The Blackout Girl ✔️

chapter one

Chapter One

I. The First

The angel of death entered wearing white. A pearly dress swallowed her small frame whole, symbolic of what was to come. She slipped easily into his home. Undetected. Perfect for a game of hide-and-seek.

But this wasn't a game.

She was too old for games and too stubborn to give up now. It was her first kill, and she'd planned it out to the second. There would be no turning back.

When the blood began to fall, it rained down the stairs. Steadily, it descended to the second floor, coming down into a puddle at the base of the last step. The house was silent, for all but the steady droplets as they glided like crimson rain into the foyer.

Drip, drip, drip.

The man never saw it coming. How could he? He was recently divorced, still in good shape for a guy in his forties. He was living alone, not expecting any company. After locking up, he set his alarm and intended to go to bed.

There was no way for him to sense the woman watching him from his closet, waiting for him to be vulnerable. She stabbed him once, just minutes after he laid down: a swift blade to the sternum.

The bastard had the nerve to make a run for it. In her eyes, he brought it upon himself. It would have been a quick, surgical death for him if he hadn't tried to flee.

His mistake was what killed him.

The knife cracked when it slipped through his chest, hiking upward and pushing through bone. She'd pulled it from him, and with one hand held over it to stop the blood, he'd stumbled his way out of the bedroom. His breath was a low rasp, coming too fast from his lungs as they were slowly filling with blood. He wasn't going to make it, but he still tried. Oh, did he try.

She had to give him credit for his persistence. He didn't want to die, but he was going to. He had to have known that the moment he began to suffocate.

She stabbed him again, right through the throat. He croaked. It was a final, desperate sound as he clung to the last strands of oxygen. Slowly, he slipped to the floor, collapsing in a heap before her. This man, easily a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, was reduced to nothing at her feet.

She knelt, staring into his lifeless eyes. "Oh, what am I going to do with you?"

She traced his cheek with the tip of the hunting knife. Blood began to bead along the shallow edges of the cut, nothing compared to what soaked her hands and clothes. Her lip tilted up, the fragment of a smile manifesting in the corners of her mouth.

Then, she brought the blade into his left eye socket. She wrenched it to the side, demolishing his iris in one violent thrust. She cut the other next, leaving nothing but shredded, mangled flesh coated in red, black, emptiness. Those eyes, which she couldn't bear to stare into anymore, disgusted her.

He no longer had those eyes. She ensured it.

Then, slowly, she removed his cotton pajama bottoms.

It was then that she truly began to work.

II. The Second

She was in his room after the party wearing another white dress. This time, it was short, bunched around her thighs as the frat boy pressed her into the wall. She could feel him grinding against her, and she pretended to moan and she clutched the back of his shirt. This was her chance. The more he weakened, the more he gave her an advantage.

She slipped the knife into the side of his neck easily. She sliced right through his jugular, watching as a sickly, warm spray burst forth from the skin. Each beat of his heart pushed it forward in a perfect, steady rhythm. She rejoiced in it, worshipping it.

He shambled away but wisely fell to the carpet instead of trying to flee. He died quickly. She needn't give him mercy.

She punished him too. She carved his lustful eyes from his head and left blank sockets. Then, she split his zipper down the middle and brought him to justice.

III. The Third

White fishnet tights stretched up her smooth thighs. She walked along the main road in the dark wearing a skirt too tight and a shirt too cropped to be decent. With her, she carried the promise of a good time.

This was how she hunted for the next one.

When the businessman pulled up a sleek, black convertible, she leaned forward. Elbow resting in the open window, she cocked her head and smirked at him. He was an older man, on the verge of retiring in a short time. His eyes were grey, matching his hair and the band of his Rolex watch. She hated him from the start.

This was a pathetic quest to reclaim his youth, and she would show him just what that leads to.

"How much do you charge?" he asked.

"I'll cut you a deal," she promised.

The last transaction he ever made was for a motel room a few blocks over.

Two people went in.

One came out.