Flytrap

Prologue

May 3, 2004

 "You do recognize, do you not, the... eccentric characteristics involved with everything having to do with me?"

The woman places her dirtied fork beside the plate of half eaten cake and meets the man's unblinking, turquoise stare.

"You do, do you not, recognize that everything having to do with me is fascinated with the eccentric characteristics of a man?"

The man cocks his head ever so slightly with a glint of amusement and curiosity shining darkly in his eyes, much like a hungry wolf ready to play with a soon to be meal.

The woman continues, "if I had even the slightest pinch of unawareness regarding the possibilities involved with my current situation, I more than likely wouldn't be here."

The man straightens his gaze again, "no?"

"No," the woman confirms, "I would be half asleep on a couch with a bag of potato chips tucked in my arm, watching a movie." She looks him over- analyzing his nature. She squints her eyes and pursed her lips. "Under the circumstance that I wouldn't have had the choice but to come with you, I would be in a remote area deciding whether to cut your dick or your balls off first."

A dangerous anger flashed across the mans features. The woman simply smiles in return and says, "but the hypotheticals aren't important. I chose to come with you, but that doesn't mean I'm a clueless little girl caught in an elevator shaft," she bats her eyelids to mimic an innocent girl, then narrows them, "if I got caught in an elevator shaft, I'd get the hell out. No matter the difficulties I would have to endure in the process."

The man shoots forward and forces the woman up to slam her against the wall by her neck, "if you were stuck in an elevator shaft with me, it more than likely wasn't an accident." The woman grimaced at the closeness of the mans' breath just inches away from her own. He leans in toward her ear to continue, "and purpose has the power of intent." 

Waves of nervousness radiates off the woman. She swallows it and slows her breathing, calming herself behind the pressure of the mans grip.

"Purpose and intent are the same thing," she thought to herself. He's improvising to appear in control. And it's obvious. He's nothing but a boy with an anger problem. Remember that the only one in control of your life, is you."

"That was very inspirational," she mocks.

For a reason unknown to him, this woman was able to achieve the impossible feat of providing him with a sense of reprieve. She had strong motivation. He could tell by a single look over that this was the type of woman who would go extremes to reach whatever goal she might have. He was intrigued with her and everything she portrayed herself to be. And despite them not having the courtesy to exchange names- he respected her for it. In the event he may hold a knife to her neck, he would expect her to smile and pull a knife of her own from thin air and give him an expression of fierce challenge.

"What a fire flower you are," he whispers.

In a flash, the woman lifts her knee to her chest and kicks down with a force strong enough to knock his knee out of place. He screams in anguish and drops to the floor. She straightens her shirt down before crouching next to him. Taking a fistful of oily, matted, mud-colored hair, she forces his head to turn her way.

"You know. You're not very fucking nice," she seethes. She throws his head down on the hard floor, cracking it slightly. The man yells angrily, "Ah!! Bitch!"

She laughs at him before sitting back at the table to continue eating her cake. She takes a bite and moans with delight at the succulence of the flavor, "you're a damn good cook though. You know if you straighten up your attitude, we could probably get along." She can hear the man groan in pain. Looking over at him, she sees that he's attempting to get up. "Good," she says, "you have endurance. It would be a shame if you had the gall to approach a woman in the middle of an alleyway with no moxie." She gets up once more, walking over to him to grab him by the elbow and lead him to the chair adjacent from hers.

He looks up at her with gritting teeth and scowling eyebrows, "I could have just taken you. I could have killed you. I could have done worse. But no, I introduce myself and offer you a place to stay with food-"

She cuts him off, "you offered me a place to stay with something else in mind. You scream mischief. I don't know exactly what it is that you had in mind. You didn't look at me with the dark gleam in your eyes that a sexual predator possesses. I know because I've seen it. No, you... you had a thought. A plan. You want something. You wanted something before you started looking for a woman in the first place; why else would you have been standing out there waiting?"

He silences. Looking at her dead on, he smirks passively with a shake of his head. Ruffling his hair, he clears his throat to speak. She stops him before he has the chance.

"Your whole demeanor screams nervous. You're fidgety because you don't like that I'm so intuitive of your mindset. But you're gonna have to get over that. I've been through a whole world of shit in my life, and I understand whatever you have to pitch at me is probably a new kind of fucked up. But if you think any woman with something to lose would be dumb enough to accept getting in a car with a ragged piece of shit like you at one in the morning, then you're just the right amount of stupid for a woman without anything to lose to control."

She leans forward, "I'm very close to being homeless. I have no family. I've lost my children. I have no job. I'm dressed in shit cloths wandering by myself in the middle of the night. That screams victim. Which is why you thought I would be the easy experiment. But what you don't know is that me appearing as such a victim is precisely why I'm the most dangerous woman to fuck with."

He is at loss of words for a few seconds. He exhales and taps his fingers, looking at her in a whole new light. Her intent green eyes- complete with bags of exhaustion- leaked the experience and preparation of somebody who has a constant multitude of plans laid out in her mind for every situation. Her dirty blonde hair, tied back in a messy ponytail, was the non-verbal demonstration of her lack of fucks to give. Her lack of reason to impress. Her lack of will to care enough about herself. Her appearance was the perfect explanation of why she came so far out into the middle of the forest with a stranger to his run down house.

Her life wasn't worth living. And maybe she thought one last challenge was worth putting her death on hold. Or maybe whatever he had to do with her would give her the last reason to say goodbye.

"I want you to be my partner," he delves in, "And I'm beginning to believe you're the perfect one for the job."

"Job?"

"Yes, job."

She looks at him with question, "I'm gonna need more than that buddy."

He chuckles, "My name is Charles. But you can call me Thatch." 

The woman replies, "Cecile. You can call me ."Dawn"