It wasn't her personality, though it should have been. It wasn't the mean way her sharp little mouth turned up into a sneer as she made some comment dripping in sarcasm to her so-called friends. She was a nasty little girl. What drew me to her was not all of the things she exuded that I hated. It would have made more sense if I had a concrete and justifiable reason for following her that night as she left the bar she clearly was too young to enter. If I could tell the world that I was making it a better place by taking her out of it, maybe Cara wouldn't look at me under her lashes like I know she will when I tell her about this incident. She would try not to let on that I was beginning to scare her, but I know her well enough by now. She wants there to be meaning behind what I do, and she I both know that that will simply never be the case.
This is why I know that I will disappoint her when I come home tonight, splashed in my cologne-of-the-week, dripping red and finally able to breath again. She will ask me what made me choose this one -- she always asks. I will look her in the eye and I will tell her.
It wasn't her foul temper or the disgusting way she sashayed down that alley, on display for all. It wasn't at all complex or difficult to understand. I looked at her, sitting in that bar-stool, holding court and lording over the other patrons, and knew instantly that she would be next. It all came down to her dress...It was the red satin strap clinging to her shoulder; the juxtaposition of colour against her alabaster skin.
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