short story - elsa

i'm starting a series of short stories that will help me in writing better tales. this one came up to me from nowhere and i just had to write it down.

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The girl awoke from her dream. It was a strange dream, filled with people and languages she didn't understand.

Her name was Elsa. She lived in a luxurious penthouse somewhere in Park Avenue, left to her by a senile uncle who had leapt to his death from a balcony.

She was an orphan. She didn’t have to ask, she already knew. It was obvious that she did not inherit her fiery red hair and pale milky skin from her known relatives. And her eyes – well, they were just the most peculiar shade of green. Which was why she often wore dark glasses whenever she went out. If ever she did.

Elsa took a deep breath and closed her eyes in the darkness. The dreams she thought had left her years ago had come back to haunt her once more. She remembered the first time she dreamt of them. She had been a frightened ten year-old child, clutching her worn yellow blanket provided by Uncle Emory. Aunt Emily had just passed away, and Elsa’s bizarre dreams had been explained by Uncle Emory as a traumatic experience of losing a loved one.

Elsa had never believed it. Aunt Emily had never cared for her. In fact, Aunt Emily had often complained about her. She had secretly believed that her aunt had taken a dislike to her mainly because of her unusual appearance. It seemed to cause many women to loathe the sight of her.

She got up from her bed and went to get a glass of water. She stood outside on the balcony, the same balcony that Uncle Emory had jumped from almost a year ago. The cold air revived her. She looked down. The city was bathed in artificial light, garish and soft, glittering and still. It calmed Elsa’s soul.

She turned back and headed towards her bed, her bare feet soft against the hardwood floors. She paused as she passed by the hallway mirror, looking at her reflection.

I need to go out, she mused. It’s time.

She glanced at the clock. Three o’clock. Elsa headed to the bathroom, where she took great care to clean herself before she doused her translucent skin with rich lotions that smelled of exotic flowers and secret promises.

She grabbed the nearest skirt and top from her meager belongings and quickly put on her most lavish purchase: a pair of scarlet high-heeled shoes that made her taller than she seemed. She brushed her hair once more. And then she was ready.

She came back to the apartment an hour later, but not alone. Elsa guided her companion inside her penthouse, where she quickly took off her silky lilac dress and stood before him naked. She could see lust in his eyes as she posed provocatively in front of him.

She ran her hands through her body, and she saw that he reveled in the sight of her young nudity. She took his rough, calloused hands and ran them through her body. She shivered at the coarseness and it excited her. She felt herself growing moist, and soon enough his hands found her womanhood on their own.

She gasped as he slid one finger inside, and then two, and then three. She heard him curse under his breath as he marveled at her wet snugness. Elsa hurriedly unbuttoned his pants and then it was before her.

She turned around and pushed against him, without any warning. Elsa realized it caught him by surprise as she impaled herself against him. Their coupling was violent, and she was his master.

She pushed him to the floor and sat on top of him, rocking fiercely. She could feel him protest slightly as she viciously rammed against his manhood. And it didn’t take long. She felt the waves coming. Her nipples got harder as she felt the first ripples.

Her naked thighs grazed against his dirty jeans, halfway undone, and the sensation drove her to greater heights of passion. Elsa crouched above him like a pale naked spider trapping her still-clothed prey, feeling him inside her, unaware that the sight also gave him a great and uneasy pleasure. She felt him squeeze her erect pink nipples, and it was that that drove her over the brink.

Suddenly, it was flowing, and it didn’t stop for some time. She gasped and contracted, shuddering. Elsa heard him yell out to stop, but she was too caught up in her frenzy to think clearly. It came over her, overwhelming her senses, shattering her sanity. She never heard his pleas, nor did she notice that he had stopped.

She ran her hands down his face sadly, the whiteness of her skin contrasting with the darkness of his. She would have not given him a second look if not for the dream that she had had. But it, finally, had made sense tonight.

She had to take a life to start hers.

She began to understand everything and everyone around her. Elsa opened her mouth slightly. Her red, chapped lips parted halfway, but nothing came out of it. She felt a flash of panic as she realized that her actions might have been a mistake after all.

It can’t be, Elsa despaired.

She tried one more time to move her tongue, and finally a sliver of sound escaped from her throat. She fell over the body of the dead man in relief, her warm tears soaking his grimy shirt as she collapsed in exhaustion. She took a deep breath and slept soundly, still on top of the body. At last, she dreamt of black stars in a red sky.

The next days to come, the media would dedicate their headlines to the strange and miraculous recovery of 13 year-old Elsa P. Straussberg , who had been mute all her life despite several consultations with top medical experts. They would rehash the strange deaths that haunted her famous and infamous family the past few years, thus making her the sole surviving heir to the almost incalculable Straussberg fortune.

And at the back section of some newspapers, there would also be a small column reporting the body of an unidentified man found dead, a few blocks away from Park Avenue, from apparent heart condition.