All lips go blue {Jesse}

[Abigail (DELETED 4656)]

The Rabbit Hole

The words were scratched into the cover of the notebook that sat off to the side filled with folded papers, dogeared pages and sticky tabs galore. Skullcandy headphones blocking out the world as the fingers of the woman known as Abigail hovered hesitantly over the keys of the laptop that sat in front of her. The light of the LCD screen all that illuminated the almost pitch black room as school work was futilely attempted. It should have been an essay on a particular psychological disorder that was being written but there was just nothing to be done for the dark haired twenty-something year old that should have been working on that damn psychology essay. For all the desire in her very bones to pass those damn classes she just couldn't wrap her head around the assignment she had been given. Each member of the class had been given a particularly interesting topic and the one that just had to be chosen by those unlucky fingers had just so happened to be Synesthesia and while understanding what it was was quite simple for her explaining in what circumstances it could be detrimental and how to treat it in such cases was a bit more complicated. As the words on the notebook clearly spoke this was the state of being more often than not, tumbling down into the unknown day in and day out. There was no clear cut plan apart from school. There was no job, instead there was merely the inheritance that long lost parents had left her all those years ago and even that was starting to run out which was why she had pretty much applied to any and every job she could in Harper Rock. She'd even gone so far at one point to apply with the art department at the university to be a live model for some of the aspiring artists just to make a bit of extra money.

Closing the laptop slowly she then placed it on her night stand. Removing the headphones and placing them on top of the laptop the music continued to blare unheeded. Aching hands running through raven colored hair as a deep and calming breath was taken...slow inhale followed by even slower exhale. All the stresses. Just all of it was getting to her and as much as she just wanted to scream and let out all the frustrations it was known that above all else she had to hold it together or none of it would mean anything. She had learned long ago that when it came to life tests like this it was usually something where she needed to just narrow her view for a bit and life take it's course. When there is nothing you can do, you have to just let it go and enjoy the ride. The words of a father long passed echoed through her mind as if they had been whispered directly into her ear and even though it was merely a memory it brought a smile to a face that felt like it had almost forgotten how to move muscles in that way. Even when the family had been struggling her father had been there and had always had a way to make them all smile no matter how bad it got. He was just one of those people. Pushing away the torrent of negative thoughts she felt oncoming she forced herself out of bed and pulled on her usual fluffy black robe trudged off to enjoy a long hot shower. Hopefully that would help her relax and if not there was always plan B.

Returning to her bedroom hazel eyes spied the lit up phone and paused, the shocked expression was evidence that the iPhone wasn't used to ringing at this time of night at all. Dashing across the room the tiny device was snatched up and answered perhaps a bit too excitedly.

"Hello?!" Abigail's voice almost a squeak as the number registered in her mind.

"Miss Metan, is it?" The voice was that of a male who seemed a bit irritated. His voice alone gave away a lot more than he probably realized because he either seemed incredibly tired or at his wits end.

"Yes, sir. How can I help you?"

"Let me make this short and simple, I'm really not in the mood for any more issues right now. You've been pretty adamant about finding some work around the university so how about I make you an offer. The next three days. Live modeling. Three hundred dollars. 9PM to 10:30 PM Yes or No?"

The offer was one that could barely be passed up. A hundred dollars to sit still for an hour and a half and let a dozen college students use her as a reference point for whatever they were working on?

"Sir, I'm more than happy to take you up on that offer."

"Good, we'll see you here tomorrow night then."

The line went dead and Abigail felt her entire body just become so much lighter to the point that floating away might be a very real possibility at that very moment. Taking the last few steps it was as if a rock dropped when body met bed once again, eyes looking up at the ceiling in silent amazement. Three hundred bucks? Apparently today was one of those good days where things started to look up. It wasn't long before the world was shut out once again and drowned out by the pounding of the music that quietly lulled Abigail in to a most perfect and serene sleep.

