Blood and Wine

Except for the faint tinge of iron in the air, one could be forgiven for believing the large burgundy puddle on the ground was from a broken barrel of wine. Without the presence of a body, it truly did appear as if there had been a mishap in the wine cellar. Deidre smiled to herself, lifting the glass of merlot to her lips and taking a slow sip.

It had been a perfect date.

Her tongue swirled in her mouth, absorbing the complex flavors and hints that lingered within the liquid: black cherries and plum with the faintest note of vanilla. It was one of the better merlots from that year, and it didn't hurt that it came from the same year she discovered her favorite hobby. It was an avocation she had become exceptionally proficient at.

2008 had been a fantastic year for Mynyard's, the vineyard and winery founded and curated by her great-grandfather so many years prior. It was also the first time she got a taste for the sight of blood as the perfect accompaniment to a good glass of wine. Truly, she would take a sauvignon blanc, or pinot grigio, a Zinfandel, or pinot noir. White or red, it mattered not. Regardless of the flavors blended into the drink, freshly spilled blood was properly complemented.

She had only been 18 then, a child in truth and yet considered a matured woman by society. Spending time at the vineyard was one of her favorite activities although she only managed to come every other week. One of the workers, Louis she believed his name had been, made a pass at her once she was deemed "legal." Perhaps if he had accepted her kindly offered rejection or respected her wishes, none of the following events would have occurred. She would have remained the sheltered, privileged child of a wealthy Texan family which ran an independent winery, and her favorite hobby would still be riding horses. Instead, he had reacted with rage.

The fool.

Deidre was no shrinking violet, no. She was a bold girl who believed she was going places and was wickedly ambitious. The vineyard would be hers someday after all and she intended to catapult it into the global consciousness and gain world renown. When his hands had touched her, she had acted on pure instinct - her instincts had never failed her before.

The man was a threat, and if he tried to spew a story about her lying, it wouldn't matter if she was proven innocent because it would forever leave a smear on her reputation. She wouldn't let that happen. Needless to say, the winery had everything she could possibly hope for to handle the situation: a punch-down tool, the machinery that crushed the harvest, the drains resting in the slightly sloped floor, and the water hoses.

Every part of him swirled down the drain, gone in an instant.

A simple truth came to her that day.

Killing bad men was enjoyable.

Thus her favorite hobby was born, one she had participated in for 13 years. They had many workers who only came seasonally or who simply packed up and left without notice. No one was overly concerned when one or two went missing. When she ran dry of her own special harvest at the winery, she would find other men. It was an easy strategy: she waited at nightclubs and bars and watched men prey on other women. The next night, she would return to watch them do it all over again on another unsuspecting would-be victim. However, she forestalled their plans by going to them first and scheduling her own date with them. After all, she had access to a secluded location, perfect for them to attempt their cruel depravities.

Sure, it hadn't always gone smoothly, and once every now and again she would sport a black eye, but for the most part she didn't struggle. Some way or another she would get them on their back and then she would use her favorite toy: the punch-down tool.

The puddle of blood began to follow the wishes of gravity and sluggishly seeped towards the drain in the center of the room. This one had been her own personal Moby Dick. She had hated this man since she was a little girl and he a young boy.

Their parents had been friends, but he had always teased her relentlessly and not merely verbally. He had hurt her, violated her at a young age, but she had never dared to say a word as he had threatened repercussions if she did. As a small, scared girl, she had no choice but to listen. That had been the only time in her life she had felt powerless. She had never allowed herself to be in that position again.

Mattias believed himself immune to scrutiny or attack and did whatever he wanted to women. She had seen it throughout the years, and she knew enough about tears ruining mascara and poorly concealed bruises to pick up on the signs on the rare occasion she saw him and his latest flame. She knew not how many years he had been doing it, and initially she had never been interested in going after him, a part of her own psyche still cowering from their childhood encounters. Then he asked her out. How on earth could she refuse when the whale put himself before her harpoon? It was as if he wanted her to seek out revenge. They had enjoyed a candlelight dinner at the winery, swapping stories of their days in college and years in the business world. He had joked of the times he had injured her, of the times he had defiled her, and she laughed as if entirely unaffected. When she rose to get them a new bottle of wine, he certainly didn't expect to abruptly enter unconsciousness.

She had always suspected he had an obnoxiously hard head, and the shattered bottle of wine and glass shards surrounding his chair were solid proof.

Rather than wait for the ruthless and intelligent man to regain consciousness, she went about her own brand of punishment. The only man to ever make her feel small, to ever make the difference in their gender a fear-factor, now lay dead at her feet. She had killed him. The joy and satisfaction she felt was truly indescribable. The best she could manage was the feeling of intoxication, when you had enough to drink that your entire body was loose, your mind bubbling brightly even as you slowly began to reach the limits of your control. It was the best first date she had ever been on.

Following her normal method of clean-up, she stood in the cellar and watched the blood drain as she continued to drink her wine. Mattias was a rich man, a name to be known, and his absence would raise questions. Surely an investigative team would find themselves at her door. Let them come. When she finished her delicious glass, she would set to properly cleaning the cellar floor and completely destroying the biological remnants he had left. This required complex chemical compositions, not bleach. It would be hard work, but she would enjoy every minute of it.

Then, in a few weeks or perhaps a few months, she would find herself a new first date.