Tales in Scarlett

The previous chapter can be found here:

Chapter 1

The early days in the city were uneventful for the most part. Scarlett settled into a worn routine. In the morning she would attend classes in creative writing, in the afternoons she would sit in the confines of the coffee shop on the corner of Parnum Avenue, nestled in one of the velveteen armchairs, next to the case laden with antique books. She liked the way, ‘Shelley’s’ felt - it had a quaintness about it. All wooden floors and upholstery; its sparkling diamante chandelier giving a gentle nod to the flamboyance of the twenties. Plus, no one bothered her. There she would watch and write in her perfectly curled lettering into an old leather bound notebook, sipping on chamomile tea.

In the evening she would walk through the cobbled streets back to her apartment on the lower sanctum. She barely spoke to anyone. Despising the gushing self-indulgence of her fellow writers in training, she would avoid sharing her writings, unless she was called upon but would, if the mood took her, occasionally contribute a thoughtful, artfully designed comment that would land as a compliment. Though if anyone actually bothered to think about it. they would more than likely be quite offended. Sporadically, she would exchange pleasantries with the caretaker. And, once a week on a Sunday she would endure a phone call with her mother.

As the days turned to months, Scarlett's self-enforced isolation in the city began to shift. Her observations from the coffee shop's armchair graduated from their function as a passive pastime into an aggressive study of human behaviour. The patrons of 'Shelley’s', each absorbed in their own worlds, unwittingly provided her with a plethora of characters and motives. She would picture them in plots and sub plots. Writing their worlds as she saw fit. She began to understand the city's dark undertones –the unspoken transactions that took place under the veneer of everyday life.

Her writing, initially simple, unadorned musings began to evolve into more intricate narratives, shaped and crafted by the imaginary lives of the patrons she observed. Her tattered notebook, once a refuge, became her weapon. She learned to read people. For her the city was morphing into an intricate chequered board, where she was training to become a master player.

Her transformation was gradual but inevitable. Her sequestration now served as a vantage point from which she could draw knowledge. A falcon waiting and tracking its prey. She began to explore beyond the comfort of the coffee shop – her darkness drawing her outwards. Silently, she witnessed the whiskey whispered deals of shady bars and the frantic negotiations of shadowed back alleys. The sycophantic negotiations in the creases of posh hotel lobbies. She was becoming infatuated. Enticed by the wolverine cry of the city.

Her encounters with these wolves were cautious at first. She used her anonymity to her advantage, blending into the backdrop of the underworld like a shadow of a bird. But as her confidence grew, so too did her interactions.

Her appearance began to change too as she grew from a blossoming girl into a siren cry of city allure. Her raven hair darkened into pitch, flowing around her alabastrine face like an encasing. A protection of sorts. Her eyes swilled and churned with human emotion interweaving with animalistic allure. Dark and simultaneously mesmerising. She was all that men desired. And all that women despised. But there was a strange gentleness about her that would counteract that.

Seeking a counterpoint, her daytime routine shifted too, as her need and interest in creative writing classes dwindled she began writing a blog she had entitled, “Tales in Scarlett”. Her idea was simple. She would record and retell the stories of the women of the city. Seeking her first instalment she began pursuing encounters of the feminine kind.

By day she would traverse the city, unsurprisingly, the women’s bathroom of anywhere would enable her to seek out what she sought. Once she told them of her project, women would talk to her readily; enchanted by her swilling hematite eyes and earnest desperation to understand them. Under the guise of anonymity, they would readily tell her of the lives they had led. And lost.

On the eve of her 18th birthday, the moon was high –its cascading shadows puppeteered the city; moving and shifting it swathed the architecture in a strange undulating dance. In a celebration of sorts, Scarlett decided to visit a casino. It seemed like the right kind of place for wolf encounters. The perfect place to learn.

She donned her red lipstick carefully, ruffled her raven hair so it cascaded along the left side of her almost translucent visage, before pulling on her new blood red leather trench coat. Pulling the hood over her head, she glanced at the mirror winking a mascaraed hematitian eye to herself.

“If you could see me now, Great grandma” She whispered into the air as she marched out of her apartment building and into the neon night.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scarlett stood at the bar, her finger twirling a strand of dark hair. She surveyed the room; pegging the high rollers and the chancers in one easy scan.

“Can I buy you a drink, darling” He was neither a chancer or the other. Just on a jolly for a friend’s birthday celebration. He had that innocent inanity about him.

She cringed at the ‘darling’. “No thank you” she breathed “I can buy my own”

He whimpered back towards his pack.

She ordered herself a Sambuca, the barman barely able to keep his dick in check, managed to compose himself long enough to stutter out the price.

She sipped it carefully, contemplating her game plan. She needn’t have bothered. The rook came to her.

“Good evening ma’am” He spoke in class and aristocracy, “I must say you are a delight to behold” The politeness. The accent. The poise and confidence appealed to her. She conceded when he asked if she would like a refill. Over the course of the evening, they talked between games – him teaching her how to play Poker. She learned quickly. Beating him at every turn. But roulette was her favourite. There were no rules –a certain chaotic beauty in the win. Her alcohol fuelled vision was fascinated with the spinning black, red and white. Thinking herself in-between. He offered to walk her home. She accepted of sorts. Too tipsy to object.

They walked arm in arm through the streets. As they reached the alley that led to her apartment, he stopped, turning her face towards him. His kiss was fumbled and amateur. And laced with ethanol. She pushed him away. Her adrenaline was spiking. But he persisted, his hands shoving between her legs. The moon peaked; its rays dispersing across the alley way Within her a collision her ancestry and the serrated edge of indignation - she became whole. In the glint of a bullet's eye she garnered strength. She grabbed him by the shoulders and pelted him like pebble dash into the wall. He fell down it, sinking to the ground, motionless. As he regained consciousness he saw her eyes –glinting red in the shadowed darkness.

“Now that wasn’t very gentlemanly, was it?” She snarled as her fangs sunk into his neck.

Chapter 3