The Rapture

“Let’s have some fun!” Vivienne exclaims, her infectious energy bubbling over as she takes my hand and skips us both up the stairs. The excitement in her voice is contagious, and I find myself grinning, eager to embrace the night’s adventures.

At the top of the stairs, the Moonlit Gardens unfold before us, a breathtaking spectacle of nature’s magic. Couples stroll hand-in-hand, their faces illuminated by the soft glow emanating from the bioluminescent plants. A sense of tranquility washes over me, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past few days.

We find a table nestled amidst the glowing flora, the air alive with the sounds of soft laughter and hushed conversations. Vivienne glances around, her eyes scanning the crowd with a playful curiosity.

“What do you think, Evie?” she asks, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Shall we see what kind of trouble we can stir up tonight?”

“What do you have in mind?” I ask, my curiosity piqued by Vivienne’s mischievous glint.

She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Well, I can’t imagine how hungry you are,” she begins, her eyes twinkling with amusement, “but I haven’t had a drink today. What do you say we take our fill tonight?”

A playful shiver runs down my spine. The suggestion is bold, a little reckless, and utterly exhilarating. The thought of indulging, of letting loose and forgetting the horrors of the past few days, is incredibly tempting.

“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, a mischievous smile mirroring hers. “Let’s raise a glass to new beginnings, to freedom, and to the power of female friendship.”

Arlo’s worried expression catches my attention. “Evie, I don’t think...” he begins, his voice laced with concern.

But I’m not in the mood for caution or hesitation. Tonight, I want to feel alive, to embrace the freedom that Vivienne has offered me.

“Let’s go, Vivienne,” I interrupt, my voice firm and resolute. I stand up, my newfound confidence radiating outward. I offer Arlo a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Arlo. We’ll be fine.”

With a final glance at him, I turn and follow Vivienne deeper into the Moonlit Gardens, leaving Arlo to grapple with his worries. Tonight is about embracing the unknown, pushing boundaries, and discovering my strength. And I’m determined to make the most of it.

Vivienne suddenly stops, her hand still clasped in mine. “Evie,” she begins, her voice laced with a playful knowingness, “I know you must be starving. Not having had a drop in over three days... I can practically hear your hunger.” A mischievous giggle escapes her lips.

I can’t help but chuckle in response. “You’re not wrong,” I admit, my stomach growling in agreement. “I’m so famished I could probably eat a whole cow. Or a horse, if I still ate meat.” I flash her a sheepish smile.

Her expression shifts, becoming more serious. “Evie,” she says, her voice taking on a deeper tone, “I want to see you hunt.”

A puzzled look crosses my face. “Hunt?” I repeat, unsure if I heard her correctly. The word hangs heavy in the air, conjuring images of violence and bloodshed. A part of me recoils, the memory of my recent ordeal still fresh in my mind.

But then, I remember the hunger gnawing at my insides, the primal need that’s been suppressed for far too long. And I realize that Vivienne isn’t suggesting a return to the horrors I’ve just escaped. She’s offering me a chance to reclaim my power, to embrace the instincts that have been dormant for so long.

I meet her gaze, a spark of determination igniting in my eyes. “Alright,” I say, my voice steady. “Let’s hunt.”

The air thrummed with anticipation. Dressed in my corset and short sapphire skirt with fishnet leggings, I felt the familiar predatory hunger surge within me. Beside me, Vivienne moved with the same silent grace. Our prey – a man and his oblivious wife – sat nestled in the deceptive safety of the shadows, surrounded by the soft glow of lights and the lush green of plant life.

The familiar, gnawing hunger pulsed within me, a constant reminder of our insatiable thirst. Vivienne mirrored my hunger, her crimson eyes burning with the same primal need. With a swiftness they couldn’t comprehend, Vivienne moved first, her lithe form a blur as she sank her fangs into the man’s neck. I watched, the sight both horrifying and exhilarating. He struggled briefly, his eyes wide with terror, but Vivienne’s power was overwhelming. His life force flowed into her, her form seeming to glow with newfound vitality.

