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Dysy
Star
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2012
God she hated him.
Even lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood he still stared up at her with leering eyes. Lera drew her heeled foot upwards before smashing it down upon the man’s face. “Stop gawking, it’s rude.” She snarled at the body. The man’s body when limp, slumping over and folding easily in half.
Lera eyed the apartment, aside from the bloody mess in front of her, it was pristine. Odd for a middle aged man she would admit, but it wasn’t a trait she disliked.
And there were a lot of things she disliked in this world.
He had taken her home. Correction. She had allowed him to take her home. Men like him really weren’t her type. He was a well-to-do sort of man dressed in expensive threads, but came to the wrong bar looking for a way to burn a hole in his pocket with cheap drinks. That’s where James met Lera. She wasn’t a looker, at least not by her standards. She wasn’t showy with her clothing, no low cut shirts, no tight skirts – clothing like that didn’t allow her to work properly anyways. She only wore a black tank top, jeans, and black boots. But what had caught James’ attention from the woman were her striking eyes. Lera’s hair had been chopped short, just above her shoulders; her curly brown hair would’ve touched her skin if it ever straightened. Freckled cheeks, and a slim build, she looked ‘average’, but Lera’s eyes… She had heterochromia which left her with one green eye and one dull brown eye.
It wasn’t the first time a man opened up about her odd eyes as a conversation starter, but this man was willing to spend quite a bit of dough on the woman, and she wouldn’t say no to a couple of glasses of brandy.
They were both drunk, he was singing, leaning on her – she was supporting him. With a Russian mother, and a Ukrainian father, it was safe to say Lera could hold her alcohol, but she feigned the toxicity of alcohol. Laughed, sang – even staggered and slurred when they approached his apartment. But then, he changed. Fucking was fucking in Lera’s mind, men came and went, and women were sweet treats here and there. She had sex when she felt like it, she let a man treat her to drinks and he took her home – she left in the morning and they never spoke again. But this man was different, he grasped her wrists, kissed her, sloppy kisses that trailed saliva from her lips down her neck. She felt repulsed. And then he got rough, he hit her, just a single strike that caught her off guard.
That was his second mistake.
His first was ever letting her into the apartment in the first place.
She wiped the spittle from her cheek after he struck her, and she pulled back, only her head, before whipping forward, knocking the drunken man from his stupor. “What the fuck!?” He stumbled backwards clutching his head, groaning in pain. “You bitch! You don’t know how well you got it!”
“I know well enough!” Lera snarled, “You don’t hit a woman. Especially not a classy woman.” In the few seconds James could regain his composure, she had charged him, ramming her entire frame into his abdomen and knocking him clean off of his feet. Straddling the drunken man’s torso Lera laughed loudly, a crazed laugh, but it had nothing but pure happiness. She loved that look, the look James gave her, one of shock and pure horror. “You don’t hit women buddy. Society thinks we’re weaker than you just ‘cause we don’t have a dick. But eh, who needs them right? They’re nothin’ but a liability.”
Two shots. One in the mouth. And one in the family jewels.
No one really prized jewelry when they found out they were fake anyways.
Lera had wiped down the apartment, cleaned off her gun, and pocketed it into her back pocket. The neighbors were out, date night, and no one resided in the upstairs apartment. All that Lera left was a carefully written note, she had grabbed a paper towel before touching the pen before writing in a semi-neat scrawl:
“Welcome Home.”
His wife found him at approximately 4:27 A.M.
After years of being neglected his wife looked down upon her husband, and waited until morning to call the cops.
Even lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood he still stared up at her with leering eyes. Lera drew her heeled foot upwards before smashing it down upon the man’s face. “Stop gawking, it’s rude.” She snarled at the body. The man’s body when limp, slumping over and folding easily in half.
Lera eyed the apartment, aside from the bloody mess in front of her, it was pristine. Odd for a middle aged man she would admit, but it wasn’t a trait she disliked.
And there were a lot of things she disliked in this world.
He had taken her home. Correction. She had allowed him to take her home. Men like him really weren’t her type. He was a well-to-do sort of man dressed in expensive threads, but came to the wrong bar looking for a way to burn a hole in his pocket with cheap drinks. That’s where James met Lera. She wasn’t a looker, at least not by her standards. She wasn’t showy with her clothing, no low cut shirts, no tight skirts – clothing like that didn’t allow her to work properly anyways. She only wore a black tank top, jeans, and black boots. But what had caught James’ attention from the woman were her striking eyes. Lera’s hair had been chopped short, just above her shoulders; her curly brown hair would’ve touched her skin if it ever straightened. Freckled cheeks, and a slim build, she looked ‘average’, but Lera’s eyes… She had heterochromia which left her with one green eye and one dull brown eye.
It wasn’t the first time a man opened up about her odd eyes as a conversation starter, but this man was willing to spend quite a bit of dough on the woman, and she wouldn’t say no to a couple of glasses of brandy.
They were both drunk, he was singing, leaning on her – she was supporting him. With a Russian mother, and a Ukrainian father, it was safe to say Lera could hold her alcohol, but she feigned the toxicity of alcohol. Laughed, sang – even staggered and slurred when they approached his apartment. But then, he changed. Fucking was fucking in Lera’s mind, men came and went, and women were sweet treats here and there. She had sex when she felt like it, she let a man treat her to drinks and he took her home – she left in the morning and they never spoke again. But this man was different, he grasped her wrists, kissed her, sloppy kisses that trailed saliva from her lips down her neck. She felt repulsed. And then he got rough, he hit her, just a single strike that caught her off guard.
That was his second mistake.
His first was ever letting her into the apartment in the first place.
She wiped the spittle from her cheek after he struck her, and she pulled back, only her head, before whipping forward, knocking the drunken man from his stupor. “What the fuck!?” He stumbled backwards clutching his head, groaning in pain. “You bitch! You don’t know how well you got it!”
“I know well enough!” Lera snarled, “You don’t hit a woman. Especially not a classy woman.” In the few seconds James could regain his composure, she had charged him, ramming her entire frame into his abdomen and knocking him clean off of his feet. Straddling the drunken man’s torso Lera laughed loudly, a crazed laugh, but it had nothing but pure happiness. She loved that look, the look James gave her, one of shock and pure horror. “You don’t hit women buddy. Society thinks we’re weaker than you just ‘cause we don’t have a dick. But eh, who needs them right? They’re nothin’ but a liability.”
Two shots. One in the mouth. And one in the family jewels.
No one really prized jewelry when they found out they were fake anyways.
Lera had wiped down the apartment, cleaned off her gun, and pocketed it into her back pocket. The neighbors were out, date night, and no one resided in the upstairs apartment. All that Lera left was a carefully written note, she had grabbed a paper towel before touching the pen before writing in a semi-neat scrawl:
“Welcome Home.”
His wife found him at approximately 4:27 A.M.
After years of being neglected his wife looked down upon her husband, and waited until morning to call the cops.