The next day seemed to drag by. It was a relief that that damnable report was able to get a fair bit of time and effort put in to it so that when worked resumed after the night's events there would actually be a direction in mind and it wouldn't simply be the work of someone who was evidently just feeling their way around the subject they had been given. With the fated time close at hand the run down trashy motel room was left empty after it was both locked and deadbolted. With a loose fitting full length sweater, a tight knee length black skirt and knee high boots chosen as the night's attire Abigail strode confidently down the streets of Harper Rock ignoring cheers, jeers and lewd comments from the more uncouth students of Harper Rock University. With a mere ten minutes to spare she found herself standing outside of the office of the Art Director and knocking softly yet firmly.

[Jesse Fforde]

There was a time I considered going to University. I never had the grades to get in, though—there were a few subjects I enjoyed in high school, but I hadn’t the care or the forethought to actually apply myself. As much as I enjoyed art, the teacher was a dick. How could I possibly work hard for someone who wasn’t going to appreciate it anyway? The guy had his own ideas about what constituted as art. Tattoo design just didn’t cut it.

As I slowly meander through the streets of Wickbridge, I consider finding that teacher again. It hasn’t been that long since I finished high school. Surely the guy still has to be around. I should go find him and show him my art; show him the pictures that litter my skin. I should kidnap him and bind him to that leather chair he was so fond of, sitting in it at the front of the class like he was some kind of King in a miniature Kingdom of his own making. I should rip the clothes from his back and cover him with tattoos. Maybe the Goddess Kali, sprawled across the expanse of his shoulders. But then, why should I waste some of my best work on such a fucktard? I could tattoo him with the worst kind of crudeness imaginable. But then, I wouldn’t quite be proving my point: tattoos are art, too.

Anyway. School finished. I slipped into an apprenticeship no problems—I didn’t need good grades for that. I just needed a plain white page and some ink; I just needed to show them how good my pictures could be. They would see my potential, and they would teach me the rest. If it weren’t for Squid and his attentiveness, his firmness, I’d still be that wayward teenager. Being an apprentice in that particular parlour taught me that there are people in this world that I can respect. There are things in this world that I can respect. And there are things that I can do, should I put my mind to it, regardless of any kind of disability. If disability is what you would call it. I found myself. I found my centre. I found my complete confidence.

I don’t need to go to University anymore. But there was an advertisement that piqued my interest; sessions in the art department with live models. I always seek to expand my abilities. To learn more about technique. And what better way to do so than in a room full of other artists? Of course there’s trepidation; what if the guy running it is as much of an asshole as that high school teacher? So what, right? I don’t have to go back. I can just give it a go, see if it’s something worthwhile. And if he’s insulting, maybe the guy can just be an entrée before a feast.

I pull the flyer from my pocket and unfold it; I’ve reached the University, and I need to know where to go. The flyer tells me the section of the University I need to go to, and the room number. I find a map near the entrance, and make my way there. There are about fourteen other people present—there’s a dais set up in the middle of the room. Ranged around it are easels with pads of butcher paper attached, clean and crisp and white. Over to the side of the room there’s a bench set up with all kinds of utensils. I don’t go near it. I’ve got everything I need in the khaki messenger bag, slung over my shoulder. I find a spare stool, in front of a clean easel; I’m sure the expression on my face could be described as bored as I watch the people around me. Quite a few are alone, like me. But then there are quite a few who seem to have come with friends, and so the room is filled with idle chit-chat. No one pays any attention to me. And I’m just fine with that.

I sit and watch, and wait for the class to begin.

[Attire]

[Abigail (DELETED 4656)]

Her heart was pounding in her chest. Apparently there had been more going on with this particular gig then she'd been told, it had all even been advertised and promoted in an attempt to spark more interest in the university and their art department...apparently interest was dropping dramatically. As a last ditch effort this was the answer they had come up with and now, here stood Abigail, bare as a jaybird in the office of a very large and obnoxious man that seemed to be incapable of leaving things on a purely professional level. The leering grin he displayed as he talked about various possible poses was something that could make even the most stalwart soul quiver in fear and there was a part of the poor woman that truly did want nothing more than to simply run. The money. It was repeated like a mantra as she let it all sink in, thankfully she knew just how to accentuate herself and her art, which the teacher had even admitted was part of why she had been chosen. With the long winded and completely unneeded explanation finally at an end it was time for the moment of truth, or more accurately put, the moment of the great reveal.

