She is the artistís final conception. She does not appear to many men, but takes them all exactly the same. Her beauty is a dark nightmare and the pain of her shadowed, razor eyes reflects the dim stars. A twisted princess of fate, she haunts the shadows and watches the perpetual motion around her like a pious spider. Long and tangled tresses wrap around her legs and hide her eyes.
He saw her for the first time through the open door of a crowded subway car. Seas of dead eyes swirled around them, but for him, there was only her. The way that she twisted her hipbones, the hunger of her sad gaze penetrated his pained heart. If it were not Tuesday, if it had not been raining, if his newspaper hadnít been ruinedÖ if everything had not seemed so pointless, he might have pursued her then. The train doors closed and he was alone again.
His desire was intense and sudden. Never before had he craved a womanís skin, her bloody lips, her thighs wrapped around him with the same cold passion. To take her, to press her down, to mesh himself into the soul of this forgotten angel was his only concentration. He saw her in everything around him. She was dancing in the sparkling ashes that fell from his cigarette; she was hidden in the groans of the ancient trees outside his window. To taste her, to touch her, to possess her. The very thought of her was intoxicating.
And then she was his forever. She crept in through his window and twined her legs with his. She traced biting kisses down his body and clawed at his skin. She veiled him with her hair and never looked away from his miserable eyes, mirrors of her essence. He threw himself on top of her and thrust into her, again and again. The pain was so beautiful, the ecstasy so miraculous. The final pinnacle reached, he collapsed to the floor. The hideous world outside was gone and there was only her and her sad, sad eyes.