(MF, nc, v, murd)
By Kelly Berks
He slipped deftly and quietly through the darkness, passing from one deep shadow to the next, never seeming to invade the space reserved for those bands of light projected from the streetlights which punctuated the sidewalk. She, on the other hand, treated the night as if it were her own to do with as she pleased. She walked defiantly through his realm of darkness, ignoring any thought of fear for that which might be lurking in those unlit voids - those places which we know usually contain nothing at all.
She announced her approach with that special sound that very stylish women make: that clickety clack of spike heels striking concrete. It's a sound which does little more than turn your head in the daytime, but in the deep shadows of night, it is the ultimate announcement that there is someone available to be ravaged and extinguished. That intoxicating sound marked her arrival to this spot at precisely eleven sixteen every night.
She was a creature of habit; he was a creature who preyed upon those who were compelled by habit. Their meeting was therefore not by chance, and the outcome of that meeting was almost certainly inevitable.
She approaches this spot at the exact time which she has prescribed for herself. She is a one-woman parade, confidently striding toward a destination so close as to nearly be in view, yet so far as to be unreachable. Each stride produces a motion which arouses the senses and brings her that much closer to the place where she will be conquered. Clickity, clack, each step announces a bit louder, as it delivers her closer.
There is a poetry in what you can see as she passes through the light and a poetry in what you can hear when she is lost in the darkness. He always sees and hears; for him, the vision and sound are inseparable. She crosses a field of light, her stunning features betrayed by the harsh glare, then she moves into the blackness and is rendered only by that seemingly perpetual sound.
The vision and the sound are repeated over and over again, until the vision is once again lost in the darkness, and this time, the sound is no longer heard. Something has interrupted the nighttime poem. The two creatures of the night have collided, and in the total absence of light, we cannot see or even imagine what has happened.
His reward has now been realized, first in her resistance; then in her surrender. He has sought and found his satisfaction in what she was, rather than who she was pretending to be. Without even the faintest trace of moonlight to illuminate her pretense, there was nothing to destroy the brutal honesty which he demanded in their intimacy.
In the morning light, we'll learn that our lady has been persuaded to offer herself in a more generous way then she would have preferred. Her newly-acquired generosity will continue, as she puts on quite a show, openly displaying all those things which she had been so cleverly trying to flaunt when she was alive. Her silky hair will be spread on the ground around her head as if floating on the surface of a still pond; her eyes will be open wide to the bright blue morning sky; her breasts will be exposed to all would now stare rather than glance, and her long legs will still offer the same invitation they always had, but now in a far more blatant fashion.
They will pick her up and place her in a wagon drawn by horses or driven by diesel, because this exercise represents no particular time or place. It is just one morning which follows another conquest for this master of darkness. He will seek and surely find more such victories.
Another day will pass, and another night will approach. One more fatal pattern will be observed and studied carefully by eyes buried deep in the shadows. If she walks quickly and quietly through the night, she may keep herself out of harm's way. If she is careless and ignores the perils of the night, she may well survive her journey anyway; after all, most creatures of the night are harmless, and most nights hide no evil in their darkness.
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