She turned tricks on the corner of Whitechapel and Leman. She had to dress up of course. It was a difficult game and not least because fashion seemed to change every decade. She had to look pretty for the johns. That was half the game. And no game meant no sport. But she couldn’t look too much like a scarlet whore or the police would ring her up every time they drove on by.
Tonight was like a Bolivian jungle. London was buzzing with a thousand tiny insects all hunting for food. She was wearing what her last judge had deemed “the minimal acceptable clothing to protect the modesty of a young lady”. Being a child certainly held it’s advantages in the courts. Remaining a child for a score of decades however did not have the same appeal.
The first punter was like a cardboard cutout of the honest-businessman-working-late type. He got her to twirl, asked her her age and scoffed when she said. He didn’t bite. He was going to soil his soul tonight, and not for the first time she thought, but he wouldn’t sink quite low enough.
It had turned eleven by the time he rolled along. You didn’t make many friends spending your evenings on a stretch of pavement, but she’d met Kay eight months ago and protected the girl from the worst of the scum. Eventually she’d helped the girl save enough to get a flat.
And then one night she’d found Kay, curled into a ball with blood pouring from her nose. The sight had tortured her. The fragility of mortals was never more apparent and she wanted to help, to protect and revenge the younger girl. But the Hunger within her had seized control, her pupils contracting into pinpricks as the red consumed her vision.
She’d drunk. And cried like she hadn’t since her own mother had bitten her. And in the tears of blood she had relived the girls final hours. She’d seen the car, the beautiful sleek bentley roll up, watched and felt herself enter it. And as the hood covered her head, she felt the girls fear erupt. She lived the hours of pain and torture in mere seconds. Felt every blow from the pipe. The heat of the iron. But most of all she’d felt him. His sweat and frustration and sheer hate that was borne out on her flesh and her most intimate parts.
And now the blood rage returned. She stood proud, putting her assets to work. The bentley swung to the curb and she entered. As the hood covered her head and she smelt the musky scent enter her nose her eyes turned black and the hood didn’t matter.
She would see and hear and taste every part of this man as he screamed tonight.
Prompt originally posted by ChaosWolf1982 on reddit and received 77 upvotes.