Goth Girl

Nervously she twirled her black hair around her little finger, her
gaze clear of the row of people sat along the bar from her. A false
smile was fixed on her coal black lips, and she was growing impatient.
Her eyes flicked to her watch. Ten minutes late.
She sat in her pure goth attire, a black corset sown with lace, which
draped and clung to her slender frame, and flared black trousers, which
were held by numerous zips and chains. Around her neck was the classic
black dog collar, and on her wrist, several metal spiked bracelets. Her
skin was deathly white, her eyes blazing out of her head a pure black.
She was considered a freak by most, and it has came as a great shock
when the school's football captain asked her out on this date.
And he was, she checked her watch, fifteen minutes late. She shifted
in her seat, looking towards the door. Then she saw him.
His blond hair reflected the little light there was in the room, and
shone. He grinned when he saw her, his teeth glinting pure white. He
strolled over to her, and leant in to peck her cheek. She dodged away.
He shrugged, and sat on the stool next to hers.
"A drink?" He asked politely. She was thirsty, but declined his offer.
He shrugged again, and hailed the barman.
"A beer, thanks." And then he turned back to her.
"You're beautiful." He murmured. She was, but no-one ever told her.
Her skin flushed a pale pink shade. She nodded stiffly. He took her
hand and attempted eye contact. She stared resolutely at her
boots.
"Let's get out of here." He muttered, dragging her to her feet. He
pulled her across the dance floor. As they left the room, the barman
returned with the beer, and was left, cursing and shaking his fist at
the door.
Once outside in the night air, she allowed herself a shy grin in his
direction. But his playful smile was gone.
Lust was written across his features, his breathing heavy. He pushed
her backwards, down a small alleyway. She tried to escape his grip, but
he tightened his grasp on her arms.
He slammed her against a dumpster. She felt her bones shatter with the
force of it, and fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. He approached
her, and crouched beside her, surveying her, before rolling her onto
her back. She let out a whimper of pain, to which he replied:
"Don't think about screaming bitch."
He produced a knife from his pocket, and held it to her throat.
"One noise, goth girl." She was silent.
He began fumbling with the zips and chains of her trousers, tugging at
them. She daren't struggle, but silent tears streamed down her
cheeks.
He finally got her trousers undone, and tugged them down to her knees.
He gasped as he took in the scars that told the tales of the razor
blades she had put to herself. Thick red lines rose from the whiteness
of her legs. He shook his head, recovered, and traced the scars with
his finger. The inside of her leg quivered and she sobbed harder.
Momentarily sidetracked, he picked at one of the scars until blood
began to flow. He casually rolled his fingertips in her blood. He
raised his hand to her face, before forcing her mouth open with one
strong hand, whilst placing his bloody fingers inside her.
"Suck 'em, bitch."
Obediantly, she closed her mouth over his fingers and sucked gently.
He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. She sucked a little longer,
her blood flowing around her gums, before biting down.
Hard.
On his hand.
He tried to wrench his hand away from her, but she was faster. She
opened her mouth before he pulled his fingertips away, and grasped the
hand he had used to hold her mouth open. With a swift crack, she had
broken his little finger. He yelled out in pain. She smiled, and raised
his hand to her face. It has changed. The once beautiful, helpless goth
girl had transformed, her forehead ridged, her front teeth pointed, her
eyes dilated, glowing red. With superhuman speed, she leapt, kicking
his head backwards, sending him spinning into a trashcan. She landed
upon his stomach. A quick glance to her left confirmed her suspicions.
The knife still lay there. She stretched out a hand in its direction,
and willed it towards her. It was propelled to her hand. He let out a
strangled cry.
She traced her hand over his thin black T-shirt, experiencing the
elegant muscles beneath.
"Bad boy." She whispered, and ripped his shirt off in one fluid
movement. She placed the knife above the centre of his ribcage, and
pressed down gently, forming a lazy line of thick red blood.
She lowered her head, and gently, slowly, she lapped up his blood,
tracing her tongue up his chest, up to his collar bone, to his neck.
She kissed it, long, lingering kisses, before curling her lips black,
and grazing her teeth on his smooth skin. She plunged her fangs into
him, gulping down the warm life blood which sprung instantly from his
wound.
His heartbeat slowed.
His skin paled.
His eyes glazed over.
He died.
She stood, gazing at her kill, before tugging her trousers up, and
doing up the complex array of zips and chains. She wiped a speck of
blood from her chin, and slowly morphed her face back to normal. Her
slow, lumbering gait of the day vanished, and she returned to the bar,
her hips swingin, dancing to the beat, nobody ever suspecting.