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He motioned her over to his corner of the bar, his eyes virulent and breath septic. She lingered at her stool before proceeding in his sinister direction, knowing full well the implication of each tottering step. She placed her hand palm up and he pricked her with a long, steel, aged needle. The blood took a moment to well up in a perfect bead in the center of her outstretched hand. He smiled at her willingness and licked the soiled point with a forked tongue. She had been here night after night, speaking with him and deciding whether she would go along with this plan. Finally, the decision was made. He winked a charcoal lid and in a dim sulphurous cloud he vanished.

 She was not at the bar anymore, her clothes were elegant and silken, each stitch was a work of art. The manor house echoed wealth and she exuded class. A man walked down the marble staircase in a smoking jacket holding a brandy snifter, he paused to look her over before embracing her in a passionate kiss. Her skin was cleared of oil and dirt and the heavy make up was replaced by natural beauty. Her palm itched and she opened the petals of her hand to see the dark black stain in the middle where the man had pricked her. This was worth it, she supposed. She didn’t believe in God anyway, but she believed in his counterpart.


About deadendemily

Emily lives in Austin, TX. She has a minor in chaos and a major in spray paint. She likes Vincent Price and ABBA. She enjoys being covered in fake blood and writing horror stories. Most of the time she just hopes that her cat is not plotting to murder her, her cat being a minion of Satan and all. They would never suspect the cat.

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