A Thirst To Kill

“Skinny Vanilla Latte’.”

“What size?” The barista patiently waited for me to reply.

“Tall.”

“What is your name?”

My name? I thought for a moment.  I could give them my real name, or I could go with something a little more exotic then Samantha. Plus I don’t want my name tied to a possible blood bath.

“Lexus.” I smiled and walked away, waiting for that hot cup of pick me up.

I sat down and started to survey the room. I was to choose my next victim from this ses pool of people? I really wish I could go somewhere with more to pick from, it looks like a redneck convention was let out, but I cant be picky I have to stay as low key as possible I was almost caught last time.

There were a few tables with chairs that littered the corner of the coffee shop, a few lounge chairs and an oversized green couch that took up one wall.

The first person I noticed was an older man in a tie-dye shirt, he had one of those aussie style hats you know the ones with the string that goes under the chin, the corners were bent down. His old brown slip on sandals made me laugh. On his left wrist he wore a black leather watch, that’s when I noticed that shiny bit of silver on his ring finger. Blah, married.  I’ll pass.

Behind him and to the left was a heavyset woman; she had short 50 style bangs. She was one of those women who do not own a mirror.  She had blue fingernail polish dark rimmed glasses, and large disk hoop earrings. She wore a spaghetti strap white dingy shirt with no bra, which I am 100 percent sure she needed, she had a short flower skirt to match.  To top off her mess of a look she wore blue converse shoes. She was prime pick if it wasn’t for the sandwich she was shoving in her face, which would not have been bad but a bit of the cheese lingered on her lip which was not appealing to me at all. She reminded me of a pig eating slop.

I turned sideways in my seat and noticed two older women sipping on there cold iced tea. Once mentioned something about a train in a book she had picked up. The woman on the right was sporting a purple shirt; she was rather large and had on these tight black shorts.  She wore white running shoes and her hair was a dirty blonde, her friend was dressed in a black shirt, she was large but not as large as the first, she had on what my grandma use to call pedal pusher jeans, black clog flip flops, he hair seemed to be more maintained then the other woman’s it was a dark brown with a hint of blonde and red streaks through it. One smack with a hammer to the back of the head, and her boring train story would be over. I think everyone in here would thank me.

Out of the corner of my eye, closer to the counter on the couch was a small child that looked to be watching a movie on her mothers laptop, she had dirty blonde hair was wearing a white shirt with cut of jean shorts and white runners. Her mother was sipping coffee and was pouring over a stack of books in front of her.  If I got pleasure out of killing children I would have to say she would be prime target she was not being watched and the mom was oblivious to anyone around her.

Before I finished surveying the room she walked in.

She wore a long black dress that snuggly fit her body, black flip-flops, large black glasses that hid her brown eyes. Long bleach blonde hair that was dyed black underneath.  Her hips swayed as she made her way to the counter.  She was the one the one I wanted. The one I needed to carry out my plan, this dark part of me that screamed and clawed inside of me begging to be released.  My eyes followed her as she rounded the corner and made her way into the three-stalled bathroom.  I slowly got up and grabbed my bag hoping that no one was watching me as intently as I was watching them.

I slowly pushed my the bathroom door open with my foot keeping my eye on the people to see if anyone else was to get up and follow us into my work station.  As I turned the door slowly closed behind me I reached over and grabbed a brown wedge and shoved it under the door.

There she was standing in from of the mirror admiring herself, she better take it all in, because in a few moments those eyes will no longer be full of life. I pulled out a white cloth from my bag and walked up behind her, and quickly placed it over her mouth and nose. I took the knife I carried in my pocket and slowly eased it into her left side.  I could smell the iron from her blood dance across my nose, taunting me with more of what was to come.  The warm blood trickled down my hand it splattered onto the ground.

She went limp; I layed her down and watched her chest move up and down. I lowered my head onto her breasts I could hear her heart beating as if daring me to make it stop.

I reached over and grabbed my black bag, my heart started to race.  The demon inside of me was being fed, and man did he have thirsts.

 I stopped for only a moment to study her, to take in everything I could about my kill.  Her face was oval, she had a small upturned nose, and her eyes were honey brown, long, full, black eyelashes layed tranquilly on her cheeks. She was slender, on the verge of too skinny.

