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     She could feel me take her in for all that she was in my perverse spectation, but the chills that raced up my own spine bubbled up a childish giddiness that spilled out of her mouth in soft and senseless giggles. The snow sprinkled in sugary flakes and settled around her black oxford booted feet with a silent grace before mingling with the bare patches of cobblestone in glossy, shallow puddles. They stuck in small clumps to her thick dark eyelashes and melted against her ruddy cheeks as she shut her violet eyes and embraced the bitter cold, hugging her crimson peacoat tighter to her elegant form with a deep and pleasured sigh. She was aware of my close presence but did nothing to rectify it, instead flashing me a toothy smile which bloomed from rose lips that matched the scarlet that blossomed from the lifeless youth below her pedestal. Despite her deed, something about her seemed to crave an audience and I obliged, blissful and blithe, hopelessly enraptured by the frozen garden she herself was and waiting feverishly to watch her burst into leaf.

     The winters of this town were always so peaceful and pensive, muffled beneath layers of ice and solitude as the trees bent beneath the weight of the glistening blades they carried in the form of icicles and threatened to cast upon sinners like myself. Smoke rose steadily from the chimneys of cottages that flanked the woods and disappeared into the greyed sky. Somewhere in the distance between the downy blankets of steadily mounting white, lanterns flickered in shocks of gold and vermillion and promised warm solace back among civilization where I surely belonged but failed to return. The goose pimples that lined my thin and shuddering body, the sting of the mild injury on my right palm, and the numbing burn that penetrated my purple tinted fingertips made me aware of my own consciousness and existence, every exhale of mine the puff of a steam engine and hers hardly breaking the glass atmosphere. It was a humbling feeling and one I relished as I watched her in dumbfounded silence stand like the unnamed goddess adorning the prow of a ship, chin tilted up to feel the snow kiss her face.

     I wasn’t afraid. Though my heart hammered haphazardly in my chest, I found myself envious of the colorless cadaver that lay a mere footnote in it of itself upon frigid stone. My foolish little mind raced as it eagerly imagined what her gloveless touch must feel like, how sharp her fangs were, the grace of her lips against my flesh. Unconsciously, my hand slithered to my own throat and gingerly brushed the skin, furtively seeking nonexistent puncture wounds that would match my deceased nonsensical rival. I opened my mouth but not a sound left me and my breath instead was swiftly stolen as those eyes of impossible amethyst opened once more to meet mine. A black leather gloved hand was extended to me.

     She saw me.

     I shivered with the understanding of this. It isn’t as one witnesses another near to them but rather to see through them, inside of them, and without them uttering a word knowing all that they are and ever would be. In that moment, she knew me more than anyone ever would or ever had. The cold that seized my chest in the absence of breath plunged daggers into my lungs but in many ways, it excited me. I wanted to bleed if only for her. I wanted to taste her venom and see the pride in her gaze as she watched the life drain from mine. Eagerly, my hand grasped her delicate fingers and my thoughts became hazy with fantasies of being hers and nothing but, the bleeding of the scraped heel of my palm utterly forgotten.

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     I had seen the raven-haired woman in crimson before that evening, though not clearly. I had caught glimpses of her as she occasionally came into town to buy a curious assortment of items from the local vendors: wines, cheeses, and whatever little hand sewn or knitted goods and wood-carved tchotchkes that were thrust her way by eager marketeers. I had spotted her in passing, typically only the back of her head or a peek of her profile en route to the mill on my bicycle, but what little I saw always stirred some astounding feeling inside of me.

     But I never had the nerve to stop and speak to her nor to even so much as linger and watch her from afar.

     It was only at this moment as the snow caressed my face that I had been stopped in my journey, bicycle forgotten by the side of the path where it had slid and collapsed as I had carelessly observed what for a minute I thought was a tender embrace between lovers only to realize what she had done to the young man once his body struck the ground like a dead weight without so much as a cry. As I stood frozen, it was the first time I had truly been able to witness her in all of her glory and the image of the woman I had struggled to piece together in my imagination for so many winter nights became exceedingly clear before my very eyes. She was far more beautiful than anything my pitiful mind could have ever conjured.

     “What’s your name?”

     The question was nearly gibberish in my ears as all understanding of language had been halted in pursuit of absorbing every detail of her that I could fathom, and my lip trembled with some vague floundering of a response. All I could think of was the sound of her voice, lilting like silver bells in the snowy refuge. It was an instrument that rendered all other music a crude cacophony in comparison and I longed to hear more of it, but it soon became clear that I may not unless I offered a response.

     “H… Harrison. Ma’am,” I murmured as best as my tightened throat would allow.

     “Harrison.” My name cascaded from her tongue and an elation flooded through me, forcing the air back into my lungs once more as it brought me back to life. “Violet.”

     “Pl… Pleasure to meet you… Miss Violet,” I whispered pathetically.

     That pearly smile of hers widened, eyes crinkling with warmth and needle-tipped fangs shining like polished ivory. As she leaned forward to gently lick the blood from my palm, I could feel the faint huff of her breath against my skin and my heart nearly ceased whilst it clambered higher in my chest. “The pleasure is all mine,” she purred.

     Hers, hers, I would be hers. I would be her everything until I was reduced to her nothing. I would shine brilliantly as the sun and my death by her hand would resemble a supernova in my destruction. My life would bear a meaning no one else’s would amount to, however much they may have dreamt of it. I couldn't tell what spurred this madness, but I reveled in it shamelessly. Visions of leaving this town behind and ensuring I could bear witness to that smile at every opportunity danced through my mind and blinded me. I no longer wanted to see anything but the life I could have with her and how that life would end with her, too.

How fleeting such fantasies become.

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