261. They don't really care about us.

Two fingers clutched a wine glass, the red liquid sloshing about. The other three stuck out like rigid spider legs, spindly and cool, but practised. His eyes were the colour of rain, gloom clouds, shrouded and confusing, eyeing her carefully. He tipped the glass to his lips, hardly aware that the wine wet them crimson, like fresh, metallic blood. His tongue flicked out as he stared at her, closely, prowling his beautiful prey.

The muscles in his jaw was working, savouring the bitter tang at the end of every sip that he took, his adams apple bobbing up and down. His forearms were lean and the colour of almonds on a roast. It wasn't as though he had worked to become stronger, rather forced to. He was unpredictable as a hurricane, pushed forward by his determination, a seeker of vengeance.

Held in his whims was the frail body of his prey. She stands, poised, shoulders slender and long, arms by her sides. Waiting, perhaps? Thoughts flit across her mind. Fate. Death? Slavery? Confusion clouds her vision. All she sees is a black blur and tainted lips.

Reaching out, his thin fingers point at her, then curled into a fist. She hardly falters in her steps, the only sound was her sheer gown sweeping the ground free of dead shells of insects. Seconds ticked by unhurriedly and she stood so close, he could feel the tingle of her breath on his neck.

"Go."

Just a word, he whispers and it was as though invisible chains have dropped from her body. Her face radiated light, her eyes sparkled. Her lips parted for a faint smile. She reached up to touch his smooth cheek and planted a soft kiss.

"Let go, too."

As she scurried away, the last drop of his wine hit the floor before the sound of the glass breaking into shards of millions of pieces. And blood seeps from the corner of his mouth, his eyes sucked up of life, as he departed silently as she left.