She was svelte and curvaceous. Her skin was made of porcelain and she had long fingernails with shiny midnight polish. Her lips were red as dying rose petals and her velvet dress matched, slit up her naked thigh. Her dramatic eyes were cold pools. She had a wild mane of wavy black hair that she often threw back in coquettish insanity.
They say her husband went mad and tried to stab her with a sharp dagger. That she lives off the blood of those young men brave enough to come knocking.
I am she! My husband did not go mad. I am the one who went off the edge and stabbed him.
But my husband killed my baby. Left me in a bloody heap, at the bottom of the staircase..Now I wait for young dandies who dare to ring my doorbell and I pounce. No power on earth could stop my feeding frenzy. This is my revenge. How dare he pushed me down the stairs.
Word Count: 170