Title: Mercy

Prompt: She said, "Don't get too close. It's dark inside. It's where my demons hide." And I answered, "get too close, there is a hell inside of me, it's where your demons can live." 

At this moment in time, she almost felt sorry for the man standing in front of her. 

Almost, because it had been a century since she felt any sympathy for any men. She had forgotten what a good man was like, because every time she tried to, she was met with visions of the sweaty pigs standing over her, taking her virtue, then leaving her to perish. If it wasn’t for the band of women who came to rid her of her misery, she would have died with that vision flooding every one of her sense. Granted, being forced to live an eternity with that image taking over every time she so much as heard a man speak was not a much better fate. At least this way, she could take revenge. 

The women that created this bloodlust in her tried to get this hatred out of her head; they’d all scold her mercilessly when she would return to their home, surrounded in the blood of another innocent man, trying to convince her that not all men were evil like the ones that took her virtue like animals. She would never listen. Over time, they all migrated one by one, but she stayed, just like her hatred. Although the last few decades, she’d only hunt the men who caught her eyes as being dishonest, or vile in some way. Although she’d let the men taking the shortcut of an alleyway in hopes of returning home sooner after a long day of studying go, it still didn’t waver her hatred of the species. 

So why, she wondered, was it that one hundred years of bitterness and anger seemed to be swaying away because of the drunkard fighting gravity. He eventually lost the battle, plopping onto her bed with a small chuckle. He looked up at her curiously, then at the room he didn’t remember coming to. It was dark, the windows were boarded up with layers of newspaper, and there seemed to be nothing but a bed and stacks of books. No decorations, no photographs, and much less any color. He looked back at the woman looming over him, the woman who oozed beauty in everything from her slender body, to her long, dark hair, and even the natural pout that was painted on her face as she looked down at him. While she was wondering what about this man was enough to tempt the emotions she had suppressed for so long, he was wondering how someone who seemed to be so delicate lived in such an ominous home. 

“You’re so pretty.” He murmured in drunken awe, after staring at her for quite a while. She expected her eyes to roll, but even they seemed to be surpassing her expectations, as they didn’t even so much as falter. 

It was something she was used to hearing right before killing her prey. They would make a stupid, often drunk, comment about her beauty, and get excited as she closed in on them. They didn’t die with that excitement, but in an anguished shock as she the life out of them through their neck animalistically, contrasting the beauty they marveled at moments before. Only this time, with this man, she wasn’t ready to kill him just yet. She wanted to study him, more than she already had. 

“What was your name again?” He slurred, trying to sit up. “I’m Jiyong. I don’t remember you telling me your name.” 

“Sandara.” She answered, immediately and against her will. Her eyes widened, hearing her say her own name. It was almost like a forgotten fact to her. She had vowed never to share her identity with any of her prey, yet here she was, hearing the man laying on her bed repeat it to himself, smiling. 

There was no more time to waste, Sandara thought to herself. She could not let her mind sway any further, as she had already wasted to much time playing with her food. She moved to sit on top of him, straddling his lap. His eyes widened at her sudden movements, and he tried to get up, only to be pushed down, and held down by her force. This was the moment Jiyong seemed to sober up, realizing that something was incredibly wrong with the woman on top of him. No girl with her frame could possibly hold down a larger man. He began panicking, trying to move against Sandara’s grip, trying to escape the girl who could very well be a monster. 

This was always Sandara’s favorite part. She felt as if she deserved to see the fear settle into every scum’s eyes, like they were able to effortlessly draw it out of her when she was still a human. Hundreds of thousands of men could not satisfy her thirst to see that expression painted on every one of her victims. She almost d