey, are you okay? are you with anybody?" a woman's disruptive voice outside the stall enters the scene and a gate of extinction.

To this night, another human creature will try to protect someone who wouldn't do the same.