A cheery, light-hearted bit of writing for you all.
Sharp, she is- so sharp she could cut herself, or someone else, and you bet she does. You can smell the blood, swathed around her like some perfume. Some say she uses it as lipstick, too, but that's untrue. Those who get close to her- close enough to kiss her, maybe- can smell the fats and chemicals, that heavy smell of glamour beneath the eau de death, the tang of victims.
If you were to ask one of those victims- not that you could, but if- they would tell you about her eyes, tell you how they are her most dangerous feature. That's where it all starts. She may be no Medusa, but her stare is just as potent, the beginning of the end. One glance, and you are entrapped.
Next, she plays hard to get, frustrating you, working you into a delerious frenzy. Wherever you go, she is leaving, her receding figure graceful- she possess far more grace than any mortal could hope of attaining. If ever your eyes do meet, she affords you no more than a look of hatred. You know she has no favour to win, but you try, try until you despair. It's her smile you're after, then- and if you get the glimmer of that, you find something else, something bigger.
Dangerous.
Like a wave, she drags you under.
One day, however, your wishes are granted. Or so you think. Suddenly, she comes to you, wanting you, needing you. Irresistible, it will be, for who could resist the prize they have been craving? She kisses you, allowing you a taste of the future- then pulls away, leaving you with just a time, a place.
When you arrive, insatiable, she greets you, looking a sight beyond your wildest dreams. How does she do it? She steals the scenes from your visions as you slumber, threading them into a scene of her own.
It begins, your reward, a call and response of pure pleasure, almost unbearably dramatic, passionate. Then, just as you think you can no longer take it- you cannot. She is a fast worker, puncturing your skin with her pearly teeth, injecting the venom into your bloodstream. When people hear the tales, they expect something far more grusome- but she does not wish to muddy her hands. It is quick, painless even. You are gone before you know it, your body found in whichever hotel she has used, she herself gone without a trace but the faint smell of blood.
Why? Why? Why does she do it? They do not know, they say. Folklore tells tales of anger, that this creature- for is she a human at all?- cannot live and let live, not when living is all she is ever doing. They say that when she realised she could never die, she put others through the final stage, the one forever barred from her, some kind of payback, maybe. Others say pure boredom, the result of thousands of years of captivity.
Does it matter? She is wild, savage, with a thirst for blood.
No one is safe, not even you.