Omen of Rose

Blood Red X-mas

One cold winter's night, a dark figure roamed the streets of Paris. His face completely covered, save for one piercing green eye, by his long platinum blonde hair. His hands, tucked away in his flowing black trench coat. Black Army boots clicking as he walked, hidden by his ill-fitting black pants.

His silvery breath raised into the bitter cold of the night. Lately, he had been feeling distanced from the world he left behind, having, only recently, completely accepted his new existence as a faux one. Being a vampire, he was not to exist to the known world, condemned to live life in the shadows.

Along the poorly lit street, he passes a flickering neon sign. A blue wash cast over his surroundings and a pulsing bass booming from behind a cinderblock wall, he looked up at the sign.

"I hate French,��? he muttered. Shrugging his shoulders, he pushed his weight against the archaic doors. Slowly, they swung open. The music lurched out at him like a lion attacking its prey. It grabbed him and pulled him in.

Inside the club, a sea of bodies were moving and dancing on each other. He made his way into the crowd, dancing. He had hoped that this would make him feel a bit better about his long-lost life. People all around him were moving, shaking, sweating, dancing, closer and closer. In the corner, was a group of people making out, without another thought of the people around them.

He scanned the people around him, clones, each person resembled the last. All...but one. One person stood out, different from all the rest.

A girl stood alone at the other end of the room. Her hair was a dark ash color, pulled, tightly into two balls on her head. Her bangs fell and lightly caressed her cheeks, her eyes, an empty grey, matching her hair. He skin shone with the color of light mocha crême. She was wrapped in a black dress that lightly draped off her shoulders.

Her beauty stunned him, stopping completely until a dancing body collided with him. Awoken from his daze, he began to move toward her. His mind reached out, wanting to grab her. As he neared closing in about two feet from her, she looked up at him. At 6' 2��?, he stood a whole foot taller than her. She smiled at him and reached out to grab the ruffled red shirt that now showed through his open jacket.

They danced closely. His movements were vivid and precise, hers were fluid and sensual. They danced on, until they had tired themselves to the point of breathlessness. The girl began to make her way out of the club. He followed close behind. Exiting through a side door, they emerged into a dark alley.

Outside the building, he leaned against the wall. He leaned his head back, resting it against the wall yet keeping his eyes on her. She moved close to him, slowly caressing his face with her hand. She places her hands against the wall, trapping him with her arms.

"Tu t'appelles comment, mon ami?��? She asked him.

He turned his head away, trying not to look at her. He did not want to become attached again.

"Mon ami?��? She asked again.

He turned back to her. "J'taime, ma cherie.��?

He lowered his head to her, and kissed her. She melted in his arms, grabbing his shoulders, lightly squeezing.

He lightly flowered her with kisses, her cheek to her ear. "Je regrett,��? He whispers in her ear.

She questioned this for a moment in her head, and then gave up. Continuing down her neck, he stops short of her shoulders. He opened his mouth widely, barring his fangs. He sunk his fangs into her flesh. The sweet, coppery taste of her blood filled his mouth as the crimson liquid began to flow.

Soon, she was too far-gone to be saved. She was drained of all life, all hope, all dreams. He held her lifeless body closely. When she was finally dead, he sat her against the wall and began to walk off. He at the end of the alley, he turned back to her. One last photograph in his mind, and he was off.

In the following days, he felt awful about what he had done. She was so young, and so inexperienced. He followed her body through the morgue, feeling regret for what he had done.

On the day of her funeral, he stood post in a near-by tree. Slowly, the procession filed out of the graveyard. He slunk down from his post in the tree, approaching the cold, dark headstone. He read it aloud.

"Debbie, December 10, 1989 to December 25, 2004. Your name was Debbie.��? He sighed deeply. "Je regrett, Debbie.��?

He turned and walked away, never to return to her resting spot.