She didn't have a window or any such thing to gauge how many people had showed up but she could hear some talking, not enough to figure out what she wanted to but alas, this was her fate now and as much as it terrified her there still that little tingle along her body, an excitement that hadn't been felt in such a long time. The very type of excitement that crept along whenever there was a new piece of ink to be had. Perhaps it had to do with her pride, the thought of being so thoroughly examined and judged and scrutinized because, as much as she wasn't overly proud of herself, she knew from the compliments and looks she received that she was something else. A unique part of a world that would never truly be able to be appreciated by the eyes that viewed a woman that was in the process of turning a body that had been so...plain and boring in to a story.

Finally the moment of truth came as she felt a hand at the small of her back letting her know it was time to go. Red silk had been provided to pose a challenge to those that had attended, adding even more elements to the task before them would make it all so much more worthwhile in the teacher's mind simply. Taking one last deep breath Aby turned the door knob and, with as much confidence as she could muster, strode out in to the room. There were immediately eyes looking her over, some she could feel piercing in to her very soul while others were not so wholesome. It was bound to happen, some would see this professionally and others would simply be hungry eyes. Attempting to hide all signs of displeasure with the way she was being stared at by some was a chore in and of itself as a stool was procured and moved on to the dais that graced the middle of the room. A crack of the neck as hesitant fingers ran along the latticework that ran from collarbone to base of jaw. It had been a quite uncomfortable piece but it had it's meaning and it was her seconded greatest pride and joy.

Orienting herself so that she was facing the largest grouping of people, her chin came to rest on her shoulder. Legs crossed and with arms almost wrapped around herself a smile was given as eyes fell across Maddy. It was the name of the woman that graced her arm in crimson corset and leather pants complete with the scenery of Maddy's ship. The entire piece covering from shoulder to elbow at which point her hand obscured the rest of the art on her forearm. Between the scrolling along the top of her chest and the pair of crossed flintlocks at the small of her back Abigail figured there was more than enough to keep everyone busy for the next hour or so...and if they asked to stay longer to finish then even better as the teacher would be paying for the extra time out of pocket by that point. That would never be complained about.

Lost in the act of trying to perfect the pose she jumped ever so slightly as the teacher's voice filled the room.

"Miss Abigail here will be providing us with inspiration for our work for the next few days. I expect the same respect to be shown to her as you would me. Please keep the volume to a minimum and when you are ready...begin."

[Jesse Fforde]

It isn’t long before a hush falls over the class. A door—separate from the one everyone had entered by—opens. Out walks a naked girl, a stingy old man behind her, his hand held out as if guiding her by the small of her back. There’s a smug look on his face, as if he’s the King and she’s one of his concubines, and he’s just conquered her in the back room. I have to wonder about the whole process, really. I’d imagined that the live model might walk out at her own volition, covered in a robe that she would drop when it pleases her to do so. Instead, it looks as if the dropping of the robe has happened backstage. Of course I’m curious about the relationship between the lecturer and the model. Is she a student, doing this for better grades? Is she a niece, and he a creepy old uncle?

I don’t think about it for too long. I can’t, because I’m far too distracted by the model. The lecturer falls out of focus as my gaze follows the Giselle as she heads for the dais that’s been set up, just for her. Because in this scenario, the lecturer is not the King. He is the Joker, and this woman is the Queen. The way she captures the attention of the entire room and keeps it—how could she not be the one with the power?

She is just a Giselle, though. And I am the cheetah, devouring her with a hungry gaze. And not because she is naked. No, the fact that she is naked hardly registers. It’s the colour upon her skin that captures my avid attention. I am appreciative of the art she’s had etched upon her own skin. We are not drawing just from a live model—she’s not just some vapid object. No, she is herself a piece of art, and we are to mimic her.

At first, she—Abigail, so the lecturer informs us—seems nervous. But as she settles, she smiles. In that smile I see the kind of self-confidence that I recognise within myself. I can imagine what she’s feeling, even if I might have it wrong. I can imagine that though she might be nervous to show her naked body, she’s not nervous about the ink that spreads across soft and supple skin. She’d proud of the pain that she suffered in order to become a piece of art. I can imagine that she is at least confident that she looks good. And she does—she looks very good, indeed. So good that I could eat her. Literally.

