Color Me Dead

It wasn't the intensity of the feeling but rather the existence of it that scared her. It was foreign, alien, and raw; something she had never felt before and something she'd never ever imagined experiencing. She wasn't sure of the steps she had to take next or how she would deal with it, but the only thing that she was sure about was the euphoric feeling that ran through her veins. But she snapped out of it, she had to. As much as she wanted to relish this feeling of pure, unadulterated joy, she had to work on her feet and handle a situation that she hadn't handled before. Many described her to be as adaptable as water, but right now she could feel herself drowning. She could feel the panic set in as she scratched her Gemini tattoo and felt her palms sweat. Her heartbeat was now starting to quicken with every passing second. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was an accident, wasn't it? She had to do something and whatever it was, it had to be fast. Time was passing and by the looks of it, he had stopped breathing a long time ago. CPR, seven pumps, and then stop. Or was it 14? Either way, she placed her shaky palms on his chest. She couldn't feel his heartbeat as she started the compressions but she blamed it on her numb hands. Love is supposed to make your heart skip a beat, she thought bitterly, but not stop your heart entirely. It was his fault, after all. If he hadn't pushed her, touched her, released the beast within her, he would still be alive. Probably enjoying the last sips of his red wine with her, polishing the night off with some dessert and a kiss. She told him that he was going too far, he knew what he was doing himself. But he took pride in it, smirking with every flinch that was caused by him to her. Maybe he thought the shivers were of anticipation and not of fear? She had to stop wondering about his philosophy and what was going on behind that delicious mop of brown hair because there was only so much you could ask a cadaver. 

She sat on top of him, just the way he would've liked it, and decided to try and revive him again. She knew her efforts were as useless as his advances had been but she had to snap out of it. He wasn't coming back to life, and that was something she couldn't change. After all, it was her bare hands on his neck. Not scratching the skin but pressing hard on the jugular and trachea to blow the wind out of his body. She got up, staring at his lifeless, but gorgeous, body and walked towards the dinner table. The food was still somewhat warm, but the candle was beginning to melt. It hadn't been too long since the entire exploit had occurred. Time had slowed down or rather paused for her. She could still feel his warm hand in places she wishes it had never gone. She sat at the table, on the same chair where she'd spent the last hour laughing and feeling warm after consuming glass after glass of the red wine he'd opened especially for her. The night wasn't supposed to go this way, but if there was one thing she knew, it was that life threw her curveballs at the least expected times. She hadn't anticipated committing a murder when she'd put on her red dress and had carefully done herself up for him. She had anticipated certain other things, things that would've made her face glow with heat during some other time. But something had snapped. The sound of the clock ticking had started to grate her nerves, and she knew she had to get out of there faster. She couldn't walk away and treat this travesty like something trivial. There was a time of death, clear signs of strangulation, his skin under her nails, her DNA all over his body. The night wasn't supposed to go like this. 

The bottle had a quarter of wine left inside, which she took as a sign of optimism; the bottle half-full or something along those lines, she thought, gulping the remains. She rarely needed liquid courage but there was always a first time for everything. Something animalistic and malicious had been woken up inside her, and the cogs in her brain had started turning. It was an easy way out; burn the entire place down. Checking her bag, she found her box of matchsticks, something she had placed in her bag on an impulse. He had put up a fight; her legs were scarred and there was blood dripping from her hands and legs. Mementos that would never go away, she thought, dusting herself off. She knew exactly what she had to do and the fact that he lived in the dingiest of places just helped her. The gods had conspired for this to happen, her unbecoming, the death of this sorry excuse for a man, and her finally discovering her life's true path. Men. She felt like she was a creature of the night, as stealthy as a cat with her kill and exit. They always say that you should let your impulses take over once in a while, and sometimes they knew what they were saying. The euphoria was back, and so was the feeling of satisfaction. She never knew something like this could be satisfying but watching the light go out of his eyes satisfied her in ways that no man would ever be able to. Unless, of course, he was one of her victims. She collected herself, proud of the fact that this date was planned verbally and there was no real way to prove that she was here. She would, of course, find herself at his apartment tomorrow, mournfully crying to the cops about how she misses him and how she can't believe that this had happened. If there was an apartment to come back to, she was sure she would put on her best act. 

This felt like second nature to her, as she collected herself and reapplied her lipstick. One last kiss, she thought and bent down to place a kiss on his cold cheek. She'd probably miss him, but that wasn't the reality. He was her first kill, and she'd always remember him and the warm feeling of his body going cold would never leave her hands, no matter how many others would experience the same fate as him. She opened the door to leave and turned back to look at the pile of her so-called problems. She pulled out a matchbox from her clutch, lit a couple of matches at once, and threw them in. His house had always been a fire hazard and that made her work easier. Smoke started engulfing his little one-bedroom apartment. 

It looked gorgeous from a few streets across, she noticed. The fire melted the evidence of her ever being there. It felt cathartic in the best way possible and she knew that this was the start of something great. Funny how it was always him to say this with conviction and she never believed the poor bastard until now.  The night wasn't supposed to end this way, she muttered to herself while walking down the street, but who said the night had ended? It was still young and she was still riding the high from finally becoming a woman and growing into something she never imagined herself to turn into. Her eyes were fixated on the sight of his burning apartment, with no siren sounds echoing the city yet. She knew that she didn't have three hours, because even though the gods were smiling at her, she realized that this was real life and she had set his entire apartment on fire and someone ought to notice. The most she had was an hour before the authorities got there but it was enough time for the entire thing to beautifully unfold on itself and carefully throw her out of the picture. 

