Black Nightingale- The Prey That Hunts Back
Chapter 2: She Lies In Wait
My heeled boots click clack on the concrete floor. It’s a comforting sound. Silver spikes up the back of the heel. My long legs exposed to the fall chill. A black short slinky satin slip dress, paired with a faux leather jacket with black feathers dancing along the lapel. For accessories I pair it with a pair of leather fingerless gloves donned with silver spikes, and dark black midnight lipstick. Who says you can’t look fashionable while hunting. Am I right? The final touch. The mask. Black. Bird-like. A Black Nightingale. The prey that hunts back.
Strutting about the New York City streets like I own it, you think men would take a hint. With a get up like this, it should scream fuck off. And yet they don’t. Far from it.
I still. Feeling his eyes on me. His hands just minutes away from touching my body. “Hey girl….you uh wanna need a reason to reapply that lipstick?” He slaps my ass forcefully. And I laugh to myself because well honey… he just doesn’t quite know who he’s messing with. One swift turn and kick. Right in the crotch.
“Ughhh…ahhhhh…oh fuck, girl what the hell is wrong with you?” he grunts, doubling over in pain.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You looked like you were asking for it.” I say as my knee retracts from his special place. Going around talking to women like that something tells me it’s not that special.
“Let me let you in on a little secret” I say as I lean into his ear, my voice holding a breathy whisper as I pull what can be easily mistaken for a tube of lipstick from my jacket pocket, pop the cap off and a silver shine emerges from the blade. I hold it flush against his chin, “You know what they say about The Nightingale, how it sings beautiful songs. This is me singing. For all women. The nights…they belong to us now. Be a dear and spread the word to all your pervy little friends, would you?”
Straightening my posture like the classy lady that I am, I saunter away leaving him rolling in pain and let’s be honest… fear. I know to some it may seem like overkill. An overreaction to a minor discretion. A cat call. Slip of the hand. I mean I should take his interest as a compliment. Flattery. Sense the sarcasm? The way women are treated as they walk the night is a load of bullshit. And anyone who tells you different well, they are just imbeciles. You don’t know how fucking fed up I am. Or maybe you’re starting to. Put your hands on a woman unwarranted and I will ruin you.
*Black Nightingale.* Credit
A series of images, pasted on a cork board. A map of New York City. Red X’s marking what could only be seen as hot spots. Dark Alleys, Train Stations, Parks, Jogging Trails. Nevina’s slender hand places her Black Nightingale mask on a nearby end table as she tosses her weapons down too. She lets out a sigh.
“It’s been a long night,” she says flopping down on her couch, and lifting her legs onto her coffee table. She clicks on her TV.
A newscast humming in the background of the dimly lit room.
“Just this morning an early jogger phoned in what she could only comment on as a gruesome attack. A young unidentified woman was found dead in Harrison Park. There are no concrete suspects at this time, but the NYPD did pull some neighboring camera footage and we see a man in a mask walking away. Officers are on the scene and working to bring whoever did this to justice.”
Nevina sits up, she raises the volume. Her eyes transfixed on the TV.
“He’s back…,” she says to herself. “The Black Hawk, he’s back.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
*I do not take credit for any images used in my edits or otherwise.*
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