***
It's well past midnight, and I'm acting drunk. To any onlooker I'd look tipsy at best, but in reality I've had nothing but a diet coke all night.
I'm surrounded by smog once more, just as I was last week. Tobacco and marijuana smoke pours up my nose with every breath, seeps into my clothes with every passing minute. The fumes are enough to make you queasy if you're not used to them, but I'm happy to endure them for now.
Tonight, I'm a venus fly trap. A black widow. My hair's no longer blonde but black at the night sky, my eyes now brown and deep and seductive. I'm here for one reason and one reason only, and I think I've just spotted him in the corner.
I see the snake tattoo first. It's distinctive, winding up from inside his leather jacket and right up to his jawline. Then my eyes raise to his head, shaven but thick with dark stubble. He holds a joint between his fingers, sucking on it before passing it to a tramp on his lap. She takes a drag and kisses him, blowing smoke right into his mouth as their disgusting tongues intertwine.
My blood boils just to look at him, but I don't show it on my face. I just hang on the bar, legs crossed at the ankles, ass stuck out and breasts pouting. I'm wearing an outfit as skimpy as the rest of the skanks in here. Short skirt, high heeled black boots, tiny crop top shirt. I'm showing more flesh than I would at the beach.
My face is lathered in make-up too. It's not just my hair and my colored contacts that alter my look, but the paint on my skin. Full red lips, deep purple eyeliner, enough blusher to transform my entire complexion. I've grown used to altering my facial expressions and mannerisms as well. I strut and pout and stick out my ass. I run my hands through my hair and dip my chin in a sexy fashion. I'm acting out a part, and I'm hoping Dash wants to join my play.
I've been here for while now, watching and waiting. Dancing at times just to look natural. Buying shots at the bar and sneakily pouring them to the floor to stay sober. I've been hit on by plenty of men, most of whom are just as vulgar as the last time I came here. Many take me for a prostitute. Last time that was insulting. This time it's music to my ears. That's exactly what I want them to think.
By now I've managed to slide as far down the bar as possible, close enough so I can see through the fog to where members of The Fallen hang out. More importantly, close enough so that they can see me.
I glance furtively over at Dash as often as I can, waiting for him to notice me. Right now the whore on his lap is occupying his attention, and I'm drawing in the wrong crowd. Other members see me and gravitate towards the bar. When they speak they're so rough and crude, telling me they want to fuck me right now, elaborating on all the things they'd do to me.
I feel sick just being near them, but I'm not willing to deviate from my plan. I speak with them, putting on a local Brooklyn accent to deepen my cover. I play along, but all the while I keep looking over at Dash, slowly dragging his attention up to me. His eyes meet mine and fill with lust. He stands, the skank slipping off his lap, and slaps her on the ass as he wanders casually over.
Like a moth to the flame, I've got several of these animals around me now, all bumping fruitlessly against the light. Only one of them is gonna get zapped though, and he's just bought me a drink.
“So, you a whore then?” he asks me. “How much?”
“Nothing for you handsome,” I say in my Brooklyn drawl. “I don't need to get paid to fuck you.”
A sickly, arrogant smirk hits his face and he drops a shot of vodka down his neck. “How about my buddies? They get a go for free too?”
I shake my head seductively. “Only you sweetheart. You wouldn't want to share me would you?”
He takes another shot. “Not for a while. But when I'm done I don't care who has you.”
I take the shot from his mouth and run my tongue around the inside before rolling it over my lips. He's so easy. I can already see his eyes glazing with the promise of sex.
“Well, I'm getting kinda tired,” I say, faking a yawn. “I think it's time to go.”
I begin walking away, but feel his hand grip mine. He twists me around aggressively, and I make a cute yelp of enjoyment. Then he tries to kiss me, but I lift my finger to block him off. “Not yet,” I whisper into his ear.
I turn again and begin walking, his hand still lightly touching mine. This time he doesn't pull back though. This time I feel him coming with me, like a dog on a leash. So easily manipulated. So easily deceived. Pathetic.
On the way out I pick up my coat and drape it over my body. I walk casually, confidently, with a sexy strut. Outside, around the corner of the club, is a parking lot filled with motorcycles. I see one with a snake painted on the body, twisting along the length of the bike.
When we step on he doesn't offer me a helmet or put one on himself. He tells me to wrap my arms around his chest and I do. I swallow vomit when he pulls my left down to his crotch, his dick hard beneath his leather pants.
Then he revs the engine and the night air fills with the roar of his bike. He does it several times, as if to show off, and I giggle in his ear. He twists it, suddenly, and we turn towards the exit of the large industrial park. Soon the sounds of the Den fade, and I'm left with just him. A rapist. Probably a killer too. Morally devoid and empty. The sort of person who the death sentence was made for.