I ignore the way my teeth and throat ache as I reach into my bag to retrieve my utensils. I figured I’d wait to see what or who the model was before I decided what kind of piece I want to draw. I’m not sure that I can improve upon the subject given to us, and so I decide to do a portrait. Simple and precise, I will use only pencil and charcoal. I am positioned to the right of Abigail. I can see the smooth, delicate curve of her back; I am witness to the expanse of her thigh. The way she has positioned her head, I am in her line of sight—and I will stay in her direct line of sight, unless she chooses to change position.

I do not wink. I do not grin. I do not see her as a naked woman, but as a piece of art that I must draw. I appreciate her for the inspiration that she provides, and not for her nakedness. I am Leonardo, and she is Kate Winslet—the ink on her skin may as well be a shining jewel at her throat.

The lecturer wanders around the room. I can hear the rumble of his voice as he offers pointers, here and there, to those who have paid for access to this class. I hardly notice when he hovers over my shoulder; I’m only vaguely aware that he speaks to me. I don’t hear what he says, nor do I pay it any heed. It’s not as if I can reply. I just continue on with my work, until such a time as we are told to stop—that our time is up.

[Abigail (DELETED 4656)]

To say that it was a long and drawn out process would have been a most grievous understatement. Here she was sitting in front of so many hungry and devouring eyes and yet not a single one of them truly knew what it was they were here for. All they saw was a naked woman, bare before them with nothing to hide. What they all failed to realize was that a body was just a shell, something for the soul and mind to inhabit as it traversed a world far too unkind. There was a lot more to the model that sat before all of them now than any single soul in that room, and perhaps building, could have ever realized. The art on her body was more than mere decoration, it was a story and it was emotion and it was the most important moments of her life made permanent on flesh. The areas she had chosen for the art was for a myriad of reasons be it to cover scars or simply because she had enjoyed the feel of the needle in that particular area. Even as her, hopefully, perfect pose was held she couldn't help but wonder who of those present were actually interested in the art before them and simply interested in her.

Holding back a sigh of contempt for the testosterone driven vultures she felt drilling eyes through the arm that was crossed over her chest or her crossed legs her eyes couldn't help but settle on a certain short haired man that seemed to have equal interest in more than just art on paper. The way his eyes would look at her was far different than the mere boy that sat behind him and off to the left, it was as if she was actually being seen in the way that she had desired..art within art. As far as Abigail was concerned the focus of this late night exhibition was her but it was her art that was what she really wanted the focus to be. Anyone could stare at a naked woman for an hour and make a half decent piece of work out of the ordeal but for both her and her art to be captured was something only a truly worthwhile artist would be able to capture both of them. This man, this man that seemed to share her love was the one whose eyes didn't float over her body like a buffet even if there was an undeniable hunger there. The way he looked at her was almost...enthralling, like she was something special to him and yet they had never met before because that was a face that was not easily forgettable. His face? Hell, his entire being was something she would have remembered. A smile slowly spread across her face as her mind wandered to places it really probably shouldn't have given the current situation.

Absolutely glowing now at having found someone who, by mere look in their eyes, truly appreciated and understood the hidden agenda Abigail had to wonder how much time had actually passed since this whole ordeal had begun. It had already seemed like hours since it had all begun. Resisting the urge to look at the clock she remained statuesque, at least she had something pleasing to the eye to look at. Even now she couldn't help but wait for each movement of his arm so that hazel eyes could explore each and every inch of ink that they could. It was a great amusement to her not to mention how much it helped to pass the time. Eventually this would all be over however and that was when it would need to be figured out just how she would make sure that she was just as memorable to this most interesting of men as he was to her. Even if it was having to make use of the night and actually be sociable she would find a way to make him remember her...as ashamed as she was to admit it usually, she had a way to make men come back to her without even having to commit to anything. Call it a charming personality or simply some kind of magnetism but she always seemed to have a knack for knowing people and keeping them close. He...he was one she would have to keep around. He was just far too pretty to let some other woman sink their nails in to. Apparently, not only would she be getting a bit of the money she needed from these classes but she'd be getting a nice little piece of eye candy out of it too. Lucky her.

