The Woman in Red (Old vs New)

A quick note about what you're about to read: This item features the same story told twice. The first one up is the new one, prompted by a creative writing class I presently have in college, for an assignment to write a suspense story. The second is the original, written back in 2002, when I was about 13 years old. Only the most basic concept has been kept.


New Version, 2011

         A man lounged on a bench in the park, watching the people passing by. His eyes trailed after joggers and walkers alike, and he sometimes smirked almost imperceptibly at the occasional group of teenagers. With the exception of the small boy who randomly stopped and smiled brightly at him while the child’s parents chased him down – an action which did earn a chuckle and brief wave from the man on the bench – every person who the man’s eyes lingered on had two specific details in common: they were female, and he thought they were rather lovely.
         Even so, none really captivated him. They were pretty, yes, but they were otherwise unspecial. He was looking for something in particular, something that made a woman stand out. What it was, he wasn’t sure – but he was certain he’d know it when he saw it.
         He watched a young woman in a casual uniform hurry by, the logo of a nearby restaurant on the breast of her collared shirt. Cute, and he was feeling a bit peckish... and then something bright red caught his eye. His focus moved, and walking along in heels and a red mini-dress was another lovely woman with her head held high. She seemed a little out of place in the park, and in the daytime, looking more like she had just spent hours carefully preparing for a date or a night at the club. Her lipstick appeared perfect and fresh, her eyeliner dramatic, dark hair curled and smoothed, tan perfectly even, and everything about her demanding attention and thorough study.
         The man’s mouth curved into a lopsided smirk, and his tongue slipped out a moment to run over his top lip. He stretched, glanced around, and stood, his hands slipping into his pants pockets as he turned and strolled off after the woman in the red dress.
         He kept some distance as he followed, and she made it easy, seeming so confident in where she was going and so involved in her own doings that she never really looked around. Even when she crossed the street, she hardly glanced to see if cars were coming. When she stopped at a bistro, the man ordered himself a jalapeño bagel with cream cheese and watched from behind as the woman acknowledge the waiter just enough to order fruit salad and yogurt. She didn’t even seem to notice the way the waiter’s eyes kept flashing down to her low neckline and back up to her face; or, perhaps she expected it, dressed as she was, and simply didn’t care. The man noticed, though, and picked irritably at his bagel, resisting the urge to punch the waiter.
         Finishing first, the man lingered until she, too, seemed to be nearing completion, then paid for his bagel and left, entering a nearby shop to continue watching her. He perused the shop – there were mostly t-shirts trying to be amusing, but he paid little attention to them – until she finished and paid, and didn’t leave a tip. As she continued on, he returned once more to trailing her.
         The man enjoyed watching the way she walked; the fluid grace she had despite the high heels and the way every step threatened to let the hem of her dress slip up and show what was hidden beneath. It almost drew his attention away from the gazes she got from other men, gazes that made him clench his fists and fidget with his pockets. They had no right to her, no right to gawk and imagine. She was his prey. No one else would have her. No one else would see her, or touch her skin, or taste her lips, or know just how close her dress was to the color of her blood. Simply thinking about it brought a crooked smile to his face and sent a little shiver down his spine.
         Fewer people passed as they went along, moving into a more storage-and-industrial-looking neighborhood, and the tempo of her heels against the pavement began to slow just a little. At last she was starting to look around more, and the man wondered whether she was looking for something specific or lost. Her footfalls became more erratic, as she’d hurry forward a few steps to peer down streets and alleys, slow as she past, then lady-jog again to the next. Finally she paused at a street that followed beneath an underpass, grimy windows and windowless walls severely limiting the view. As she started down it, he wondered if perhaps she was an unusually clean prostitute, or a stripper called over by some lonely worker. The worker or whoever it was would just have to stay lonely.
         The woman stopped by one of the concrete columns holding up the underpass, one hand on it while she leaned forward like someone who forgot their glasses trying to discern what was in from of them. Rather than keeping back, the man kept walking, his steps soft and almost silent. He looked at her fingers against the column as he moved closer, admiring the dark red polish on her nails. Hands in his pockets, palm on the handle of a knife, he opened his mouth to greet her – and hadn’t made a sound when she turned to face him, blinking, then smiling. The man paused, and found himself being grabbed and turned, the woman pushing him against the column and kissing him hard before he quite knew what was going on. Rather than fight, he pulled his hands out, wrapped his arms around her to pull her close, and fingered his knife to aim the blade.
         He felt a sharp pain in his stomach, and it pulled and twisted upward. It suddenly became hard to breathe, and all he could do was cough as he felt the woman moving back. The man dropped to his knees, coughing harder than he ever had before, and it took all he had to look up and focus on the woman long enough to actually see her. He saw beautiful bold red on a knife and on her hands, being wiped sensually across her face and neck as she laughed, and then all sense of being was gone.


