Untitled soul-mark drabble (2015-06-22)

“You’ve got a little–I think your face is bleeding,” the lone waitress on shift says, as a woman dressed in dark colors enters the diner covered in blood. Lainey tries not to gag at the sight and, wafting it’s way through the air, the smell.

The woman isn’t aggressive or hostile; rather, she smiles absentmindedly at Lainey, and responds with, “What? Oh, no, it’s not mine. But thanks.”

Whatever few thoughts remain in Lainey’s mind after being confronted with a gorgeous, blood drenched woman at two thirty in the morning, flee entirely. She is frozen in fear, too scared to even flinch away as the stranger moves closer.

Because those words? Those words exactly, are scrawled down the side of her left calf. Her soul-mark. The first words her soulmate says to her. Oh god, her soulmate is some kind of serial killer.

Lainey had always been one of those girls perhaps a little too influenced by her soul-mark. She’d hide it with knee-high socks, covetous of the words, yet always pamper her legs when at home. She was always eager to return things to people–or rather, to return things to the wrong people, in hopes of hearing those words in returns. Every time she’d get her hopes up, and though sometimes their responses would be so close, it never happened.

Because apparently her soul-mark is about blood. Oh god, why?

“You’re still open, yes? The neon lights say it’s a twenty four hour diner… though I suppose since the two isn’t lit, you may just be a four hour diner” says the beautiful serial killer who is apparently Lainey’s soulmate.

“Y-yes,” stutters Lainey, brain still offline.

“Excellent, shall I just sit anywhere then?” Miss Super Model of Stranger Danger asks, peering around the empty diner.

Lainey nods, afraid to disagree.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll just use the washroom real quick, but if you could have a cup of coffee ready for me when I get back? I’d like to sit at the bar, please.” Very polite, this murdering soulmate of hers.

Lainey nods again. When the bloody woman passes her by, she tenses even more. It’s not until she can hear the bathroom door click shut that Lainey moves. And breathe, apparently. Her aching lungs thank her.

Oh god, her soulmate is a beautiful, polite murderer.

She gives a full body shudder then scrambles to fix a cup of coffee. The familiar motions seem to dislodge something in her brain because now she can think.

Maybe… maybe that’s not her soulmate? Maybe Lainey’s remembering her soul-mark wrong (impossible, she has those words burned into her retinas). Or maybe she’ll encounter someone else, someone less of an assassin, in the future who will say those words to her as well (possible, but unlikely considering past encounters). Or maybe… she hadn’t acknowledged Lainey’s words… so maybe it’s a non-mutual soul-bond.

That’s… that’s not ideal, to be honest. Non-mutual soul-bonds are rare, but in the sense that maybe a tenth of one percent of the entire population has it. That’s still one in a thousand, still seven million people on the planet, that’s a lot. It’s hard to verify, because maybe the soul-mark is a phrase that will be said in the future.

Her best friend had an uncle with a non-mutual soul-bond. He was nice, and always had time to listen to two teenagers complain about their cushy lives, but he met his soulmate when he was twenty-two–“Hey, I’m Devon, nice to meet you. Happy twenty second birthday, by the way,”–and watched as Devon met his soulmate, the bartender. It… it was a scar, something that had healed over time, but still left behind a mark. He was nice, and helped two dumb high schoolers work through their problems, but he was always sad.

Would a non-mutual soul-bond be better than a possibly murderous soulmate?

“Just perfect, dear,” says the still unnamed possible murderous soulmate, sliding onto the bar stool so suddenly as to startle Lainey. She doesn’t drop the little creamer jug, but she shakes just enough that some sloshes over the side.

Instinctively, Lainey pulls out a napkin to wipe up– mind having fled the vicinity again, leaving her body to function on it’s lonesome–before turning, very carefully, around to place the cup of coffee in front of the diner’s only and bloodiest customer.

“And you’ve added two sugars. Exactly how I like it,” the woman says delighted after taking a sip.

How did Lainey know that? That’s not how she takes her coffee; she doesn’t drink coffee.

“Now then, left-handed Lainey, my diner waitress soulmate. May I interest you in a very early breakfast date with me?”


A/N: From that one fic idea floating around–the one where your soulmate’s first words to you are marked somewhere on your body. I thought I’d give it a try. This was pretty fun to write.

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