I could tell she wanted to eat me but not by any of the obvious reasons a succubus would lead on. She never once gave the impression of some kind of demon that wanted to rip part from my spine and squeeze my spleen like a sponge spilling blood over her rare panda bear rug, and her large collection of lit candles.
I still remember that stare from across the bar. It was a classy joint, one where the mention of beer would get every man in a suit jacket to stare at you like you just bashed someone over the head with a rock. "Wine?" Was the first word out of my mouth as my buddies finally found a table not occupied by a kids trying to dress like their grandparents.
Now every time I say classy I mean it in the same sense where you make air quotes to exaggerate the meaning without sounding like a sarcastic jerk yet that's exactly how you look. My buddies had good intentions but after several disastrous attempts of finding me a girlfriend using several lame ploys, we came here, to a wine bar looking for a "classy" girl. Of course they were split by what classy meant. None of it mattered because they all just faded away as those eyes entered my soul and mind.
Those eyes stretched out into my mind as I looked down at her with a glass of red wine she placed in my hand. I could smell the fineness of its aroma drift into my nostrils and into my mind, her room was drenched with a smell of roses and oranges, my favorite.
When I thought of the word vivid I always pictured clouds hues in light purples and blues surrounding that so called vividness. That's the world I looked through. It was pure vividness.
"It's all they serve here . . . " it could have been Josh that said it or perhaps Matt who wasn't even suppose to be there but found a way to sneak out of the house and leave his girlfriend to force feed his two month year old.
When you "look" for a girl, it's nothing like the word describes. The whole time your hoping either for a stumble with fate bringing a disasterous moment into something wonderful but what really happens is you trying to make eye contact with "flirty eyes" and instead you end up either looking like a creep or someone desperate. I'm not a looker and that hurts my whole "flirty eyes" game.
I remember almost giving up as we simply sat at a table drinking some mediocre wine that taste like it may have been produce in a barn with hints of sheep wool and I caught a pair of eyes from far across the room like a tractor beam.
She sat in front of me with a look of hunger in her eyes.
"Do you have anything to drink?" I asked, the words stumbled out like a mouthful of spaghetti.
I don't remember seeing her mouth form words but I distinctly heard her say "In the fridge."
That's where I wondered to. The kitchen was just behind the counter that separated the living room. Here, things didn't smell as great and the dream in my head seemed to clear a bit. I reached out to the fridge and opened the door where the smell almost overwhelmed me. My dad use to kill pigs. He'd put a gun to its head and pop, we'd have a whole array of food for the next couple of months. One day he took me with him, my gameboy in tow, boy did he hate that thing, but I wouldn't go unless I took it.
We said "Hi!" To the old couple that owned the farm, cousins my dad had called then. "Distant but they are still family."
I would grow to learn that that didn't mean we got a free ham dinner but that we paid extra to enjoy the porkfest extravagance because "Family should never hook you up for with anything. They don't owe you, if anything you owe them."
I stared at the fenced area. The smell was putrid and quickly the world shattered around. I remember fainting and my dad's face spinning around me. I forgot the sound of the gun and the picture of the dead pig. I forgot how the blood splattered and how the pig's squeal sounded like death wrapped around a knife and shoved into a child. What I remembered the most was the smell. That smell wafted from the inside of the cold fridge.
Suddenly, with a tap on my shoulder, the smell disappeared. I reached around the severed head that somehow fit inside a large ziplock bag and into the back next to a bowl that looked like tomato soup with a finger bobbing in it. Ah, the bottle was colder than ice.
"It's delicious," she whispered into my ear, "like you."
She bit into my ear and wetness followed the bead of sweat down the side of my face.
I floated after her as we made our way to her bedroom. I poured wine into two glasses that waited for me on a dresser and as I poured she undressed. She was captivating, I didn't even see where her dress flew to, but the sudden flicker and the change of color in the room alluded to it's destination.
When I realized I had poured the whole bottle into one glass that had overfilled, I spilled the rest of the contents over onto her carpet. Her black dress had done the same. It flowed of her shoulders, down her arms and into the carpet.
Alabastor. Her skin was the perfect shade of whiteness, the perfect grasp of what the most beautiful dead body would look like and all I wanted to do was make love to it.
I sunk into her, and her teeth sunk into my shoulder. There was no pain when all the muscle in between her jaws had torn away. I ignored it, smiled and pumped into her, looking for that fantastic finale.
The walls warped, the curtains distorted itself into the most heavenly place. When I looked into those eyes, I only saw bliss. Bliss was bright, and full of colors like a rainbow swallowed by a kalidescope.
Every now and then, I felt pain and my vision blurred with each sensation. The blissfulness faded and quickly there was nothing.
I remember waking up in a large puddle if my own blood. I knew it was my own blood because of the huge chunk of my shoulder was missing and the pain that pulsated from it contributing to the puddle with each spurt.
I had enough energy to sit up and and look at the room. I was no longer in some lived in apartment pasted together like a classy single woman that I thought lived here. Instead I found a shell of an apartment. Everything was old, tattered and black with decay.
I made my way to the window and stared out into the city and the fresh air cleared out my lungs of the dust and dirt that lived in the air of what I can assume had been a couple of years of neglect. I was high, above the city and yet I could feel the emptiness that this tower held.
I turned towards the bed that still remained. Something wrinkled and treelike lie motionless. It had wings the size of a coffin protruding from each side but they hung there over the bed and into the floor like a wet plastic bag clinging to a curb. That was her alright, the girl from last night, dead like grasshopper caught in a child's magnifying glass.
I made my way to the kitchen and reached into the fridge, where the wine lived along with many body parts she had saved for another day.
A quick swig and I walked out the door into a dusky hallway, where I took a broken elevator down forty floors and out into an abandoned lobby only to find another woman sitting in a dusty chair.
I didn't think much of her until I saw her eyes. She was beautiful, more beautiful then the sun after being kidnapped by a darkness that lived underground. The pain subsided from my shoulder and I somehow felt drawn to this mysterious woman.
"Let's go up to my room," she said and I followed, with the smell of roses and oranges in the air.
By L. Vera