The Start of a Piece of Gothic Fiction

The night is lit dimly by the one working street light. After straining to read my work papers in the poor lighting for at least fifteen minutes, still not quite ready to return to my awful roommate, I fling them across onto the passenger seat.

I look up. A beautiful woman approaches me. She is tall and very slim, and her body is engulfed by a long black coat that just reaches the top of her high heeled boots. Dark hair tumbles down her back, gently swinging from side to side as she walks towards my parked car. She passes under the street light and my eyes crawl across her face, drinking in her pale complexion, and honing in on her full lips, which are painted a deep burgundy. I know that I should stop staring at her, but I can’t draw my vision away from her incredible beauty.

She reaches me. A long fingernail taps on my window, she bends down to peer through.

I wind it down. The bitter breeze immediately chills my skin.

“Can I help you?” I mentally kick myself for the shakiness in my voice. I don’t think I have ever spoken to someone this attractive before.

Her lips curl into a small smile before she replies.

“Yes. Yes you can.” There is something in her tone that seems to reach out and slither its way down my spine.

I laugh nervously, and look down for a second. That is her cue.

I feel a sharp sting in my neck and the world melts away.

- 7 Years later-

When I awake, she is gone. I can feel her absence. Or rather, I cannot feel her presence. Whenever she is nearby, a soft ache begins in my head; a pleasant ache, similar to when you press gently onto a fading bruise and even though you know you shouldn’t like the pain, you do. The farther from me she gets, the fainter the ache becomes, until I no longer feel it at all. Like now.

I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to focus on something other than the detached feeling in my head, the nothingness that reminds me that I am alone, that she is not close by. I try to concentrate on the accumulation of smells that linger on the lavish fabrics decorating the furnishings, but my nose does not register them. All I can register is the image of her face that is projected onto the back of my eyelids. Her cruel smile haunts my dreams and haunts my reality. I desperately want to be free from it, from this place, but I can't. I need her.