I lean in close to the mirror and carefully pull a mascara brush over my eyelashes repeatedly. I pull back and look at my art. My eyes are covered in such dark makeup that if I had anymore, I would look like a raccoon, and it makes my glowing silver eyes look almost just as black as the makeup. I fix that by putting in ice blue colored contacts. To finish the look, I pull my black hair out of the ponytail behind my head and let it fall around my face in soft waves.
The heavy makeup coupled with the tight black dress gives me the look I was hoping for. No man will be able to resist a young beautiful girl dressed like this.
Having finished getting ready, I head out of my house into the cold January air without a jacket to cover my bare arms.
Once outside my house, I look around to see if anybody is close enough to see me. Satisfied that the street is clear, I jump to the top of my neighbors house. I realise halfway through my ascent that I am wearing six inch spike heels and the force of my landing is going to end up breaking them. When I get to the top of the house I attempt to roll to avoid breaking my favorite shoes and end up slamming onto the shingles on my side ungracefully.
Cursing, I push myself up, taking my shoes off to hold as I go. Looking at my bare arms and legs, I find already rapidly healing scrapes from where they hit the shingles off the roof. Reassured that nothing too serious occurred from my clumsy landing and that there is no blood on my dress, I start to run along the roof with the lightest footsteps that I can manage. My destination is only a few blocks away from my new house, so it only takes me about 40 seconds to arrive.
As soon as I can see the roof of the bar and hear everybody inside talking, I come to a screeching halt. The shingles scrape my bare feet and I hiss in pain. I look down at the street below me and find it empty except for a few drunken people stumbling home after a few hours in the bar. Knowing that none of them are going to remember tonight even if they see me, I jump down from the roof and land in a crouch on the pavement.
I quickly stand, put my shoes back on, and walk the last block to the bar, pretending to hold my bare arms and shiver. As I get closer, I start to rub my arms like I'm cold. A few people are already leaving the bar for the night, but I can see that inside the alcohol is still out in full force. The town drunks are all still there. It is the perfect time of night for what I'm planning.
I walk into the bar and drop my arms to my sides. I don't walk so much as strut towards the bartender, feeling all the eyes in the room follow me there. As I sit down in the barstool that I was aiming for, my dress slips up until my butt is against the seat, and I can practically smell the drool. I order a few shots, show the bartender my ID, and start the helpless act of somebody who was ditched by her date. Only five minutes go past before the first man comes up to talk to me.
He's the kind of sleazebag that I came here to find. He is in his late thirties and is almost salivating all over himself at the sight of me. He is disgusting, smells like mustard, and has what looks like puke stains on his shirt. He's perfect.
"Hey there little lady, can I buy you a drink?"
"No thanks, I have my own," I say and wiggle my shot glass at him.
"Come on, don't be a boring little tease."
"I said no," I say and turn back to my drink, or try to.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me back around to face him, pulling me out of my chair and against him. I quickly find out that the smell of mustard emanating from his mouth is much worse up close when it is blowing in your face. I yank myself away from him, careful to keep my strength down to where a 10 year old girl's would be.