Old Version, 2002

         "That smell," he says, "that wonderful smell. I love that smell. The sweet smell of fresh blood."
         The murderer stands over his latest victim, a bloody knife in his hand. The victim was a young woman, the fifth of the month. He puts a finger in the blood.
         "And that sweet taste," he says, licking it off his finger, "such a wonderful thing."
         He leans down and kisses the woman. "I'm sorry, my dear, but I must go. Beauty lasts only so long, and the feeling is fading. Farewell."
         The next day, he began searching for his next victim. He did not kill at random. He would look for a beautiful woman, then watch what she did for the next few days. Only those who met his standards were chosen as what he called his "death brides."
         Once he chose, he would soon approach the woman and say, "I love you. Please look for me." He would then murder her. He didn't care about a woman’s age or if she was married. He had counted eight that were married and had lost count of girls under 17 years old.
         As he was looking, his eyes landed on a woman who looked about 22 years old, with brunette hair that flowed in chocolate curls over her shoulders. Her tan skin was covered by a short, bright red dress. But for some reason, he felt she should be in a pure white dress, not one so close to the color of blood.
         While he was studying her, he realized he was walking toward her, as if he was being pulled in. He attempted to stop, but his feet kept moving. Then a car drove by, blocking her from his sight, and she disappeared into the crowd.
         Though he would usually simply look for another woman, he began searching for his woman in red. He looked everywhere he could think of. Restaurants, apartment buildings, cars and busses, office buildings, alleys, any place he thought of. But he couldn't find her. But still, he checked and rechecked everything. Just when he was about to give up, he saw her.
He was still fascinated by her, and followed her. He hid when he could, and blended with the crowd when he couldn't. He followed her into an apartment building and up to where he guessed her apartment was, because she went into one of the many doors. Once she was in, he hurried back to get the nearest apartment. He had little trouble, for the one next to hers was vacant.
         He went to his new home and found, to his delight, a hole in the wall, through which he could see the woman's apartment. He whispered, half to her, half to himself, "You are my woman in red. But you are... different. Why?"
         He stayed awake the rest of the night, watching and listening for the lovely woman. When she finally left her apartment, he followed her again. She didn't do much. She wandered around the city between her breakfast, lunch, and dinner at various restaurants. Shortly after dinner she went back to her apartment.
         The next three days went about the same. But the fourth had a change. Though it started out about the same, it ended very different from any he'd ever seen.
         The first thing he noticed was that instead going somewhere for dinner, she continued wandering around. She continued on to an alley he knew well. It was in this very alley that he had killed for the first time years ago. The bloodstain was still on the pavement.
         The woman, who was wearing red again, walked over to the stain and asked, "Is this were your life really began?"
         Her question surprised and confused him. Was she talking to him? He was the only other person there, but she had never shone any signs of seeing him. She turned and repeated her question.
         "What do you mean?" he asked, still confused.
         "You have been watching me," she replied. "I have been watching you watch me. I've been watching you for about seven months now. I know what you do. You murder women after telling them you love them."
         "I never saw you," he said.
         The woman laughed. "Of course you didn't see me! I let you see me four days ago. I've been letting you watch me. Now will you answer my question?"
         "I don't understand your question."
         "When you entered the alley, the look on your face told me this was the place of your first kill. Am I right?" she asked.
         "Yes," he replied.
         The woman walked over to a garbage can and moved it, revealing another, larger red stain. "This was my first kill."
         "Hm. Same thing, same place," he said.
         "Yeah. So what do you think of me? Am I like the rest?" she asked.
         "No," he said in turn. "For some reason, you seem different."
         "Do you think it's true love?"
         "That's the only explanation I can think of."
         The woman walked over to him and began kissing him almost harshly. He winced. Looking down, he saw that she had stabbed him, her cold knife going deep in his stomach.
         He collapsed and as the light of life faded from his eyes, he looked up to meet the woman's cool gaze.
         "Sorry, but you are just like the others to me," she said with an wicked smile. "Save me a good spot in Hell."
         Once all life had drained from his body, she cut out his still-warm heart.
         "Almost all of them talked about 'true love.' Just another for my collection," she said as she walked away.