I grinned and went back to digging in my bag; I pulled out a pair of black gloves, the slipped right on, using the blood from my hands as lubricant. I grabbed the knife I used earlier, and slowly started to push it into the right side of her chest.  Now with every breath bubbles escaped the wound.  The hot liquid of life pooled out of her.  I eased the knife out of her chest. 

The demon was getting excited as death was near.  I could feel the hotness of my own blood rush through my veins. It was like liquid fire that made my black heart pump wrathfully. 

I got up and straddled her, one knee on either side of her body, her breath was far and few between, I placed my ear to her mouth, I want to take in her last ticks of life, to feel her hot breath against my skin as she nourished my demon.

  With my ear closely pressed against her red full lips, a small whisper escaped her it rang through my ear, Tall Skinny Vanilla Latte’, astonished I leapt from her lifeless body.

Then again with more force, I heard. “Tall, Skinny Vanilla Late for Lexus’” My mind suddenly snapped back to reality, I got up out of my chair to retrieve my hot cup of pick me up!

Baseball

I hold the red and white sphere in my hands, the smooth leather pressing against my palm; my fingertips graze the red stitching. I tossed it in the air just to hear the ball smack into my leather glove.

I take my position, not a base, nor pitcher but the openness and remarkable view of centerfield.  The smell of the fresh cut grass dances with my senses, the wet clippings stick to my cleats. 

I turn and face the infield; I adjust my baseball cap to protect my eyes from the contemptuous sun, a bead of sweat escapes from underneath my cap and rolls off my nose.

“Batter Up” The short, stubby umpire pulls down his facemask. 

The first batter steps into the box, the pitcher rolls the ball around in his hand and with his arm extended, his leg gracefully cuts through the air, the first pitch was released.

The ball grazed the bat only to tip it into the air, the catcher held out his mitt and like a magnetic force the ball falls into his glove.

“OUT”! The stubby man screams.

One down two to go, I take my stance as the next batter makes his way to the box, the ball is released and the bat makes contact sending the ball up into the air and into centerfield.  I look up calculating what path the ball is going to take, smack, into my glove it goes.  I throw the ball back to the pitcher. 

Two down one to go. The third batter hits the ball sending it down third base, giving him enough time to take his place on first.  I punch my glove.

The next batter hits a liner to short stop, the sound of the ball hitting the leather sent a chill of excitement down my spine. That was our third out, our turn to put up the numbers.

I grabbed the bat twisting the handle in my hands, I take a swing, the air rushing over the barrel of the bat was like music to my ears.  I stepped up to the plate.

The pitcher stared me down. He pulled his arm back and released the ball; I had to wait for that right second, that perfect moment where the ball hits the sweet spot, sending it flying into the outfield.

CRACK, like thunder the ball connected with my wooden bat, the ball went flying out in left field. I dropped the bat and took off down the baseline, my cleats digging into the hard ground sending dirt and chalk into the air.  I round first only to be met by a ball getting sent to my next destination, I kicked my right leg out and pulled my body down as my foot hit the second base.

“SAFE!” I stood up and dusted the dirt of my shirt and pants.  My right leg on the base and my left leg leading me to third, I stood there waiting for the pitch.  The pitcher pulled his arm behind his back and looked at me. 

His arm extended and the moment the ball left his fingertips I took off for third. I could hear the ball and bat connect, as I hit third, I turned for a split second to the see ball in mid air to first.

 I rounded third. All I had to do was run 89 feet and I would be home.  I tucked my head down and sprinted as fast as I could.  The opposing crowd was screaming home, home, throw home.

I did the mistake of diving for home plate, my hand connected with the white rubber, the deafening crack of bones breaking echoed through my ears as the catcher’s cleats dug into my batting glove.  The pain shot up my arm, I tucked my arm in and rolled onto my back rolling over home plate.

“SAFE”! Holding my left hand close to my torso I got up and made my way to the dugout. I was rushed to the emergency to room only to be told it was broken, my heart sank, the season had just started and I was officially out!

My glove now sits under my bed collecting dust.  Whenever I smell leather, or smell fresh cut grass, it sparks old memories of the game I grew to love and respect!