She's Got the Look

"Those slaves, those whores, those concubines sicken me – they absolutely sicken me. They stand out there on the street corners, offering their bodies to the highest bidder, any man who will give them a handful of bills for a night of sick pleasure. How do they look at themselves in the mirror? Can they not see the soulless, hollow creature that resides within? Why do they feel that they can get away with this? That their lives are so worthless that they must degrade themselves like this?" Jezebel sighed and tapped her cigarette into the glass ashtray that sat upon the green Formica counter at Betsy's, the local diner on the corner of 9th and Verne. She sat with her back against the wall and her feet resting on the aged red vinyl cushions. The neon sign above her flickered in annoyance, advertising that the weathered establishment was a 24-hour deal. Her coffee sat cooling on the table as her flavor-of-the-week lover sat in the seat across from her, sketching her lithe frame in the glow of the city lights.

"Do you always have to comment on everything, Jez?" her lover said, not looking up from his sketchpad.

She chuckled and took another drag from the cigarette before rudely blowing the smoke in his face with a malicious yet seductive grin.

"And what else am I supposed to do? Sit here idly, smoking my Cloves as I listen to the sound of your pencil scratching across the paper? I'm not apt to sit somewhere with company and not utter a word."

Her lover closed his eyes, shook his head and resumed drawing. "I wish you'd stop smoking too. It's not good for you."

"You know what else isn't good for me? Emo boyfriends." She took another drag and blew the smoke up towards the cracked, water stained ceiling.

He winced and shook his dyed black hair out of his eyes. "I'm just saying, Jez, I don't want to lose you because of a filthy habit."

"I'll dump you before I quit smoking so get over yourself and stop thinking that you can change me."

"You're so mean to me, Jez, you know I love you and everything about you, you're such a grand beauty, why do you abuse me, Jez?" His dark eyeliner began to run as he started to shed tears.

Jezebel sighed disgustedly and took another drag before stubbing the cigarette in the ashtray. "I'm bored, let's get out of this dive." She got up without a word from her lover and dropped some money on the counter. She grabbed her leather jacket on the peg by the door as her lover frantically gathered his things and followed her outside. Once into the balmy summer night air, Jezebel lit another cigarette and waited until her lover came outside. She walked confidently down the uneven sidewalk as he walked with his head down dragging his feet. Timidly he reached over to take her free hand into hers and she smacked it away.

"What kind of fag are you? I don't hold hands," Jezebel said with a shudder.

"Sorry, Jez, I just...never mind." He looked at the ground once more, his Converse shoes shuffling against the pavement.

Jezebel walked into a back alley, casually tossing her cigarette into a trashcan and her lover followed. She turned suddenly and beckoned him closer to her. His sad eyes seemed to light up at this acknowledgement from the goddess he'd fallen in love with. She took him into her arms, cradling him close like a wounded child. She kissed him roughly and held him close. He was so enrapt by her touch, her kisses that he did not feel her fangs piercing into his neck. He did not feel pain as she took his life from him nor the last gasp of air his lungs took or the last thump his heart made. Jezebel held his lifeless body for a few more seconds before dropping him to the ground, the folder of his sketches fluttering about the littered lane. They all landed face down except for his latest one that had been so hastily tucked inside. Jezebel kneeled down and examined it, the fine detail, the intricate lines. For a second she felt a bit of remorse for killing him but that quickly passed. Artists were a dime a dozen, just like those whores on the street. And someone like her lover would've slipped into the abyss of his self-inflicted darkness, squandered his talent and probably ended up killing himself anyway. Despite her thoughts, she picked up the picture and tucked it into the breast pocket of her jacket. Jezebel was callous but she was also vain and liked how he had portrayed her.

Jezebel left the alley, leaving the papers to scatter about her lover's body. She lit another cigarette and went back to the diner, hanging up her jacket on the peg again. She sat in the same booth in the glow of the flickering neon sign and watched the hookers outside in disgust. She smoked her cigarette, tapping it into the ashtray on the green Formica table.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" a voice said.

Jezebel looked up and smiled at the man she saw. She inhaled her cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, still smiling.

"No, it isn't." She grinned wickedly again.