Her gait, her appearance, and the hour of the night earned her catcalls and whistles from almost every man on the road. She bared her teeth in response, and the men mistook it for a smile. She was a creature of the night, just not in the way the men on the street imagined her to be. But she let their imagination run wild, gently smiling to herself.

They would never know the truth unless they tore their eyes from her, pulled themselves out of their fantasy-addled minds, and actually took a look at her. 

Everyone wears masks and disguises themselves, but she had mastered the art of showing every aspect of who she actually was without getting caught. The palm-sized ‘Gemini’ tattoo on her neck was practically an autobiography – a footnote into there being more to her than what she showed the rest of the world; there was another side of her, another face, facade, mask, something she donned whenever she did what she was best at: men. One of her hands was still wet and dripping from the liquid it was coated with. She scowled to herself but winked at a taxi driver whose eyes were fixated on her skimpily clad body. Without a word, she climbed into the back of the cab telling the taxi driver her location in the huskiest voice she could muster. 

The ride was long which gave her plenty of time to think about what had transpired a couple of hours ago. Her body was still sticky but she bore the scratches that ran the length of her thigh and back with pride. She had finally done it and had savored every little second until it ended. That’s when the emptiness and feeling of deflation set in but there was a euphoric high to balance that out. 

“Fun night?” The pot-bellied taxi driver asked, slyly winking at her through the rear mirror. He reached out to adjust it so as to get a better look at her. Shifting in her seat, adjusting her dress so that there was very little left to imagine. 

“You could say that…” She smirked. Could he be her next conquest? He seemed easy and desperate, and she was addicted to the feeling she had felt a couple of hours ago. It didn’t hurt that he resembled her father, with his balding head and his empty, grey eyes. This way she could work out the anger towards her father and quench the thirst that dominated her senses. Killing two birds with one stone, she thought and giggled at the little pun. Who said murder lacked humor? She checked her phone. The screen was cracked. When did that happen? Another memento from the best night of her life. She hoped that the scars would remain, as a badge that proudly proclaimed that she had finally become a woman. 

Enough, she told herself. Reminiscing could come later. There was an easy target in front of her and knew that even if she didn’t put in the effort, she’d get what she wanted but the tease thrilled her more than the act. She wiped her hand on her dress (wearing red had its perks) and slid her hands across the taxi driver's back. His eyes widened and she moved closer, her hands draped around his neck. She could feel pulse-quickening and Adam’s apple bobbing. A soft moan escaped his mouth and she grinned to herself — the feeling of euphoria was back. The cab had already come to a halt, the driver knowing, or so he thought, what was about to happen. He couldn’t believe his luck when she climbed into the front seat and onto his lap. 

She could feel his breath hitching and quickening, with her arms still around his neck, as he slithered an arm around her waist. She scowled and started placing her hands around his neck. Softly, at first, and then tightening her grip with every passing second. This is the part she enjoyed. Locking her manic eyes with his confused ones, she briefly felt sorry for him — he reminded her of a puppy and she didn’t want to strangle a puppy to death — but she definitely didn’t mind the murder of men like him.

His arm started clutching her waist even tighter as tightened her grip, pressing down on Adam's apple with her red, glossy nails. He was almost there, almost dead; she could practically see the light slowly and surely fading from his eyes; she didn’t take her hands off his neck even when his eyes rolled back and his breath was long gone. Instead, she stayed there for a few minutes, savoring the feeling. 

This wasn’t as satisfying as the first one. At least the first one had put up a fight and turned it messy and difficult for her. But that’s what they all say, the first murder is always better than the second one. A few more minutes passed. She got out of the cab, retrieved her clutch from the back seat, reapplied her lipstick, and placed a visible kiss on his cold cheek. She stood there examining her handiwork when the feeling of emptiness returned- the high of murder only stayed that long. Ignoring it, for the time being, she checked her surroundings. She had been impulsive with this kill, letting her emotions and instincts take over her, not caring about witnesses but thankfully it was a deserted area. Hopefully, no one had seen her and even if they had they wouldn’t have guessed what she’d actually done. 

She struggled with the hood of the cab for a while, her hands were sore and sticky but she had to eliminate all the evidence. Once it opened, she pulled out a matchbox from her clutch, lit a couple of matches at once, and threw them in. Smoke had started making its way around the car and it was very obvious that it would explode. She had to get home soon; two murders were enough for a first-timer. She would return the next morning to see the carnage, the murderer always returned to the murder scene anyways. 

As if someone had pressed a rewind button, the scene went back to the way it began — with her walking alone on a dimly lit street. Only this time she would actually go home instead of seeking out her next victim. She was a creature of the night, just not in the way the men on the street imagined her to be; in the way that she was her own instrument, and murder was her art. But she let their imagination run wild, gently smiling to herself. They would never know the truth unless they tore their eyes from her, pulled themselves out of their fantasy-addled minds, and actually took a look at her. And that pleased her a lot.