Author Topic: The Lost Girl - Revised  (Read 1538 times)

Offline SteveJ

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 2239
  • A Writer's Christmas - Out Now!
    • Salvatore Publishing
The Lost Girl - Revised
« on: May 09, 2008, 11:57:46 AM »


The Lost Girl - Edited Version




 This is my voice. You can't hear me, but you can read my thoughts. Catherine will take dictation
for me. It's her idea of a joke, I suppose, and the joke is on me...but it's not the kind of humor
which would appeal to humans.

 She's telling my story for me, knowing that the chances of someone finding this journal are
small, and anyway, she may just throw it on the fire or tear it up when it suits her, after she's
read it again, smiling to herself all the while.


 My folks called me The Count, after the tv puppet vampire; that was a joke too, but
they sure stopped laughing when I 'disappeared'. They used to josh me about the black make-up
and clothes I wore, and so rechristened me. Funny, but despite the fact that I was proud of my
new identity, they still made me feel embarrassed about it, as if I was a child dressed in adult
clothes, wearing too much lipstick, like a clown. They don't want to know me now, because
Catherine made me seem hateful to them. But that was some time ago, in my past life...

 I was glad when the time came for me to leave home, for Carleton College.
A new life beckoned, in Minnesota, and I had no regrets leaving the old one behind, despite it's
comforts - what use is money when you're lost and you're trying to find yourself?

 A shroud of sound, a pulse of rhythm and screeching electronica, inaudible from the street outside
but part of your very heartbeat once you entered Club Bauhaus. I went there alone, but left hand
in hand with an apparition in scarlet and black - my Catherine. How beautiful she was then, how
that beauty blinded and seduced me; I know I'd fall for her again, regardless of what has happened since...
sometimes the hunted yearns for the hunter, and pain is better than feeling nothing.

 I'd always been told that I was attractive, and had no shortage of admirers, but Catherine was
on another level entirely. Conversations would stop as she walked by, guys would stare but
there were no wolf-whistles or crude comments, only awe...this was Serious Beauty, and it
left one speechless, like true fear or shock; I was the same when I first saw her, and I was
bewitched in a moment - I certainly wasn't the first, and I won't be the last. I was just her latest
devotee, and soon, her latest conquest; I was a lucky girl...

 We left the club, and drove, in the Firebird my dad bought for me, laughing as we sped towards
my apartment near the campus. Our laughter was something shared, the overture to a night of
love; we both knew this, and our journey was a riot of giggles, stolen glances, and wide, shining smiles.

 Rushing up the steps through the soft rain, jackets over our heads, laughing still; the prelude
complete. I turned the radio on, and maudlin but apt songwords became the fanfare for our Arrival
in The Bedroom...

 'Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked,
The way she acts, and the color of her hair,
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there...'


 Her face...I haven't spoken of it before, but I must tell you now - don't be fooled as I was at this
moment. Her skin was light, and dark, and pale, and...Long black hair, parted in the center, blonde hair
cut boyishly short, red hair that wrapped it's way around you as you drank in it's luxuriant magnificence -
you could take your pick, and Catherine would be what you wanted her to be.

'Please don't bother trying to find her,
She's not there...'


 I undressed her slowly, quickly. Her passivity was unnerving, almost as if she had taken part in
this ritual unveiling many times before; she understood my haste, my anticipation. As I fumbled,
she guided me to the bed and we laid upon the covers. She cut her bared breast with a small,
ornamental knife, and the skin split open cleanly like a ripe peach. She held my head gently, and
before long, I was drinking.

 I know how weird this must seem to you, but I had half-expected it. This kind of behaviour was
normal in our scene, so I didn't think she was a freak or anything like that...it was beautiful and
seductive and mysterious and...defied words. I drank in her essence, and then I slept;
I can't even remember if we actually made love or not.

 Here my story ends, and Catherine's begins. I hate to think what happened while I slept and
dreamt sweet dreams of blissful love, but I don't think Catherine ever sleeps, and if she dreams,
the dreams belong to others.

 I never woke up. I finally saw what Catherine looked like when she admired her new face and
body in my bedroom mirror - she looked like me. She laughed as she stood, hands on hips,
and turned this way and that, and I could only watch through the eyes which were once mine.

 Those eyes would appear beautiful to her next victim, and they would long to run their hands
through my hair. And she would smile, and gently lead them back to the apartment near the campus.
And she would wear their body, like she's wearing mine, until she's worn it out, or killed it,
or corrupted those who love her/me/them.

 She's just a traveller, is Catherine, and she picks up lost souls on her journey through time.
I hope someone finds this journal...




Image created by 'Kat'.
Lyrics taken from 'She's Not There', by The Zombies.

A Writer's Christmas:
http://www.lulu.com/content/4931358



The Horde - Available Now:
http://www.lulu.com/content/4076371