This is my first non fan-fiction story, and I'm more nervous than excited. If you want to read some of my other stories, click on the Homepage link on my profile.
This story won't be long, though I hope it will entertain you. Let me know, leave a review :)
The music was loud. Too loud. The windows were quaking and the floor was vibrating, my ears bled and rang from each hit of the bass, consuming more of my precious hearing. Bodies soaked in sweat moved on the neon floor, grinding, jumping, twirling. Anything to expel their energy, alcohol or drugs. The men would blatantly ogle the women's chests, and the women blatantly pretended not to notice. Giant black amplifiers stood around the stage, motifs to the hardcore beat. Shadows for me to hide in.
Looking out the circular window of the Club, I saw the moon hidden under the greyscale clouds, like a beacon calling someone home. Whether their home be a house, apartment, car or alleyway, the moon commanded us all. Whether we liked it or not. The light from the crescent moon shone through the windows, lighting up little of the club, not a lot, but just enough that not a lot of lights were being used.
Perfect for someone like me.
Something like me.
A soulless creature that isn't supposed to exist. A fairytale created to scare people out of their money. Whether it be from a book, play, movie or television show, it happens. Different versions of myself are created with every novel, my own characteristics shining from the prologue to epilogue. Authors have no idea how close they come to the real thing. And I'm positive that the real thing would scare the hell out of them.
Looking around the club I didn't really take notice of the modern and sleek furniture, my eyes were only for the humans. There was a couple laying on a white leather sofa together, about to be in the throws of passion. A man stood lonered on the west wall, and he was staring at the object of his infatuation. The DJ was beginning to become paranoid, the lasts of his cocaine high coming down and crashing around him.
A young girl stumbled her way away from her date, whom was equally drunk and now groping a waitress. She was pretty, I guess. Obviously in her early twenties. Blonde hair, green eyes and a full chest, though her skin looked like it had been painted on, tanned to the point it was nearly orange. To humans, she'd be a lovely, fake specimen. But to me, she was simply a meal. I could see the needle tracks painted all over her arms, and saw the way her eyes were bloodshot. Another addict, another fool.
Her eyes travelled over my body and I knew what she was seeing. Short black hair, zooming in different directions. Pale blue eyes, ready with a twinkle. A barely concealed six pack underneath a black shirt, and the obvious V of my hip bones that dipped into my trousers. Designer shoes. I dress to impress. Though impressing a heroine addict shouldn't be too hard.
The girls scent arrived before she did. Metallic drunkenness, cherry euphoria, soda curiosity, strawberry arousal. The taste of my own personal rainbow. Looking up from my wingtips, I saw her body right in front of mine, her eyes hooded in what was supposed to be a seductive look, but came out as drunken withdrawal instead. I saw her lips move, and assumed she was speaking. Cupping my hand around my ear, she leaned forward and spoke into my ear.
"Hi," her voice was slurred and her breath was hot, "my name's Cheryl, and you are?"
Leaning just as close to her as she was me, I spoke "Jeremy." Liar.
Her lips were painted with red lipstick, cracked from use and in desperate need of re-appliance. Her eye-liner was a bright green and did nothing to highlight her dulcet eyes. The same shade clumped together her eyelashes with overused mascara. Frankly, Cheryl looked like a character from a horror movie.
Just my type.
I loved the fake ones, the ones who think they can do whatever they want, whenever they want. The ones who were so high up on their pedestal that they couldn't even see the men grovelling at their feet anymore. The ones who were so easy to please, so easy to get alone. So easy to eat.
I leant into Cheryl's ear again, purposely pushing my chest against hers, and grazing her thigh with my hand. "I can't hear in here… Let's go somewhere else?"
Pulling away, I saw her too big mouth smiling widely, her cigarette stained teeth dangerously close to my ear. She grasped my hand and curled it around her waist, leading the way to what I'm sure was the exit or bathroom. Either way, I would get my meal.
Cheryl's hips swung in irregular patterns, deviating a bit too far away from her body. Her hopes of being seductive were falling short and failing miserably. The man she had come with now stood in a corner of the Club, rubbing his hands all over his dainty waitress. It's amazing what alcohol can do to people. I looked back at Cheryl and saw her manicured hand holding open a door marked with Staff Only. I suppose we just got employed.
She led me inside, and giggled when she dimmed the room. Spinning to face me, she began her questions.
"So, Jeremy," giggle, "what brings a man like you to a down trodden club like this?"
"I wasn't so sure at first, but now I know why." Lie.
She giggled and looked at her feet, reacting the way all women do. It was natural for a woman to swoon under a mans charm, just because I'm not human doesn't make me exempt from that unwritten rule. I usually fed off women—they were easier targets. Men had this primitive instinct when he was alone with another man he hardly knew. If I were to ask a man to come back to my place, they would surely run in the opposite direction.
Therefore, women were my targets.
Stepping closer to my prey, I slowly and gently laid my hands on her hips, running my thumbs in a smooth circular motion over her exposed skin. Her leather skirt stuck to her sweaty thighs, and the steel-tipped high heels fell short of sexy. Cheryl was a mess tonight. I almost felt bad for her.
Perhaps it was a good thing I'd be ending her existence.
I bent my head towards hers, close enough to kiss her lips, but fair away enough to let her pull away if she wanted to. I was trying to give her a choice in the inevitable outcome, trying to make her feel safe. It was all about making them feel safe.
