The woman was laying flat on the ground, her entire backside pressed against
the pavement of the dark alleyway. She would have looked somewhat peaceful, if her body was not so bruised and broken. Blood
poured from an open wound on her neck, dripping down to pool around her cranium. That was not however, the only portal for
blood. Slots of skin that had been torn open from shattered bones and gashes from rough hands were also allowing her blood
to spill. The only witness to the woman's pain, was the same who had caused it all in the first place. He was surprised that
she did not make a sound, not even a whimper in fear or pain, but by now he was starting to believe she had passed that stage
moments ago. Too bad, she was a pretty woman by modern standards. Pretty was the word that he would have to emphasize, since
all that he could see was make-up and hair products. Her skin was a fake bronze color, which she had tried to cover up mostly
on her face by a paler color. Her lips of course were probably a pale pink, if not closer to a shade of white, put she had
slipped a dark hue across. Whatever else that she had used, completely slipped from Amen's mind as he became bored with staring
down at her feeble form. She wouldn't live for much longer, and it there was a good chance that she was already unconscious.
The hunger in him screamed for him just to finish her off, take whatever blood that was left and than snap her slender neck.
It was not a need though. He had his fill of her blood, slightly more metallic than he would have liked, and his brutal need
was starting to dissipate, he didn't really need to be the direct cause of her death, let her die of blood-lose.
His decision was made, and obvious with a twist on his booted heel. He would
have let her live probably, actually more than probably. He was not always that cruel, but she had angered him in the process.
He had taken her out-back of the club, pushing her against the alley's wall. He had been ready to feast away, when she had
taken hold of his hand, and without another thought, had shoved his hand between her legs, pulling up her skirt for better
access. It had angered him to the point of physical abuse. Never in any of his thoughts about the woman, had anything sexual
come to mind, and such a crude gesture had him seeing blood-red for the longest time. By the time he could think straight
again, she had been on the ground, his belly full and she close to dead. He never gave another thought to the dying woman
as he escaped the alleyway, stepping back out into the dark streets. Instead of hailing cab or catching the bus that was stopped
at the corner up ahead, he seemed content to walk, exactly down the middle of the damp asphalt. It was close to four in the
morning, not many cars or other forms of transportation were out at the moment.
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, there was blood deep
under his fingernails, not that it mattered since they were at the moment tinted black, but blood had crept into his skin,
and it would have to be washed off vigorously when he returned to his apartment. The smell of that bitches blood was getting
him riled up once again. Not that it was a hard thing to do these days. His temper, and his amount of cruelty had grown the
past years. He didn't doubt that in a few more years to come, he might be reduced to an anger so wild he would kill in public.
A small shrug of his shoulders, the denim jacket moving with him, as if he was in a conversation, and he should react to his
thoughts. Not that it would matter. He would just move onto another city. His head turned from side to side, his eyes preoccupied
with his own thoughts, reacting to each thing that he thought with a physical response. What had that woman called him a few
years ago? He had to stop his steps, tilt his head up to look to the dark sky, lighter shades of blue highlighting clouds,
how strange. Odd-ball. She had called him an odd-ball. He continued his steps, silent and sure, thought the rest of him would