[Jesse Fforde]

I’m not blind to the smile on Abigail’s face. Her face is a part of the whole, something which I must capture in order to complete the work on the paper in front of me. I started with simple, faint lines—lines that capture that position of her body, the particular curve of her back, and her neck, the way that her arms and legs are crossed. I do this hastily, because it’s only the foundation upon which I can built the important stuff. Around those foundational lines I begin to fill in the outline of her body. I do not lose focus as I strive to get the proportion right. A single error in proportion can throw the entire piece off balance. A single error in proportion will make the portrait look completely different to the person sitting in front of me. And, for once, I want this portrait to be perfect. And when trying to perfect something, time flies—an hour and a half is not nearly long enough. I have to remind myself not to rush. There are still two more nights to go.

Although I am impatient to begin work on the tattoos, I know that I am missing the utensils that I need to do them properly. When I signed up for this class I did not expect that they would give us such a vibrant model to work with. I haven’t brought any of my coloured ink; and I’ve decided, now, that I don’t want this portrait to be only black and white. I don’t want it to be only graywash. I want the tattoos to stand out. Although the rest of Abigail’s body will be in black and white, the tattoos will have all their colour. Proof that, although her naked body is a testament to the natural state of man, and can be art in its own right, the real art in this portrait will be the tattoos. Somehow…somehow, I will strive to portray that tattoos as adding to the whole. Although the body is important, the tattoos are what make it so beautiful.

And so, due to lack of utensils, I do not start on the tattoos just yet. I instead focus on the face—and it’s easy to do, when I realise that Abigail is watching me just as intently as I am watching her. As I have said, I am not blind to that smile on her face. Noticing it causes my own lips to twitch. A turn up at the corner of my mouth, and a small perk of the brow. I glance up to begin work on her eyes—to perfect their almond shape and determine the length of the eyebrows. Preternatural sight helps me to capture every single tiny little detail. Even at a distance, I can see every pore in her skin. And it’s as I glance up to ascertain these small details that I catch her unwavering eye. I tip my head in a nod of greeting, before getting back to work.

That’s all I have, when the lecturer claps his hands to indicate the end of the session. I blink and sit up straight, as the rest of the class begins to pack up their material. The lecturer explains that we can leave our art where it is. No one will be using this room for the entirety of the next day, and our art will be safe until we return at the same time the next night. I pack away my pencils and charcoal, and take a step back to assess my work from a small distance. I have the foundations and the bulk of the body, though no tattoos. I haven’t shaded it all in, just yet—but I do have a fully formed face, those inquisitive eyes staring straight out from the paper. Yes… so far, so good.

I figure that Abigail has returned to that back office to get dressed. But I have decided that it is she whom I would like to feed from. Throughout that hour and half long session, the ache in the back of my throat intensified. That peculiar that can’t be sated had become harder to ignore. I know that I cannot kill her—I usually kill my victims, but I cannot kill Abigail. I could say that she is special and doesn’t deserve to die, but my motives are far more selfish. I can’t kill her, because if I do, I won’t be able to finish my portrait of her. And I cannot leave that portrait of her undone.

And so I stand outside the Arts building—outside the exit that I assume she will have to leave by. While I wait, I retrieve a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I pick one, holding it between my lips as I put the pack away and lift a silver lighter, holding the flame to the tip.

[Abigail (DELETED 4656)]

It seemed like eons that she sat there, statuesque in all of her glory allowing a room full to demonstrate some form of skill. Each one plying their trade with her as the centerpiece and focus, it was amusing really how hard some people would try when they knew there was someone right beside them that could be creating an exponentially better piece of work. This man was a perfect example. He seemed to find an enjoyment in what he was doing but it was more than just time and place that pleased him, that much was obviously clear. With each movement of his arm her imagination ran wild with what it was exactly he was doing on that once blank canvas. Would his skill live up to everything he had imagined or was he merely another unskilled yet pretty face in the crowd? She had such high hopes for him too, it really would have been a pity if she let him down since he seemed to be the only one not ogling her like a three course meal. Regardless of his skills on the canvas there was positivity that he had other skills and wasn't a complete waste...how could such a beautiful creature NOT have something going for him? The mere thought was inconceivable.

