I Miss the Girl You Were

I Miss the Girl You Were

I first encountered this prompt on Tumblr. The full prompt is: “I miss the girl you were.” “Many will. She was easier to kill.” The moment I read it, I thought of Cazella and this is the result.
. . .

He recognized her the moment his eyes fell on her; the woman with the blue curls. Her skin was white-silver like the moon in the midnight sky. Her eyes were the color of the sun at midsummer and seemed to go on forever. The first time he glanced into those deep pools, he nearly drowned, rising for air only because her long eyelashes fluttered, momentarily blocking his view.

It had been all too easy to bring her within his sphere of influence; to the point where he believed the flowery words and expensive gifts didn’t matter. She wanted the same things he did.

She had moved beneath him like a maiden just awakening to the discoveries of passion, but both her lips and hands had been clever. She sang for him the sweetest song his ears had ever beheld and, in return, she had drawn forbidden prayers from his lips.

They had met three times only, but their final association had lasted a week. He had extracted from her a promise he expected to have to force her to keep. Yet she had fulfilled the letter of her word. Her screams had been almost as melodic as her moans and the red streaks he left on her body had been like bright blossoms blooming against snow. And in the end, still, she had come to him, willingly, to fill his ears with the song of her lust, like a drug addict in need of another hit.

The memories filled his head with a heady, drunken sensation and, without really thinking about it, he fell into step behind her, weaving his way through the crowd. How could he ever forget a woman whose hips swayed like a dancer when she walked? Her hair cascaded across her shoulders in navy ringlets, bouncing with each delicate movement. Her lips and nails were painted cherry red. Her heels, which clicked against the hardwood with each step, had to be pushing as least five inches.

The crowd gave way for her as she passed, appreciative smiles directed at her by men and women alike. If she noticed his presence, she gave no indication of it.

At the far end of the crowded dance club, past the shadows and bright lights, were a pair of signs hung above plain wooden doors. One with a triangle pointing upwards the other with a triangle pointed down.

On the other side of the thick wooden door, the dance music was muted, though the heavy bass beat still punctuated the stillness. In a place like this, no one batted an eye at a man following a woman into the bathroom, especially if all the stalls beyond were empty.

His fairy tale goddess was perched in front of a sink, her face reflected in the mirror, her eyes downcast. Grinning like a wolf about to pounce an oblivious lamb, he crossed the space between them silently and let his hand slide down the curve of her hip.

Her sharp nails pierced the back of his hand before his fingers completed the arc, drawing a sharp gasp of surprise from his throat. Her expression in the mirror was still pleasant, still alluring. But as he watched, her smile took a wicked curve and something flashed from the depths of her eyes.

She clicked her tongue. “Haven’t you learned you need to ask a lady’s permission first?”

He had never needed her permission before. But rather than answer, he jerked his hand out of her grip, shocked to find tiny droplets of red forming shallow pools in the depressions left by her nails. For a moment, he swore they looked like claws. But when she set them beneath the running water to wipe away a thin stream of red, they were just painted fingernails, probably the fake plastic kind.

Snatching a pair of paper towels from the nearby dispenser, he pressed them to the back of his hand to staunch the flow of blood. “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he growled, “but it’s a dangerous one.”

“Always has been,” she replied, her voice a soft purr, like a cat playing with a ball of twine.

Her nonchalant tone galled him. Ripping the paper towels from the back of his hand, he tossed them on the floor and lunged, seizing a handful of her navy curls, jerking her head backwards so that her eyes were forced to peer at the bright ceiling above. “It seems you may have forgotten the manners I worked so hard to teach you. Need a refresher?”

Calmly, as though nothing at all had changed, she shut the water off and flicked her hand over the sink, causing drops of water to spatter the mirror, distorting their reflections. Then her hand formed a fist and shot at his face faster than seemed possible. He saw black for a moment and stumbled backwards, releasing her hair.

He gathered himself quickly, intending to retaliate this time. He would bend her backwards over his knees for this, until she begged for his forgiveness.

But by the time he regained his bearings, she loomed over him, the depths of her eyes burning like steel in the flames of a forge. This time, he managed to dodge her punch and grab her arm. He almost expected her wrist to snap beneath his savage jerk, but instead she flung him toward the sink. His hip bounced off the thick porcelain as he past, coming to rest wedged between two of the basins. He just barely managed to avoid slamming his head against the mirror.

With a savage roar he lunged again, awkwardly extracting himself from between the sinks. But as soon as he came within reach of her arm, she took hold of his shoulders and used his own momentum to flip him onto the floor. His head connected with the hard tile and the impact left him dazed.

Blinking rapidly, he fought to focus. She stood over him now, one long heel perched on his chest, apply just enough pressure to keep him in place. It was her; no one else had those sharp cheek bones and delicately pointed chin. Her eyes threatened to swallow him, much as they had the first time he peered into their depths.

But she was not the same. She had been soft as silk and fragile as flower petals every time he met her, even if her passions were fierce rather than innocent. Now she seemed finely hewn, like a statue carved from marble, honed to a fine, sharp point. The look in her eyes suggested she could kill him right now, if she wanted to, and not feel a hint of remorse.

“I’ve grown sick of being used by the likes of you,” she sneered, answering his unspoken question. “What do you think of me now?”

She was a force to be reckoned with; which would make any night spent with her more glorious than those he had already experienced. But it put her out of his reach, and that displeased him more than anything else in his memory.

“I miss the girl you were,” he sulked, as if the bitter accusation would soften her.

Instead, she smirked. “Many will. She was easier to kill.”

Moments later, his world went black.

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