Saturday night, I sat long at my window, thinking.
Coming to no conclusion, I clothed myself in a black shirt and jeans. I packed my wallet and phone, as well as my cigarettes and keys; my lighter was always on me anyway.
Jumping out of the window, I walked through the garden and climbed over the wall. Two streets away stood my motorcycle.
It wasn't a really chilly night, perfect for a tour. Starting the machine, I drove to my favorite bar. Everyone good-looking, everyone well groomed, everyone of age.
Parking the motorcycle, I walked through the upscale street; only young second generations lived here; besides them, there were only bars, clubs, and entertainment.
The bar I walked into, the doorman already knowing me, wasn't lightened well, but it didn't matter; without being handsome or beautiful, you wouldn't come in. The decoration was modern and simple, not like one would expect of a place for hooking up. Above the bar were rooms; everyone cleaned up nicely and thoroughly after having been visited.
I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. It didn't take long before a girl took a seat beside me, her assets attractive, her dress tight—what you would imagine under the perfect hook-up.
When my eyes finally landed on her face, I realized that she was blonde.
"Is your hair color real?" I questioned her, before she could ask me if I come here often, or if we have ever met before.
"It is." She said proudly.
Leaning a bit to her side, I took a strand of her long hair, played with it, and looked at it. It wasn't the light blonde Lesly had; it was like the straw on Bernard.
Disinterested, I let go of her hair and took a sip of my drink, lighting a cigarette.
"Are your lashes real?" I asked her, and this time she seemed offended.
"Don't get me wrong, I don't care. Just curious."
She ordered herself a drink as well, something fruity.
"They aren't real; I have extensions and applied mascara; because of that, they are black and not blond." Good-natured, she explained to me things I had already figured out.
"Why would you want to change the color of your lashes?" I asked, downing my drink and ordering another.
She laughed charmingly,
"Because if they are dark, they seemed longer. Enticing."
Enticing....
"Your eye color."
This time she burst into laughter directly,
"My eyes are blue, but not this blue, contact lenses."
Taking a drag from my cigarette, I turned to her sideways,
"How do I tell if someone wears contact lenses?" I knew already. I had seen it on my mother—the straw on her head was from bleaching it, like this girl, even if she didn't want to say so.
As for the contact lenses, you would know when you came closer. If you have a dark eye color and want to change it to a lighter one, the contact lenses look so utterly fake that they make the person's eyes look like those of an insect. It was fake, it was disgusting, and I hated when my mother wore them.
"You will see if you come closer." She flirted openly, and that was what I wanted to achieve.
Turning my stool toward her, I took the back of her head, pushing her closer until we were only a few inches apart.
She should really have a light eye color; the blue in her eyes wasn't as fake.
But there was no ocean, there was no pull, there was no thirst, and there was no drowning. She wanted to overcome the last inches to bring our mouths together, but I gripped her hair and held her in place.
She obediently let me stare at her, looking back at me.
"How old are you?" I asked her.
"Twenty-five." She answered, looking at me spellbound.
Her face really showed no creases or pores, but it could be because of the dim light, because of make-up, and all this nonsense.
A few hours ago, when I had Lesly that close to me, it was the same with her face. My father, on the other side, had a few creases already, but he was already fifteen years older than Lesly.
"Would you sleep with a fifteen-years-older man?"
Her eyes swayed to my lips, and I was annoyed because she took so long to answer.
"Does he look as good as you? Then he could be even older."
"No." He was disgusting. But my mother was obsessed with him, so he shouldn't look too bad for women. However, the original didn't want him; I had to smirk when thinking about his misery.
"Then, is he good-looking at least?" She asked.
I nodded and let her go, turning back to the bar,
"He is. And rich."
She put her hair back in place.
"Then has he a good body?"
I have never seen his body, not even his arms. He was fully covered, even when it was scorching hot outside. Not that I have seen him that often.
"Yes." At least through his clothes, it seemed so.
"Then, I most probably would."
I nodded again and snuffed my cigarette out. This answer, I wish I hadn't heard.
**********************
Thomas POV
I searched for nearly a decade for you. But I didn't find you.
However, something else found me.
Another monster. I appear to have something in me that your kind is drawn to.
This monster had stolen something from me,
And now I am getting married.
To a woman who I find appalling just looking at, with a child I had never wanted, and which looks just as revolting.
Where were you during this time?
I wish that woman would die and take the child with her.
I wanted to at least kill them with my own hands. But every time I decide to kill the child, blue eyes come to my mind.
No, they aren't yours—not the fake tenderness; they are the ones of the little version of you. The blue eyes that had stared at me; not crying or whining. I think of her every day, asking myself if she is still alive, but I don't dare to look for her.
Every time I think of that child, I can't hurt my own.
Why is that so?
Why had this child saved me three times so far from becoming a murderer?
Are you still alive?