Snapped out of her daydream by the sound of the instructor calling an end to the session she jumped ever so slightly and took a deep breath. Stiff muscles protested any form of movement as she sat up and recomposed herself. It really wasn't as bad as had been expected, for being one that would have sworn she was incapable of sitting still a wonderful and splendid job had been done in order to assure pinpoint accuracy around the room. It was blatantly obvious that after tonight the amount of people would be lessened, some seeming to have finished and accomplished what they desired and others having bitten off more than they could chew.There was a part of Abigail that found some sort of sick and sadistic pleasure in seeing those few people that had been unable to handle it all become so frustrated they simply packed up and left in a huff. Those were the unworthy. Others still remained sitting, taking advantage of the momentary new angle Abigail provided in order to better appraise their work. Those were the Van Goghs. There were others still that merely accepted that the time was up and what they had would be acceptable, whether they showed up for the next two nights was still up in the air. These were the amateurs that really didn't take any of it seriously.

It would be interesting if she could sneak in to take a walk around the room after she changed but the chances of that were slim to none, looking at an unfinished piece of art would never do the final result justice and would probably only depress and upset the viewer as they tried (and failed miserably) to imagine the finished product. Abigail refrained. For now. Without waiting for the instructor, dirty old leering ********, she rose and quickly found her way back to the office in the back of the room. It wasn't long before he joined her in the back office however and congratulated her on a job well done. Still he leered though and the look in those beady little eyes was enough to make her skin crawl as she pulled her sweater over her head and slipped on the knee high heels. She couldn't leave fast enough, weighing the pros and cons all the while. Ample amount of money, a decent looking guy and a bit of ego stroking as she sat with all eyes on her and on the flip side of the coin she had to endure filthy thoughts directed at her and then that older instructor acting just as poorly as the students and guests. It seemed worth it all in all.

Wishing that she had a nice strong drink or something else to relax her she wound her way through the hallways of the college. A deep breath of cool brisk almost fall air inhaled and exhaled slowly, the addition of the sweet scent of cigarettes assaulting her senses in a most pleasurable way. She had never been a smoker of cigarettes but something about the smell was...pleasing to her. She had tried it once, hated it and swore it off but the smell was still something she never really minded. Running her hands through her hair she smiled and looked around at those few that were still milling about waiting for rides or just hanging out with a friend or two. The smile intensified though when a glace was cast over her shoulder. Short hair, a fair amount of ink and eyes that were very familiar to her. They had better have been familiar, hell, she'd just been staring at the man for nearly the last hour. It didn't take but more than a step or two until she was a bit closer to him where they could have a bit of a conversation without being over heard or she would be blocking the doorway.

"Your not here with anyone are you?"

The question was short, neutral and yet beneath it all it was a myriad of underlying and hidden motives and responses. If ever there was a loaded question this was the mother of them all.

[Jesse Fforde]

The smoke curls in thick tendrils from my lips; it drifts upwards, and I follow it. I can see myself drifting away with that smoke, away from the gravity of the Earth, away from the milling, chattering crowds. The moon hangs pregnant, yellowed with the smog in the air. The smog that I’m perhaps adding to. I focus on the shadows of the moon—I always thought it looked like a rabbit, rather than a man. A plane flies over the top of it, red and white lights blinking silently. I wonder what it might look like, that heavy, full moon from the small windows of that plane. The air is crisp as I take a deep breath. It’s a breath that I don’t need to take. It tastes like stale smoke and blood. That’s all I can ever smell, regardless of where I am. Blood. Part and parcel, I suppose, of the insatiable hunger that I am constantly harangued by.

It’s tempting to let my eyes roll back into my head, to allow my soul to detach itself from my body. I thought I was dreaming, that time I woke up in the middle of the forest. No way a man can fly. No way there’s such a thing as actual, honest-to-god out-of-body experiences. But nor did I ever think there was such a thing as a vampires. And I’ve since learned to control that specific ability. And when I’m up there, soaring over the city, I am, for at least a few minutes, free of the bodily constraints and irritations of my blood lust.

