Karma Wears Heels [ON HOLD]

Prologue

Hey guys, this is my new story!!!! It's a little different than my other books but this idea's been around in my head ever since I first read about serial killers and the plot stared formulating the first time I watched Dexter (now I'm in love with him).

Anyways, I truly hope you like this. It's gonna contain mild violence or maybe not-so mild, mild use of strong language and some sexual contents.

It's still gonna have romance in it, because I just can't read or write a story without any twitterpatting scenes. :))))

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I accept to myself that I, Claudia Rashleigh, has sociopathic tendencies. I realized that when I was seventeen, it was Senior Prom Night and I was walking home, alone. It was lady’s choice and it just so happen that I did not like anyone in my class, or anyone at all, that was why I went stag. I wouldn’t have come but I was maintaining a grade point average, and Prom Attendance’s a must for Physical Education.

It’s not that I’m not attractive or anything, I am, and some boys tried bringing up the topic whenever they talk to me in the hallways, but I brush them off. I didn’t really made any friends when I was in high school, I was on the foster care system, and I was passed around like a rag doll, from home to home, city to city, state to state. I was alone, but I did not mind it.

Back to when I realize I was a sociopath: A guy started to follow me as I cut through a foggy alley, a shortcut I use to get to my street faster, making me quicken my pace. He eventually matched mine and he started talking to me.

“Hey, lovely, don’t you have a date?” he said in a very husky and unattractive voice, and his breath stank, even though he was some feet away from me, I could smell it. A combination of marijuana, liquor and cigarette, I recognized.

I didn’t look at him, nor tried to answer. I wasn’t scared, which was weird, because the situation was really scary. I just walked fast like I was running late for school.

The man grew irritated with me after some more crude remarks which I met in silence so before I could even reach the ten feet left of the alley, he grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me against the wall. Adrenaline pumped through my system and before he could even position himself between my legs, I kneed him at the groin. He groaned, and that was when I smelled the foulest odor to ever meet my nose, his breath at close proximity. I pushed away from him and started to run away but he grabbed my gown and I fell back to my ass.

“Where do you think you’re going, missy?” he said, the stench wafting to my nose as he straddled me.

I thrashed under him but he pinned both my arms against the slightly wet alleyway.

“This will be more fun if you just stay still, I promise you’ll enjoy it,” he said, inches away from my face with a very grim smile that matched his persona.

He started to unzip his jeans then, with both hands, and I was lucky enough to find a rusted metal rod near my right hand.

Before I knew it, I hit him with it. I did it, again and again and again and again until I am the one that was straddling him and through the dim lights of the alley, I could see his face bloodied and bruised to the point that I thought it wasn’t a face at all. His words, undecipherable groans of pain.

I couldn’t help but realize then, that I liked it. I like the feel of someone dying beneath me. Someone groaning of pain. I like the feel of dominance, but it was a pleasure short lived. Police sirens dragged me out of my trance and I stopped, stabbed him with the rusted rod, for good measures, and ran.

He was named Keith Howell, and he was a drug dealer, a rapist and a murderer. I found out about him on the news and a smile tugged  on my lips as the scene reporter talked about him with much disdain and relief. They have been hunting him for a year for six counts of murder.

“Thank God, someone got that bastard!” my foster father, Phillip Sox, said as he sat back down on his dining chair and unfolded the newspaper.

He looked at me from the top of the papers and said, “How was Prom last night? Did you have fun?” he asked, good-naturedly.

“Yeah, I had tons of fun,” I answered, with a smile.

He smiled back. “Good,” he said and went back to the newspaper.

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Soooo, what do you think? Should I give up my dream of writing about a serial killer?