Miss Angelina [✔]

[1] Dalliance

It was too quiet.

It was impossibly silent.

The air was so still I could hear my own breathing. My heartbeat pounding against my chest at an alarming, but steady rate. Only now and again could I hear the faint whistle of the wind, or a flutter of a bird's wing.

I let out an almost exasperated noise, my eyes dragging over each fragment of the ground - looking for any trace.

"You can't run," I call into the dense woods that extend out before me, taking a step forward into growing darkness. The moon had long settled into its place high in the sky. Amongst the hush of these woods, I could hear a muffled panic - a hand clasping over a mouth.

It wasn't long that I'd had this soul in my grasp. I had taken them, along with one other, from the local town in a moment of unscrupulous passion.

The first of these two, I had disposed of a few weeks ago. The few months of toying with that soul had grown too tiresome. The scales had tipped, and the fun could no longer outweigh the effort. The second, however, I had held on to tightly; he lit a fiery passion in me that I refused to let go of.

Unfortunately, that passion had made me ease up on him – a novice mistake.

He'd managed to flee into these woods. The woods were close to home but stretched out for miles - the young man could have escaped me if he had been slightly more careful with his breakout - if he had wanted to leave at all, that is.

I kneeled under a branch and could feel myself getting caught in some twigs slightly higher up. My hair had knotted at the edges, with the thick blood of a victim we'd carved into this morning seeping into the tips; not one of my own, of course.

This man had not given me time to revel in my actions, never mind clean the filth from me. I did enjoy having them in my hair though - it kept them alive that little while longer. I believed that they at least deserved that much, for the time I'd spent toying with them.

The old, auburn coloured leaves danced in the wind around my feet as the weakening trees around me began to creak at the roughness of the blustery weather. The birds ceased to sing, and only a few crows were creating noises in the distance.

I could almost smell his fear. It was a mixture of sweat and blood that almost drifted through the trees. Fear has an aroma of death that follows quietly behind it. It looks over your shoulder, breathing slowly as your mind races.

It was apparent to me that death was so occurring in these woods, from animals to people. You needn't look very far to witness teeth sinking into a neck. It only reminds me that I need this kill - that I crave the blood of this boy on my hands. It's like an obsession wrapped up in a sweet package, ready to be delivered to an unsuspecting victim.

I've always been interested in trying that - cut a man apart, tie each part with a bow and send them to different relatives. I can only imagine opening a gift and finding the head of your late husband or son in a box meeting your gaze. The shock that must be felt would be indescribable. I envision a woman taking multiple steps back, their hands to their mouth, anguished cries, and when they'd hopefully catch a wall, they'd slide down, shaking. Perhaps they'd choke on the breaths they were losing and taste the blood in the back of their throats.