My reverie is broken by a specific strength to the blood that I can smell. There’s a shift in the air around me. The chattering is no longer distant—it’s right there, at my ear. I blink once, then twice. I turn toward the voice. I take my time to answer the question asked of me. In fact, one might I don’t actually answer it. I push myself away from the wall. I lick my lips, and drop the cigarette to the path. I grind my heel into it, pushing the dark ash into the pavers—one twist left, one twist right. When next I look up at Abigail, I make sure to grin—an expression that I have mastered, perhaps a glint in my eye that promises mischief and fun.

I’m no ******* Allurist. I know this much. Not that I’ve met too many, but I’ve heard things. They’re supposed to be the alluring ones. This is supposed to come easy to them, ******* cheats. I’ve worked hard. Maybe through force of will—but I used to look like a cretin. Like some fresh corpse just crawled from a newly buried coffin. You know, the whole hog—blue lips, skin so white it’s ghostly. These days, though, I happen to be able to support a healthier complexion. Now I just look like an insomniac. Now I just look like I get no sun—which is fine, really. It makes the ink stand out all the more. Anyway. The light isn’t so grand where we’re standing. I’m sure it’s fine.

It’s only now that I answer her question; it’s only now that I shake my head. No. I’m not here with anyone. The messenger bag shifts slightly at my waist as I glance over my shoulder. Just down the hall, through an arch, there’s an open door. Through it, I can see an empty classroom—the lights in there are dimmer than they are out here. Turning back to Abigail, I lift my right hand, the blue rose on the back of it facing her (I lift the blue rose, because it probably appears far more inviting than the deathly skull). I indicate that she should follow me, wiggling my index finger—there’s a ‘4’, there, a little crooked, and a fancy looking N. The silver of the owl ring that I always wear glints as it sits on the finger next door. I walk backwards, just a step or two. And then I turn my back on her, heading for the dimly lit room, hoping and trusting that she will follow—if only because that brief whimsical desire to escape from my hunger has only made it ten times worse.

[Abigail (DELETED 4656)]

Silent adoration. Appreciation maybe? He looked so natural leaning against that wall and yet at the same time there was something completely different about him. His figure and form seeming as if they had been cut out of time and space and he'd been pasted here for a particular purpose. The way he moved, the details of his tattooed skin, that look of mischief and fun in his eyes all...all of it put her on edge and at this point she was either going to fall in to cowardice and run or she was simply going to grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him back into that hallway. Inwardly grinning she had to remind herself that it wasn't forward or brazen in any way, shape or form and that she simply knew what she wanted and how to get it. He on the other hand hadn't spoken a single word to her as of yet and still here she was with the mental image of dragging him away for her own purposes.

Taking a step back as he ground out the cigarette into the pavement Abigail casually wrapped an arm around herself and took a moment to fully appreciate that which he had been appreciating not too long ago for such an extended period of time. he was a little rough around the edges, he'd definitely not been a good boy all his life especially given some of the ink that she noticed. What stole her very soul from her though was when they locked eyes for the briefest of moments. Those eyes that promised mischief and danger and fun and excitement all while they peered down and pierced your very soul and it was these eyes that stole her breath and stilled her heart if even for just a single beat. And she drank it in. It was dangerous and different and she felt like she just should have nothing to do with this man but with the way her heart pounded and her body craved and her mind screamed in warning she just could not bring herself to not go through with it. Her mind raced with all the horrible wicked outcomes and even at the most wickedest of thoughts there was no will to run or hide. It would be embraced. Whatever it was about him that made her so wary and so excited at the same time would be embraced and adored. Never had a man been able to have this effect on her and with adrenaline pumping she simply smiled at him. He was alone after all and so was she.

