Killing Dance

The moon is a shining medallion, reflecting all I see. I walk through the vines and trees and branches as they gently lacerate me. Pools of reflected light shine in my eyes, I know the expression. Feral and dangerous. I wear no clothes or jewelry. Just my intentions. I see the young man sitting beyond the water\'s edge, a lone figure, bent on self-destruction. I\'ve known him so long, felt every line and muscle of his body, yearned and hated myself for his mind games and seduction. Now it\'s my time. He knows I\'m here and so very near, I can hear his breathing quicken. With each step I take and move I make, his death warrant is surely written. I run my fingers up the bark of a near tree, feeling its rough and tender scratch. I caress the branch with one final stroke and allow my plans to hatch. My movement is quick and oh, so swift like a wolf hunting in the night. One arm around his back and one hand over his mouth, keeping all protests locked away tight. I enjoy and hate the feel of his heart beating frantically against my palm, but I take it in and drag him to the clearing, where my enemy belongs.
He cries out but I bind him, as a silent but known threat. I tie his arms above his head as he begins to sweat. Lethal, my killing has to be. I\'ve got it set out so perfectly. I move my hips to invisible music and in a trance, I begin to writhe and move above him in a decieving dance. He tries to move but can\'t as I planned. I lean over and kiss him, wet and desperate. But not enough. He wants to, I can feel it but I deny my own hungers as I claw my fingernails down his chest until he bleeds. Glistening in the moonlight, the wounds are really all I need. I take the knife out of his belt and raise it over my head and with a sickening howl, plunge it deep with the cavity of his chest. He screams and I laugh with glee. I rake over him with my hands and teeth, feeling his life flow into my hands. I bathe myself in his blood, soaking my own demands. Then I kiss him lightly on his lips and rise from my position. He\'s still alive and breathing, but death is clouding his vision. I press the blade against his throat and make a fine, clean stroke. My hands are red and stained from his poisoned blood and words. I don\'t regret or feel remorse. I leave him in the forest for the vultures to pick on. To me he is worth food for scavengers.