Authors Note: Author's notes are in BOLD ITALICS, by the way. Do tell me in reviews whether you want me to continue this story. This is actually my flash fic for a writing competition :P.
The moon was orange that night. The dark shadows of the night were faint. There was one shadow, darker than the rest, superimposed on the branches of the gnawed knotty oak. It was of course, unknown to the human eye, when the foliage was wrapped around the cover of darkness.
The body that formed the shadow lay curled up deep in the bowels of the tree. The moon glowed persistently orange in the darkness of the night sky. The figure rolled off the tree and jumped off, with the graceful gait of a cat's. The vague outline of a slender sixteen-year old girl stretched fully, before wincing softy, awaiting the pain.
Plain, clear fonts burned on the girls arm. Words, letters of a distinctly foreign language, curled on her forearm. Amarylliis, as per usual requirements. Melanie King, annoying voice, rather arrogant and conceited about almost everything, south of your current location.
She touched her thigh, and sighed, opening her mouth to complain but suddenly decided against fulfilling her temporary desires. She would get shocked. Again. She definitely didn't want the harsh feeling of a thousand volts breaking into her body. Abandoning that frightening train of thought (yes, even to her), she numbingly reaches into her thigh sheath, and pulls out something that looked distinctly from a old-fashion masonry. It had a silvery sheen to it, like somebody had coated a sticky layer of glue, that had not dried yet. The ink on her arms faded away slowly, but surely, and suddenly her forearm looked normal, before the ink-dark as night, reappeared on her arms. Now. Hurry. She pauses for a dry moment to gather her wits. She was still sleepy. The last night had taken a lot out of her and she was still haunted. Haunted by what she had done.
The same ink curled around her forearm. She didn't hesitate, she could already feel adrenaline coursing in her veins, blood rushing in her ears. She was buzzing by now, on the hunt, literally, figuratively. She sprints, the jolt in her leg muscles pressing her to slow down-she had just an injury, but she continued on her journey. A minor setback. Temporary. Won't last long. Sometimes she wondered how they got her wrapped around their middle finger. Sometimes. But it didn't happen then.
She sped up, rounded the corner, apparently not caring about the sounds her leather covered boots were making as they hit the cement floor. She was armed anyway with her silver dagger, other serial killers couldn't lay a finger on her. Then she slowed. Listened.
Velvety voice. Check. Blue eyes that appeared to change color with his thoughts. Check. She had found her subject.
Next thing the subject knew, she was straddling her victim, one arm choking him She saw her subject tense for a moment. Pondering his next move. She twitched. No one had reated like that before, at least, according to what she could remember before and after the blank time space in her memory. His mouth opened, like he was considering whether what he would say would get him killed or released from her vice-like grip. He was slowly choking to death, she reckoned, or she hoped. She wanted things to fall according to plan. She always did. And this never did happen before.
His eyes appeared to be set ablaze by a deep sort of passion-hatred, disgust, a ugly tangle of feelings. "Killer of your own kind!" He hissed, spitting out the first word. She recoiled, making the dagger almost hit herself. Your own kind,....whatever did he mean? She shut her eyes for a brief moment, almost releasing her grip. "And I once thought....thought about us...?" His voice softened. Her mind raced. Who was he? But then she steeled herself, mantaining her grip. She didn't want the one thousand volts as dinner.
She was selfish.
With her armed hand, she drove it into his neck. With a gasp and a throw of his head, his eyes closed for the last time.
She ran.