Was he really being so forward though? Inviting her to an empty classroom so that it'd just be him and her...alone. As much as the thought made the young woman shudder with anticipation there was a klaxon of alarm bells going off in her head that maybe it really wasn't such a good idea. It would have been a lot more convincing however if the alarms had any substantial ground to stand upon. After simply reminding herself that this is actually what she had been thinking about only minutes before there was nothing to prevent her from following this gorgeous and unique individual. From the blue flower on the back of his hand to the numbers on his fingers to the slightest hint of something beneath his shirt the dark haired woman couldn't help but match each step with one of her own. She stalked each movement, her eyes glancing over the backside of her prey as she wondered what it was that he had in store for her. As calm and innocent as she tried to be there was just something about the chase that was simply perfect. Never would she claim she was an attention whore but at the same time there was something to be said for having even the slightest bit of affections from people that appreciated a unique mind and body and to say she didn't go out of her way from time to time to garner those affections would be a lie. It was almost as if she enjoyed infecting herself on others and, like a symbiote, she fed from the love and adoration while they fed on her beauty and her very nature. If ever there was a woman that would care for those that cared for her it was Abigail.

Following him in to the room, however, brought a wicked grin to her face as the door was pressed closed by dainty fingers. Turning to face him those lips of hers were licked hungrily as Abigail leaned against the wall. A very sultry and seductive finger crooked in a 'come hither' style. Come to me pretty boy.. was the only pertinent thought in her mind, this would have nothing to do with thinking after all. This was going to be oh so much fun.

[Jesse Fforde]

I don’t have to glance over my shoulder to know that Abigail is following me. If I were a cat, my ears might have swivelled; I’m using that extraordinary sense of hearing that I have gained with this new life of mine. Although there’s the sound of chattering students echoing from all quarters, my attention is focused only on the woman behind me. I can her shoes scuff against the pavers, even though to all ordinary citizens she may not be making a sound at all. I fancy that I can hear her breathing; I can hear that heart of hers, beating an excitable rhythm in her chest. I smirk.

The classroom is one of those new, renovated kinds. This University, from what I have seen of it, seems to be quite modern and with the times. The chairs rise before us. There are even little lights in the aisles, much like you might see in a movie theatre. Although there are dozens of lights scattered across the ceiling, they’re not all on. Only a few of them are—as if they ended this lecture with a short film, and didn’t bother bringing all the house lights back up. There’s a click behind me, and I turn. All the noise from outside is now muffled. There’s a hum from somewhere overhead—the air conditioning system, working behind the scenes, in the walls and ceiling.

Abigail falls back against the wall by the door. I haven’t said a word, and yet she seems to have read my mind. Well, not really. If she read my mind, she ought to be running for the hills. No, she’s read in my body language exactly what I wanted her to read. And much to my pleasure, she’s a willing victim. She’s even gone so far as to take charge—to summon me, in much the same way as I had summoned her to this very room. I drop the messenger bag from my shoulder. It lands on the floor with a thud, and a clatter—one of the pencil tins must have fallen open. I don’t care. The ache in the back of my throat has reached a thrumming, burning crescendo, and here’s my meal, right in front of me, beckoning me to come closer. The smirk broadens.

Slowly, one step at a time, I approach the woman. Now, in this silent room, I can hear her heart. It’s not something that I’m imagining. It’s something that I crave; it may as well be the sound of the steak sizzling on the grill. I reach my prey; I can feel the heat radiating from her body. It does not repel me. Rather, it draws me closer. A lure. I let out a slow breath when I am within breathing distance of her. I can see the way my released breath tangles with her hair. The tips of my fingers graze her forehead, her cheek, her neck, as I push that hair aside. To her, it’ll appear to be a gentle caress. It is mere necessity, however; I need access to that inviting, tender, inked skin at her neck. The hair is only in the way. I place the opposite hand upon her waist. It might appear to just be resting there, but I am prepared to tighten my hold should my prey begin to struggle.

I hold Abigail’s gaze only long enough to make her think I’m leaning forward to kiss her. My lips get this close, before I swoop past them. I bow toward her neck, hand splayed against the wall beside her head. My teeth ache, an excruciating longing forcing the pointed canines from the gum—I am engulfed by the scent of her, so heady and delicious. My lips brush against her skin, before stretching over the pulse of that vein. Canines break the surface, and the blood pumps onto my tongue, hot and savoury. I pull Abigail close, even as I am latched to her. I’m not rough with her. I cause the least amount of pain as possible. Not that it really matters—she’s not going to remember this, right?

Normally I kill them. Normally I have no respect for my victims. But this one’s different.