Sick: The Eris Bloodline

The woman in all black leather marched down the sidewalk.

She held a confident gait in the way her full hips swayed, enticing wandering eyes. Her pants flared quite prominently to reveal her stark white pumps that created a cadence of steps. Her jacket was cropped to allow a peek of her smooth, tanned skin beneath and there was even a hint of a sprawling tattoo on her left hip.

She walked with such ease, such grace that all who saw her headed their way, sidestepping her to make a wide berth, as if they were the Red Sea parting for Moses. She was stunning beneath the black goat mask that adorned her face, her piercing blue eyes shining in the low light.

Human eyes saw a hood and scarf covering her features but they could tell she was breathtaking underneath it all while those who spotted the goat mask said nothing and hid.

Her hips swayed back and forth, her raven hair hanging to her lower back, enticing those who stared. Thick and luscious, she could audition for a hair commercial and not need special effects. She was something else.

Wandering eyes didn’t miss the massive weathered cello case she clutched in one hand.

She smirked her ruby lips and “harrumphed” at her goal: a diner in the wall just a few feet in front of her. Flashing neon signs, local band posters, autographed photos of celebrities littered the bricked walls and the bar was packed with awaiting patrons.

A bell rang the moment the woman in black leather opened the door. All eyes landed on her and there was a brief pause, a second of stillness and silence as she surveyed the room. Time started up again and she wriggled her fingers in anticipation just as a man behind the bar waved her over to the stage in the back corner. It was a little dais more so than a performing stage but it was just enough to cast the entire dining area in her focus.

Once there, the woman in all black leather adjusted the dilapidated microphone that was bent in the middle before sitting on the rusty chair.

She set up and plucked her cello easily from its housing. She waited silently for the diner to quiet down before she cleared her throat. She slid the bow across the strings, the first note striking the onlookers as a deep, melancholy longing erupted from her instrument.

Then, Andrew Lloyd Weber’s “Phantom of the Opera” began to spill out over the crowd, filling their eager ears with such beauty and ferocity, some actually wept within the first measure. The woman started to hum the lyrics to the song, her voice matching perfectly with the right chords, falling and rising as she purred.

Black veins slowly spread up her neck and down her belly. Everyone was too enthralled with her music, they failed to notice her blue eyes turning red across the sclera.

Undertones of hissing seeped into the song and, on her last breath, she inhaled deeply and watched the peoples’ bodies deteriorate as she sucked their inner life forces. She took their memories, their inner most life that constituted them as being human. She took everything.

And, when she was finished with the song, she paused and smiled before gently wiping at her face, packing her cello, and leaving the diner, passing the open-mouthed faces as she did so