Late Night Snack By Eleanor Curry

Trigger Warning: Alcohol, implied sexual assault and death.

It was a dull night, the sound of nonsensical laughter echoed in the streets. Groups of women stumbling over each other, never knowing the other before that night, laughing loudly together in a screeching cackle. They held each other close, walked next to men who would look at their arses. The men would talk to one another, slurring their words with misogynistic toxicity, commenting on the ways they could fuck them. Yet they would not approach.

A woman, alone, strutted down the pavement, her lips chapped from the cold yet wore a short, tight black dress, which complemented her pale figure. Her hair was just as pale as her skin, long and luxurious, silky to the touch. She walked with confidence in her six-inch heels, not a stumble in sight. Her eyes were dark almost black yet as the streetlight shone down upon her, hints of red could be seen. She pranced down the street, her heels clicking in a rhythmic beat, ignoring the world around her.

A group of men, the men who kept looking at women’s arses, watched as she passed by, eyes roaming all over her body. They looked at each other, vicious grins on their faces. There was no hesitation as they walked with her. One wrapped his arm around her shoulder leaning into her ear, slurring and stinking of alcohol. Another hooked their arm around her waist, tightly gripping it in his claws. She tensed and said nothing. They steered her into a desolate alley, forcing her along, crashing their bodies into her. She did not fight back as they dragged her down the darkened passage.  

No one watched as life came to an end.

The woman had left the alley, dishevelled, her hair a mess. The straps of her dress fell off of her shoulders, her lips were a puffy red, smudged around her mouth. Yet her eyes were lit by tormented glee. She took her thumb, wiped it across her lips and sucked at it. She walked home with a skip in her step, heels clicking on the floor.

The next morning, the sun shone through the gaps of the curtains. They were instantly shut stopping the rays of sunlight that invaded the house. The woman wrapped a silky black robe around herself, her lacy undergarments peeking through. She hummed as she lifted a wine glass from the cabinet and brushed the invisible dust particles off the rim. The woman picked up of bottle of wine and uncorked it. The pop echoed throughout the kitchen. She walked to the living room pouring the wine halfway. She placed it on the table and picked up the remote. The television turned on and a small smirk worked its way up her face.

 The news blared with the faces of the men, declaring them dead. She held the glass of red, smiling, remembering the carcasses she left behind in the alley. She lifted her glass and took a sip of the thick red liquid. She had her fill the night before, but she deserved the victory of putting the prey in their place. She leaned back in her armchair, swirling the liquid and watched the television with vindication. Another hunt, another success.