It would be morning by the time the authorities would find him. Strung up between two streetlights, hoisted by his entrails, one leg dangling lower, seesawing sickeningly in the breeze.
After she'd disemboweled the man, she'd gone home and changed from her hunting clothes to her evening attire, took a taxi downtown, where the bars and clubs stay open long into the wee hours of the morning.
She picked one at random, busy on this evening with posh clientele milling about in gaudy conversation, imbibing luxurious intoxicants. She slinks inside, like a queen among rabble. Her heels clicking, singsong seductions.
very naughty boy," she accused in sibilant whisper, her voice like a thousand caresses. The man quivered like a rodent in her vice like grip. When she pulled him to her, she saw feral fear in his eyes. Then suddenly he attacked, bringing one leg up to kick her. Lightning quick, she grabbed the foot, let go with her other hand, spinning him round, snapping the leg backwards at the knee. Before the man could cry out, she brought one of her teeth daggers out from beneath her sleeve, slit the man's throat.
Blood began to stain the grass red.
Unerring is the centralia. It's traits much more a mystery. Within her. Without her. As much a part of her as her hands. Her eyes. She caught the man trespassing within the yard of the house where four family members slept peacefully unaware. He was indeed only a man. She was perhaps a trifle disappointed; maybe she'd wished for at least some minor demon, perhaps an incubus or liderc. But no matter.
Without warning or syllable, she seized the man by the scruff of the neck. Though small in stature, her preternatural state granted her unfathomable strength. "You've been a
Flashes of the blood. Children. Two children. A boy and a girl. Twins. Their mother and father. The boy and father are bound to watch as he’s raping the daughter and mother. Before he attacks them with a corkscrew.
Her centralia leads round a corner, where even dimmer streetlights cast ghostlier pallor over deserted rainwashed streets. The pull is stronger. The crime imminent. Her determination to stop the crime is unwavering. The family’s blood washes through her mind again, as the criminal’s face spins into clarity. He’s a man. She’s faced worse, but knows sometimes the worst monsters are men.
Editor's Note: Quite literally, she is alive because life is breathed into her. Or rather, alive again. Purgatory. Stage of between. Caught between Hell and Hea --
...Midnight finds our heroine skulking through the deepening shadows. Grey upon noir grey of endless residential blocks. In a particularly bourgeois section of the megalopolis Stark City. Reminds her of a snippet of poetry she'd heard sometime somewhere Fucking Death in the Age of Gentrification. She pushes the thought aside, following her centralia as it streams from her consciousness, leading to her prey. Her mind, flashes of the future horrors of the perpetrator.