copycat

No one understood Tulipa.

Not by the way she dragged her r's and trapped her s's, her tongue dancing loosely in her mouth, like it didn't really know what it was doing. 

Not by her curious, coveted habit of staring at you for too long, unblinking… like she was trying to learn — or worse, absorb — something from you. 

Not by the metallic scent that foreshadowed her, nor by the faint purr, a low pulsing, something almost rhythmic, that trailed her footsteps like the swing of an animal’s tail.

Her feline gait. Precise, elegant even. 

The fake lashes that concealed her slanted eyes, the pupils too wide, the yellow irises wider. They stretched thin in the light and widened in the dark. Or so the rumours had it. 

No one knew where she came from. Only that she was always watching. Always trying to blend in. With this wicked eagerness to intermix. 

They said her glare felt like static, raising the hairs on your arms and neck. And you really didn't want to catch her watching you, because she might just copy you the next day.

She would wear your outfit, your hairdo, your smile. 

She might trail you through classes, follow you home to stand outside your window, watching. Always watching. 

Except no human outfit would hide her veins. They branched out in countless winding paths all across her limbs and torso. Tiny wavering patterns the color of a deep onyx… pumping a dark liquid that wasn't exactly blood. 

It streamed down her arms in gentle currents, twirling into spirals at places such as her elbows and shoulders…

I catch myself staring, and she knows. 

One flash of those wide yellow eyes, and suddenly I'm an endless pit of nothing, a ball of nausea spinning in place. 

Somewhere in the distance, I can feel the tendrils, invisible strings rummaging through my insides. They poke and pull and suck the breath out of me.

Then she batters those long lashes, the only time I've seen her do it, and zzzt! the feeling breaks. 

But the next day, she wears my smile.