She takes a cold kind of satisfaction in the way that the cold water shocks him. The way that he shudders when it reaches him, and she cannot help but wonder if he would make the same face once the poison hit his bloodstream. Would his eyes go wide? Would he fight it or would he simply allow it to take him over? There is a dark fascination that grows within her with such thoughts. The need to try and figure out how others would greet death once it knocked upon their doorstep. It tells a girl so much about a stranger.
But she doesn’t pursue these thoughts further.
She just studies him as he remains planted in the water, not coming further. Deciding that she is pleased with the unfolding of events, she steps closer to him, closing the distance between them so that she can get a better look at his eyes. For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing as she finally holds onto his gaze, her voice only a smidge deeper when she finally does speak once more.
“I think you’d like to come deeper into the water,” there’s the faint buzz of pleasure that she always gets when she feels the enthrallment loosen within her. “Don’t you?” If the discomfort of the frigid temperature reaches into her, she pays it no mind. She has grown up giving herself small doses of things such as this. Cold temperatures. The brush of death. The taste of a poisonous flower.
Again and again and again.
Until they can no longer hurt her.
Until she can barely feel it at all.
but in all chaos, there is calculation