Then, it was my turn. Vivienne released him, his body already growing cold, and guided him towards me. His blood, now tinged with hers, pulsed with an irresistible power. I hesitated for only a moment before sinking my fangs into his flesh.

The rush was immediate, a torrent of life flooding my senses. But it was different this time. I could feel Vivienne’s essence within the blood, mingling with my own. It was intoxicating, overwhelming.

“Evie,” Vivienne whispered, her voice a seductive purr. “Drink deep, my dear.”

Suddenly, a piercing scream tore through the night. It wasn’t Vivienne, but another voice, filled with terror and despair. I looked up, my fangs still buried in the man’s neck, and saw a figure emerge from the shadows. It was a woman, her face contorted in horror as she witnessed the gruesome scene before her.

“No!” she screamed, her voice raw with anguish. “Please, stop!”

Her cries pierced my heart, a stark reminder of the monstrous act we were committing. I felt a pang of guilt, a flicker of humanity that I had long suppressed. But the hunger was too strong, the shared blood too intoxicating.

Vivienne looked at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and determination. “We must finish, Evie,” she said, her voice firm. “There’s no turning back now.”

I nodded, my resolve hardening. The woman’s screams continued, a haunting soundtrack to our gruesome feast. I forced myself to block them out, to focus on the life force flowing into me.

Finally, it was over. The man’s body slumped lifelessly, his blood the final bond between Vivienne and me. We turned to face the woman, who stood frozen in terror, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“There can be no witnesses Evie,” Vivienne commands in a calm voice.

The metallic tang of blood floods my mouth. The woman’s body shudders under my touch, her terror feeding the monstrous hunger within me. Her pulse, once frantic, slows to a sluggish crawl. It’s a grotesque dance, this feeding, the raw need battling against the primal thrill. It’s wrong, I know, but the instinct is too strong, the hunger a relentless beast gnawing at my soul.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Vivienne watching, her face a mask of dark delight. Her presence is a silent approval, a reminder of the harsh reality of our existence.

I pull away, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. The woman’s eyes are wide and lifeless, her once vibrant form now a pale husk. The guilt is a heavy stone in my stomach, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the cold, relentless hunger that still claws at my insides. There can be no witnesses, it’s the harsh reality of our existence, of the monstrous cravings we can’t control.

I look down at my hands, stained crimson in the moonlight. We are predators, Vivienne and I, bound by a thirst we can’t escape. It’s a horrifying truth, one that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth even as the hunger continues to rage on.

The park’s usual serenity was a distant memory. The bioluminescent flora, once a source of wonder, now cast an eerie glow on the carnage. Vivienne moved with a terrifying grace, a predator in her element. Each strike was swift and silent, leaving bodies sprawled across the once-pristine paths, crimson staining the concrete and the otherworldly plants.

I followed in her wake, my movements less elegant, but no less lethal. The first kill had been the hardest, a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm me. But with each life I took, the revulsion faded, replaced by a grim satisfaction. We were predators, and this was our hunt.

The park was silent. The bodies lay still, their blood mingling with the morning dew. Vivienne stood beside me, her eyes reflecting the rising sun. “It’s done,” she said simply.

I looked around, the enormity of what we’d done finally sinking in. The remorse hit me like a physical blow. These were people, not just prey. They had families, friends, lives... A sob escaped my lips, and I sank to my knees, the blood-soaked ground staining my clothes. My clothes are soaked in blood that isn’t my own.

Vivienne kneels beside me, her hand resting on my shoulder. “It’s the price we pay, Evie,” she said softly. “We are what we are.” But her words bring little comfort. The weight of my actions pressed down on me, heavy and unrelenting. The sun rises higher, casting long shadows across the park, and I know in that moment that the darkness within me will never truly fade, but I will not let it take control, again.

