Alive
The night was warm as the young woman strode along the streets. Her flattened pink hair blocked some of the sight in her right eye but she sang happily to herself.
“It's the feeling of being alive! Filled with evil, but truly alive! It's the truth that cannot be denied! It's the feeling of Pinkamena Pie!”
She chuckled to herself, her sweet voice echoing through the empty streets. As she rounded the corner, she spotted a small outdoor cafe. The establishment was empty aside from a lone man and a waitress in a white dress and the man was leaving.
“What’s this?” the girl asked. “Oh sweetness...it’s fate, what bliss...sweetness...your folly will cost you dear, my dear…”
The man vanished around the corner, leaving the woman all alone, wiping the tables. There was not another soul in sight and the yellow light cast by the cafe flickered a little. The waitress stood straight, wiping her hands on her apron and it was then she noticed the long shadow at her feet. Her brown eyes followed the long, outstretched shape until she saw the pair of bare feet. Farther upwards the woman’s gaze travelled, taking in the ripped pink camo pants and loose pinkish-gray shirt and the long flat mane of pink hair. Then the waitress saw the face before her, pale and twisted into a sick smile, green eyes gleaming wickedly. Her pulse picked up and she started to back away, but the other girl continued to advance. The woman in white’s back hit the wall of the cafe and delicate hands were placed on either side of her head. Brown eyes, filled with terrified tears met mad green irises. As the girl leaned her head in even closer, drinking in the waitress’ expression.
The pink-haired young woman danced through the streets in the dark, laughing and singing loud as her lungs could manage.
“What a feeling to be so alive!I have never seen me so alive! Such a feeling of evil inside -That's the feeling of Pinkamena Pie! And this feeling of being alive, there's a new world I see come alive, It's a truth that cannot be denied There's no feeling like Pinkamena Pie!”
The girl collapsed to the ground in a fit of wild laughter, the sound like the screams of the woman she had left behind at the cafe, her dress no longer white.
The next morning, the girl sat up in her bed, stretching to the ceiling, wondering where the soreness in her muscles had come from. Her wild pink curls were all over the place and her blue eyes were droopy with sleep. She walked into the bathroom, took one look into the mirror and clapped her hands over her mouth. Her clothes were torn and stained brown, and the soreness in her muscles now made sense. She wouldn’t read the newspaper this morning; she already knew what would be in the news. Pinkamena Diane Pie had struck once again.
