Silence Of The Night (Final Draft)
Wednesday, January 25, 2012 | 8:30 PM | 3 flower(s)
Disclaimer: Plot not entirely mineInspiration/Credits: Peter May’s Prologue in Chinese Whispers
Genre: Dark, Crime, Murder
Type: Original work
Warning: NC-17 (read at your own risk) contains stuff that are not suitable for minors.
More credits at the end.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across her; even
with her face veiled with make-up and glamour, she felt ugly - tainted. She had
never wanted this life: full of secrets and pain, webbed by strings full of
lies but she was left with no choice. Ever since her bastard of her father left
her at the age of 16 with her bedridden mother, she had no choice but to end
her school life and leave her friends for this world -- this world that she
hated so much.
Snapping out of
her thoughts with a daze she suddenly felt self conscious. She scanned the
lobby where she's at; her vision lay on pretty women with donned in dresses
that costs more than they're worth made her feel more ugly with her stringy
hair and cheap make-up. That was before she saw the receptionist staring down
at her, his eyes lining her long, honey legs. He couldn’t have been more than
24 years old, his well sculpted face still held that boyish charm. She felt
uncomfortable with his stare and snapped her knees together. It was as if he was
undressing her with his eyes. He was undeniably bold by the way he unabashedly
showed the lust in his eyes; the lust for her. Awkward silence ensues.
It has been not
more than a couple of years, but she had never gotten used to the stares. So
she was quite relieved when she heard her name being softly uttered by someone
behind her.
He was older than she had expected but it was clear that he was
good looking, even at that age. She wonders how many hearts he had broke when
he was younger.
He was tall and
well-built, with a suit that she bet can cost her, her house. Upon staring at
his deep, dark eyes, her lips tugged behind to show her pearly whites. Despite
his smiling outward appearance, she could sense the strong aura that oozes out
of him like BO. It frightened her a bit but she stayed composed. He offered her
his hand and she took it, leaving the man at the reception desk with the look
of hunger and disappointment, as if his dinner for the day was taken away from
him. The man helped her with her coat and then, with her arm linked with his,
went out of the lobby and into the cold.
She did an
involuntary gasp as the cold chilled her to the bones, biting into her skin.
She was used to the hotel's warmth that she forgot how cold it was outside. She
hugged her coat tighter for hope of inexistent warmth. Her mind then went to
the man at the reception desk. How she wish she was making his dreams come true
instead; in a warm hotel room somewhere nearby. But a job is a job and she had
to finish this one up. Let's just get over with it.
It was easy,
really.
A few days before this, her phone beeped, alerting the owner of
the message that was received. He had found her two-line advertisement in the
public newspaper. Messages exchanged. The date, place and price were set. She
just has to make sure he's happy and she'd receive her night's worth in a
couple of hundred bucks. Simple.
The couple kept
walking and she wondered if hours had already passed. She took a glimpse at her
watch and noticed that it was already around 2am. If he had a car, they would
have seen it by now. Not wanting to upset her customer, she just kept her mouth
shut. Arms still hooked with hers, he led her to a night market.
Running short of
patience, she had asked him about their destination. He answered with a silence
and took her to a curb that lead them to a dark and silent alleyway.
We're here, he
breathed out and pushed her to a nearby wall. She tried to talk but his lips
had caught hers. She broke the kiss and protested. It's cold. He told her that
they had to make do here because he doesn't have a car and he couldn't bring
her home for fear of his wife. She tried to reason him about a motel but once
again was silenced by his mouth. Don't worry, I'll make you warm this way and
if you want, I'll add another couple of bucks, he whispered in her ear.
The tiny fear that
had once slithered in her when they first met snaked back into her spine when
she felt that strong body pressed against hers. She tried to shut down her mind
and let her body do the work but to no avail. Her body was still rigid and tensed
up. Luckily, he seemed to sense her distress and stepped back.
Relax, he said in
this husky, brooding voice. He took out a Russian Cheroot and lit it. He took a
long puff and lightly blew the smoke into her face. Having awakened from her
daze, she scrambled around her pockets for her cigarette. With shaky hands, she
let him lit it. She tried not to cough at her first puff and after a few
minutes, she could feel her body starting to loosen up.
He finished his cheroot
and threw it aside, having that sense of urgency and power in his eyes. After
she finishes her cigarette she was slammed again with his body. This time, she
let him be. No words exchanged; no sweet nothings, just the feel of their
tongue lashing at each other. She didn't notice him opening her buttons until
she felt the big, warm hands exploring her flat stomach.
She was already
too distracted with the upper body to care about the hands that were already
slowly rising up to her chest area. They lingered there for about a split
second before she felt them enclosed around her neck.
She guessed, maybe
at that time, she was already so relaxed that at first, she didn't notice that
his hands had suddenly turned into steel grips, squeezing the life out of her
tiny frame. He stopped kissing her then, his eyes held that psychotic look
stared at her surprised and frightened ones.
It was easy,
really.
Too easy.
There were no
screams. There was no noise. By the time her mind knew that something was
amiss, she was already almost gone, and the fight in her had left.
Death came a
second later.
Her body was surprisingly
heavy now that the life was sucked out of her. He carefully arranged her body
to the correct position when he heard the sound of footsteps from the end of
the alleyway.
His ears perked up
and his heartbeat rose. Most people would run by now, but he stayed firm.
Instead of fear, he felt the pump of adrenaline flowing in his blood system. It
was as if the man at the other side was just a challenge. To slip away after
finishing with this masterpiece he was going to create, he felt more... superior.
He checked her
pulse and received the expected silence. Her eyes still showed what had left
from the fear that was there, except now it looked lifeless, soulless. Most
people would flinch, but not him.
No pulse; body
still warm; blood still oxygenated. The footsteps were nearer and sounded
louder now, but it was still incomparable to the sound of his heartbeat that
rang in his ears.
A small smile
tugged at his lips as he pulls out a pocket knife.
+++
A man sat on a
bench in front of a shop, at 8am in the morning; the newspaper spread wide on
his lap and a Russian Cheroot on his right hand.
He was older than
anyone could have guessed but it was clear that he was good looking - even at
that age. People wonder how many hearts he had broken when he was younger.
He was tall and
well-built, with a suit that people bet can cost them their house. Upon staring
at his deep, dark eyes, their lips would tug behind to show their pearly
whites. Despite his smiling outward appearance, many could sense the strong
aura that oozed out of him like BO.
He smiled despite
of himself and threw away the cheroot at the side of his foot. After a few
seconds, he left the bench, hands inside his pocket where the pocket knife lay,
he whistled as he went on his merry way.
The wind blew on
the newspaper and lifted it up like an unknown invisible force and flew it away
into the horizon. The television situated inside the shop showed a woman who
wore a grave look. Her lips that were painted red split open and she started to
say the exact same words from the newspaper headlines, out loud:
COPYCAT SERIAL
KILLER JACK THE RIPPER II STRIKES AGAIN.
+++
End Notes:
It didn't turn out very well to be honest but it was to be expected. I wrote this while half asleep, like what I usually do with my work. xD;; This is my first original work as Alice A. H. Shaw and I hope you guys enjoyed it. I foresee myself as a writer with this genre only but I'll try and explore other genres too.
As this is my first work (though this is hardly my first work ever) here, I'd appreciate it if you lot would drop a few comments -- structural critiques prefered but any comment will do.
Thank you so much for reading! :)
Image:
+ Silence of The Night in Sighisoara by Ozzy @ Pixdaus
Design:
+ yours truly; alice a. h. shaw