My remorseful state is interrupted by Vivienne’s cool, collected voice. “Arlo,” Vivienne calls out, her gaze shifting towards a figure emerging from the shadows. “Clean up our mess, please.”

Arlo steps into the blood-soaked clearing. His expression is impassive as he surveys the scene. With a nod, he sets to work, his movements efficient and methodical. The bodies vanish one by one, leaving no trace of the night’s horrors.

The swiftness of the cleanup only amplifies my sense of detachment. It’s as if the massacre never happened, erased from existence as Arlo decapitates the bodies and places them into industrial black trash bags.

I watch the scene unfold, a knot of guilt and despair tightening in my chest. The sun continues to ascend, casting a harsh light on the freshly cleaned park, as we stay in the shadows. It’s becoming a new day, but the night will linger long after the blood has been washed away.

We move towards Arlo’s car, the morning air heavy with the scent of iron and damp earth. My new clothes, once pristine, are now a macabre tapestry of crimson stains. The corset, meant to accentuate my figure, feels like a constricting cage of guilt. The fishnet stockings, a playful touch, are torn and ruined, mirroring my tattered sense of self.

Vivienne, ever vigilant, circles Arlo’s car, her keen eyes searching for any hidden dangers. Satisfied, she slides into the passenger seat, her movements fluid and graceful despite the night’s events. I climb into the back, the leather seats cold against my skin.

Arlo starts the engine, and we pull away from the park, leaving behind the crime scene. The city awakens around us, oblivious to the horrors that unfolded just hours before. The radio plays a cheerful pop song, a jarring contrast to the weight pressing down on my heart.

We arrive at Arlo’s apartment building. We walk through the main elevators after Arlo punches in the now familiar code and find ourselves in a dimly lit corridor, its walls lined with cold, industrial steel. The air hangs heavy with an eerie silence, broken only by the soft echo of our footsteps.

At the end of the corridor, a single black elevator door stands out, its surface as cold and unyielding as the night we just left behind. The number 19, etched into the steel beside it, seems to glow with an ominous aura. Arlo produces a key, its intricate design hinting at the exclusivity of this hidden sanctuary.

He inserts the key into the lock, and the door slides open with a low hiss. We step inside, the elevator’s interior as stark and minimalist as its exterior. There are no buttons, no displays, just a smooth, black panel that seems to absorb all light.

As the elevator ascends, a sense of anticipation hangs in the air. The events of the night weigh heavily on my mind, and the sterile, isolated atmosphere of the elevator only amplifies my unease.

I head straight for the bathroom, desperate to wash away the physical and emotional stains of the night. The hot water feels cool on my skin, but it does little to cleanse the guilt that clings to me like a second skin. As I stare at the mirror, I see only emptiness looking back.

The new corset and skirt, once symbols of a fresh start, now represent the blood on my hands. The torn fishnet is a reminder of my vulnerability and the fragility of life. I am forever changed, marked by the violence I’ve both witnessed and participated in.

“Damn spot! Out, I say!” The words echo in my head, Macbeth’s desperate plea mirroring my frantic attempts to erase the night’s horrors. I rip off my blood-soaked clothes, the corset and skirt clinging to my skin like a second, accusing layer. My new fishnets, already torn and ruined, are discarded without a second thought.

The sink becomes my battlefield. I scrub furiously, the smooth fabric, of the skirt disintegrating under my relentless assault. The corset, thankfully, proves more resilient. I attack the stubborn stains with a vengeance, my nails digging into the fabric, my knuckles turning white. The water runs red, a gruesome reminder of the lives we’ve taken.

“Out, dammit!” I hiss again, my voice raw with desperation. But the blood refuses to yield, clinging to the corset’s delicate lacework like a macabre embroidery. Each stain is a ghost, a silent accusation.

My efforts are futile, a Sisyphean task. The corset may be clean, but the blood on my hands, the guilt in my heart, those stains will never wash away.