PROSE: Nocturnal Acts

A documentary I watched last night on the Highway of Tears, British Columbia, had me thinking of a new story – and an old one that I’ve a mind to post here. Written for a friend and inspiration, after asking twitter for a prompt. I’m afraid I’ve renamed it since then.

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It was his idea of a good night. Trawling the internet for girls looking for a good time and too naive to recognise a bad one. Young? Usually. It didn’t matter so long as they got him hard.

He’d arrange to meet her somewhere public. Make sure there’d be other people about so she’d feel safe… but people too absorbed in their own business to give a fuck about anyone else.

He’d ask if she wanted to get a drink, maybe a coffee, maybe something to eat. She’d say yes. He’d give her a ride. They’d find her car days later and wonder what happened to her. Maybe she didn’t even have a car. Gone without a trace.

Never seen again. Missing Persons – please contact If You’ve Seen Her.

A beautiful idea. Each girl a work of art by some genius, tormented god, and, yes, he added his own special touches to the piece. Made it complete. Then threw it away.

Art is more beautiful when it’s transient. It was almost a tragedy; they could never be a permanent fixture.

He put himself into his work. So to speak.

This one looked like all the others. Long hair. Blue eyes. A little something in the mouth begging for a punch, but no matter. That fucking sneer would be wiped off her face in the end.

He was good looking and knew it and so did everyone else. Like every other girl she followed him willingly. Got into his car. Didn’t seem to mind when he said he had to stop at his place to pick something up. Followed him in, expecting nothing, or maybe sex.

He smiled.

He didn’t expect the crack across the back of his head.

He didn’t expect to wake up handcuffed to the radiator.

He didn’t expect h-

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