Chapter 1: Bleeding Love. Literally.
Leona Lewis looked out the bay windows of her Upper Middle class home in New york new york, and sighed wistfully.
When you were a celebrity of her caliber, you could easily absorb the essence of so many things at once, and instantaneously know many intricate things about them.
She held out her british fists in the black of the night. "I want to know everything.... every detail. I want to squeeze every color of the universe and watch it leak...."
She gasped as she saw real colors ooze out of the slits of her fingers. Red, orange yellow... all dripping down and staining her mink carpet. It felt like real blood. She licked her fist. Even tasted like real blood. She then realized it was people, she was actually killing people. From a safe, faraway distance. Not only was she killing them, she was literally killing the color out of them. The very thing that makes us all unique.
Leona wanted none of this. She was an entertainer, not a villain. She hated people thinking that she was a bad guy just because she wanted a good life for herself. She was tired of her family being down on her, because she was destined to be a diva that had gay men swarming all around her giving her compliments.
It was easy to feel disconnected from the people you just murdered when you were in a beautiful new york skyscraper looking down at the world.
"I have to go out in the city and look at train stations in a romantic way lest the population think I'm being too full of myself" Leona Lewis said to the mirror on the door with a self-satisfied smile on her face. "It's good for one's career if one can prove to others that one is a Good Person."
I keep bleedin , keep keep bleedin' love. Her brown-orange hair swayed in the most perfect way as she artistically walked over a steaming manhole cover in manhattan. She put her hands in her diamond colored raincoat and sighed again.
She felt like screaming, like reaching out... like connecting. "I'M JUST LIKE YOU PEOPLE OF NEW YORK. I AM NOT BETTER BECAUSE I AM A CELEBRITY!" Okay that was weird. Why did she actually say that?
"Oh yeah baby then howzabout you come to my place tonight and i can throat fuck ya?" a fat blue collar italian dude said.
She slapped him across the face. "How undignified. Totally not what I meant."
"Damn you crazy broad..." Leona Lewis realized that although she lightly slapped the man, she had hit him with so much force that she made his body turn a lamp post into the shape of a question mark.
"Just what the fuck is up with my powers?" she said.
"P-powers. There's such a thing as MAGIC?" the blue collar guy said, who was unaware of the magical sides of life.
"Yes dear. And I'm afraid you were never *looks him up and down* ... special enough, to have them. Except for the power of empathy, which every human has. We elites understand the point of empathy daaaarling, we just take it to the next level. Capiche?"
Wow. She sure knows how to put you in your place, doesn't she. But this was LEONA LEWIS. She can do that!
Humiliated and defeated, blue collar guy walked out of Leona Lewis' limelight. "See! I want to make you feel bad about yourself, not kill you!" she whined to the New York night.
Killing isn't something the higher classes do. If pissed off enough, they have other people kill who bothers them, but really- even that is a low. And celebrities don't like to be low. They like to be high. Being rich, beautiful and successful yourself is the best revenge anyway, and Leona Lewis knew this. It was much better for one's reputation to pretend to help the lower classes via cancer charities that don't really go anywhere tangibly.
Leona Lewis just wanted an answer to why she was so... off. She waved up her hands and asked for the help of God, Oprah, Rhianna... or anybody that could be listening. It was then the universe answered, and out from the street corner came a beaten-up looking gay man in a brown suede jacket with a bunch of sexy cuts and bruises all over his body.
"My dear god darling, what sewer have you crawled out of, mhmm?"
Sam looked at this woman up and down. "I don't know how well I get along with black chicks who talk like they're white but... we need to talk."