If they got the vibe I usually gave out, they'd run. If they saw the darkness hidden under my eyes they'd scream. If they knew my cruel intentions, they'd surely fall short of a meal. They had to feel safe. It was just something that had to be done.
Sometimes, this game of cat and mouse wares on me.
It was starting to become too easy. Too common. My mythical feedings from the human banquet were becoming dull, repetitive and generic. I needed some spice to enter my habits, an ethnic character in my homeless suburb.
It was always the same tastes. Cherry, strawberry, metal and soda. Euphoria, arousal, drunkenness and curiosity. Never the acid of malice, nor the sugar of distrust. Nothing interesting or new. Nothing colourful. I had my own personal rainbow of tastes—the ones I taste every time I feed.
Perhaps it's time I expanded my rainbow—try ethnic food.
I could feel Cheryl attacking my neck, and I briefly wondered how long I had been in my own thoughts. Looking at the clock, I saw that it had been at least five minutes.
Was Cheryl stupid, or just a bit slutty?
I began to play my part, moving my hands from her hips, grasping her neck and hoisting her thigh around my hip. She still hadn't kissed my mouth, and that's what I wanted. That's what I needed.
I waited, knowing that if I moved to quickly, acted to aggressively or rashly, that her feeling of safety would be lost. She would run, and I wouldn't be able to chase her. That was the bad thing about hunting at clubs, the scents of my potential food all moulded together, twining themselves with their neighbours. It was nearly impossible to follow a particular scent.
Much to my disdain, she then began to kiss my collarbone. I cringed internally when her tongue run across my skin, her heavy breath coming in gasps.
I inhaled and tasted the predominant strawberry rolling off of Cheryl, swirling it in the back of my throat. The ache in my chest was becoming nearly too much to bear, and I knew that if I didn't act soon, I may expose myself.
Leaning my head towards hers, I tried to coax her towards my lips, hoping the vigour that she'd take the bait. She leant her forehead against mine for a moment, catching her breath and wiping some sweat from the nape of her neck.
I slowly leant forward, tilting my head and parting my lips. Cheryl let me kiss her.
I opened my mouth further and she followed my lead, thinking I was deepening the kiss. I was doing perhaps the exact opposite.
I inhaled, tasting her organs, fluids and scents. I could taste her life force, and it was just as generic as the next. Moving my hands to her face I grasped it firmly, preventing her from moving away. Poor Cheryl hadn't figured out what I was doing yet. She hadn't figured out that she was dying.
I tasted her energy and felt it swell in her throat, moving into mine. It spread through my body, grasping at each limb. Inhaling again, I moved away from Cheryl's mouth.
A white aura connected me to my prey, thicker than morning fog. The aura connected me to Cheryl, whose eyes were now wide with fear. Before, she saw what I wanted her to see—a tall, handsome man all on his lonesome. Now, she saw who I really was. A monster. My eyes were dark with the feeding process, and my hands were hard on her face.
Cheryl just discovered I wasn't human.
The aura that connected us glowed brighter as I inhaled, bringing with it Cheryl's energy and life. I could taste her in my body and she was all over my teeth. But I still wasn't finished.
If I were to stop feeding now, Cheryl would end up in Hospital with mild disorientation. She would of course be treated for the man who was allegedly 'eating her life', and perhaps be transferred to the psychiatric ward. She'd be given a weekend bail to see her family, and perhaps join the book club forming at St. Vincents Psychiatric hospital. Cheryl could learn how to garden instead of learning how to form a tourniquet. If I stopped now, she could maybe start a family, a new life.
But I had no intention of stopping.
Her energy flowed on my tongue and wrapped itself in my throat—delicious.
Cheryl's eyes began to droop.
Her arms began to fall away from my hands.
Her knees began to shake.
Cheryl began to die.
The aura of white began to darken into a deep blue—the colour of Cheryl's soul. This is what I really wanted. Her energy and feelings that I tasted were merely prologues, hints as to what the actual feast would taste like. Though her energy and feelings were no different to others I had tasted, her soul was peculiar. It wasn't the normal deep sea blue I tasted, it was more of a teal.. cyan.
It tasted lime, with hints of tomato strewn through it. Cheryl was exotic.
I inhaled again, more deeply this time, the deep cyan aura pulling into my mouth endlessly. Cheryl's soul had healed the gaping wound in my chest, she had satisfied my hunger.
And then I was finished.
The aura was gone and all that remained was a slight blue mist emanating from my mouth. The hole that had ached in my chest was sealed—disappeared, for the time being. Cheryl was lifeless—as you'd expect her to be. I removed my hands from her face and slung her body over my shoulder. Looking around, I saw a door that led to the alleyway behind the Club.
Stepping into the cool night air was refreshing. I felt the cool crisp of the autumn wind, and was now far enough away from the music to actually enjoy it. The bass line no longer cut my ears, and the ground underneath my feet was steady and strong. The moonlight shone on my body without a filter now, the grey clouds moving away from the light beacon.
It was calling me home.
I sighed and began walking down the alley, thinking of where to dispose the body of Cheryl.
She hadn't known a thing, not that I wasn't human, not that I was going to kill her, not even my name.
I wonder how I ever survived as a human.
Because I'm much happier not being one.
My name is Cohen Zafetti, and I'm a Soul Eater.
Now I'm curious, what's your favourite colour?