Taste….

 

 

 

She could taste the air in the humid city, all of the lost dreams, the false hopes, and the decay and rot from the Mississippi river, an average night in the French Quarter, but then in the French Quarter an average night was anything but normal.

She wandered the cobblestone streets until her senses honed in on a particularly spectacular lonesome soul, and she entered Flannigan’s and found a beautiful boy with long chestnut hair nursing a Grand Marnier alone at the bar, and she slid in next to him and saw his liquid amber eyes shimmering with the tears he was holding back, and soon they were kissing, the taste of Grand Marnier was always better on the lips of a man.

The two went back to her home, and she spent the rest of the evening tasting every inch of him, the salt from his tears, the silkiness of his long straight hair, the unique musk of this man, and she did so for hours until she could take no more and tasted what her body craved the most, his blood, and it tasted of Grand Marnier, pain, betrayal, broken dreams, and the vestiges of the woman that had broken his heart, when she was done she saw that he was just as beautiful in death as he had been in life, and she left him to seek out this woman that had brought him so low.

The woman was easy enough to find, and this killing was swift and brutal with none of the foreplay that had gone on with her more recent victim, the woman tasted of lies and deceit, with a faint flavor of a half formed fetus that did not taste like the auburn haired beauty that was still in her bed, and when the last of the woman’s life left her body, she threw her to the marshes, yes, the alligators would eat well tonight, and she went back to her bedroom to dispose of the beauty that still lay in her bed.

She hesitated for a moment, and decided against her usual means of disposal and carried him instead to the family vault and placed him on an unused slab of marble next to her coffin, so that she could look again upon his beauty every night when she awoke from her day’s slumber.

She was a proper Southern Lady afterall, and to condemn such a magnificent specimen to the ravishes of the swamp was at the least indecent in her opinion, if not also in bad taste

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