We don't ride for long, but the whole time I'm thinking of Beth. How he must have preyed on her, thrust her on the back of the bike, dragged her up to his lair. My arms squeeze tighter and my heart starts pounding heavily in my chest.
No, you need to control it Lily. Breath normally, keep up the act. It will all be over soon.
He pulls up along a quiet, threatening street with small apartment buildings and tattered cars. I see meth heads sitting on steps, their faces ravaged by the drug. Yellow teeth glint under the moonlight. Dark eyes with no future, no promise, stare vacantly as we pass.
We move up to a grubby apartment block, its outer walls covered in graffiti. Dash kicks at a sleeping dog on the steps and it yelps and quickly scampers away. “Fucking strays,” he grumbles, and I fight the urge to chiv him in the back.
Inside it's dank and dark and stinks of weed. A bass booms in a room above, but Dash moves straight to the left and into an apartment. It's as bad inside. Worse, probably. Empty bottles of beer and spirits litter the place. A smell of rot seeps out from one room. The place reeks of drug binges and seedy orgies, and days spent fucked up on the sofa. It's my idea of hell.
As soon as the door shuts, I make my move. I douse my face in the sultriest smile I can muster and move in towards him. I grip his leather jacket with both hands and pull him into me. No more games. He's caught in my trap now. And there's no getting out of it.
When his lips touch mine, my smile becomes genuine. It's no longer put on. No longer fake. I'm smiling for real now because he's fallen for me, hook, line, and sinker.
The effect isn't immediate, so I have to endure him for a few seconds. His tongue tries to squeeze into my mouth, parting my lips, but I keep them tight. I'm counting in my head. One, two, three, four.
When I reach ten I pull back and his eyes are no longer filled with lust and desire but fear and confusion. He raises his hands to his mouth, his lips now covered in my red lipstick, and they start shaking. His face turns pallid and sickly, his eyes going glassy. And all I do is keep smiling, watching as the poison takes its effect.
He stumbles backwards, trying to speak, but all he can do is mumble. His arms reach out to me as he falls, collapsing to the ground in a heap. He shakes and shivers for a few moments, his body stiffening before going limp.
But he's not dead. No, far from it. I've never killed anyone and I never want to. That would make me as bad as him, as bad as all those other scumbags out there. All I want is to take from him what he seems intent on giving. Make it so that he can never harm a woman again.
He's paralyzed now, unconscious. But part of me wants him to be awake for this. Part of me wants him to feel it. I kneel down and draw
a knife from inside my right boot. It's so sharp, capable of cutting through flesh like warm butter. I hold the handle loosely in my palm, my hand starting to shake.
Can I do this? Can I really do it?
I kneel beside the man now, starting to feel sick. Up until now it's all been so easy. Lure him in as I've done to many men. Get back to his. Knock him out. Usually now I'd be scouting the house, searching for treasures and security measures and getting to know the layout. But here that's not my intention. This man raped my friend, and he needs to pay.
I stay like that on my knees for a while, unable to do what I intended. My eyes begin to water, and soon tears are building, then flowing down my cheeks. This man raped my friend, I keep saying in my head. He's probably raped before and he'll probably rape again. He can't get away with it.
I thought it would be so easy. I was so devoured by hate that I thought I'd be able to do anything. Cut him. Scar him. Slice the word 'rapist' into his forehead. Then, when I'd done all that, castrate him so he'd never be able to do it again.
But it's not easy. Not now. Not here. Not when it's for real. I've lived in a world where I've seen my father die. Where I've been raped. Where I've watched a man shot through the head. But that all happened to me. I didn't do any of it.
I'm thinking of the man who raped me now. I can smell his breath again. I can see those beady eyes. I can feel his weight, his strength. Tears stream from my eyes, the knife trembles violently in my hand, and I sink to the floor in a ball.
I stay like that for a while, engulfed in hate and fear. I'm going down a dark path, one I won't be able to escape from. I can't cross this line. I can't become like him. As soon as that knife touches his skin, I'll be lost forever. There will be no end to it.
I jump at the sound of a large door slamming. It brings me back into the room, back to reality. I sit up and turn quickly to the door, and listen as heavy footsteps stumble up the stairs outside.
This was all wrong. Coming here was all wrong.
I steady my hands and wipe the tears from my face. I can't remember the last time I cried. The last time I let myself go like this. It's cathartic, purging. It's given me clarity, it's given me focus. And it's made me realize that I'm not as bad a person as I thought. Not like the man at my feet. I'm not like him, and I refuse to become like him.
But he still needs to pay somehow.
I bend down and lift his motorcycle keys from his jacket pocket. I may not be able to take your balls. But I can certainly take your bike.