ext. play (brallon)

3_bleed_magic

The young man with the mocha eyes frowns at his pink tinted cocktail as though he expects it to grow wings and fly up to his mouth, because he can't be bothered to lift it with his hands. He's beautiful and alone, suggesting to me that he more than likely just got dumped by his now-ex boyfriend over a petty text message. All of these things, from his mourning expression, down to the details of his porcelain skinned face, make him the perfect specimen.

I'm about to make my move and finish off my own drink when the boy's head snaps curiously in my direction. I continue to stare at the wall in front of me. It isn't healthy to glare at potential murder victims for too long, particularly the better looking ones; an emotional attachment is something disruptive and wholly unneeded.

Mocha Eyes takes a sip from his cocktail glass before hopping down from his barstool and sidestepping until he reaches the seat next to mine. I turn my gaze toward him as he introduces himself, mocking interest. "Hello."

"Hi."

He smiles, settling himself down with his body pointed toward me. "Sorry to be so forward, but have I seen you before?" Before? That's no good. If he so much as thinks that he's seen me elsewhere, that means I'm going to have to kill him. One hundred milligrams of injectable ketamine should be enough to put him into a paralytic daze (I always keep a vial on me for use as a last resort), and he's already tipsy enough that he won't even notice me spike his drink. Then, after twenty or so minutes, it'll be off to the restroom for a swift and painless squeeze around the throat. The cause of death will be later identified as either alcohol poisoning or a drug overdose.

But unfortunately, as much as I'm enjoying the visualisation of my hands clasped tightly around his neck as his body violently convulses, it wouldn't be entirely efficient to do so at this moment in time. I can't be falling at the first hurdle simply because he may have glanced my way once as we crossed paths in the street.

"Wait, never mind," he says, flushing red from embarrassment. "We've never met. I'm-"

I cut him off before he can complete his greeting. I'll need to know his name, further down the line, but for now it is vain. A name is the first step to building a relationship with somebody, which in turn makes the task of destroying them that much harder; God forbid I learn how to empathize. "You really are quite pretty." At least that isn't a lie. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Thanks, but I have to get going. Maybe another time," he offers as he stands up from his seat.

"You're already leaving?"

"I'm drunk, and I'm tired." He laughs breathily before offering me his hand, palm upturned to the ceiling. "Give me your phone; I'll save my number and we can arrange to meet up."

"I don't have it on me."

"Oh. That's unfortunate."

"For you." My eyes narrow slightly, as if leering, but my lips do not smile. His body is almost floating on the spot, not quite standing up straight but not sitting down, either. He seems awfully stuck as to what to say next. "Say, why don't you let me walk you home?" I suggest. "I hear an accompanied stroll through the city at night is a most beautiful thing."

He swallows thickly, clearing his throat. "That's ok. I'll be fine on my own."

Still, he doesn't make for an exit. "I hope I don't intimidate you," I say.

"Not at all," he admits. "Quite the opposite, actually." For the first time, I allow my gaze to fixate on those chocolate coloured eyes, and his mouth falls open to say something else, but all that escapes his throat is a garbled, strangled breath.

He is ready.

I'm ready.

I allow myself to slip, just for a moment, cancelling out the low murmur of voices and clinking glasses, shutting off my primary senses and completely losing myself in his eyes. But only for a moment. This is trust.

Then, just as I'm about to bring myself back, a thought interrupts my concentration; a thought that I've never ever dared to think. What if I didn't want to kill this boy? Certainly, feeding off of other people's pain and suffering is all fun and games, but surely, my life can't be just that. Can it? All things considered, I'd like to someday know what it feels like to be loved by someone, even if I will never learn how to love myself. So what if he could stay with me? What if we could remain youthful and perfect together? What if?

This little life I have is a lonely one. You could say, by default, that I'm already halfway to wanting to kill the boy, anyway, so really, where's the harm in trying? I could go one step further than letting him fall in love with me: Letting him love me. Of course, at some point down the line he'll have to know that I won't reciprocate any feelings he might have. He'll have to know of my lies, my secrets, and of my criminal lifestyle, and he'll have to submit himself willingly to it. I won't lie and assume it will be easy - ensuring the discretion of my own criminal record is grueling enough on its own. To add another person to that record would be a death sentence for the both of us.

But, if I come to believe that he isn't good enough for my deeds, I will bleed out his magic, consume the essence of the blood that is spilled, like a ravenous vampire. Just another worthless victim, no different from any of the others that I've laid to rest.

Let us just hope that his life is as lonely as mine.