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She cradled the wrinkled parchment between her bloodstained fingers and fought the rise of bile that made its way up her throat. The waves that contained her eyes had washed out— they were now just an empty ravine of crystalized salt and grainy sand. Her stomach churned as her brain recollected the swirling letters that floated through her mind. Those two words rotted through her brain straight to the core. The all too familiar cursive letters, the faint smell of cinnamon and honey. They lingered on the edges of the paper and the tip of her mind. It hadn't been that long ago. Had it? Already the faded edges of memory were escaping her mind and leaving, just like he did.
The smell of iron and copper and blood infiltrated her senses. It matted to her hair and face, stuck to her clothes and skin. It surrounded her, the death, the destruction, the creep of loneliness already there. You are alone. They left you.
Her glassy stare made its way around the house she once called home. The place she had grown up in. Where she had made her first steps into the world. The front step where she met her brother and sister for the first time. The small cove in the corner that was reserved for the Christmas tree. The rickety back steps where she fell, and her brother patched her back up. The front lawn where she had her first kiss. The bloodstained rug that her family was just murdered on.
Their corpses now still and transparent. The blood flow had stopped a while ago. Maisie couldn't tell what blood was her own and which was that of her dead families. Fear had left her body hours ago, now replaced with something cold and icy. She tasted the blood on her tongue, her face, lips, eyes, and hands. It was everywhere. It was suffocating. And yet, she still couldn't move. Her fingers were locked around the note that had arrived minutes after the death of her brother and sister.
Shock was the only thing that kept her from screaming. All she could do was stare. Her clothes were ripped and soaked with blood; her fingers kept slipping on something sticky and warm. She didn't have to look to know it was the blood of her sister. Each inhale was painful—her chest heaved in pain that she couldn't pinpoint.
They are all dead.
He is dead.
Her brain couldn't process it. How? Why? But she knew how, and she knew why.
She moved to look at the, now bloodstained too, note. In his all too familiar scribble were the words I'm Sorry. That was it, but somehow she knew. She knew that he was gone—she felt it. The empty shatter of her heart. The pieces he had broken and put together all at the same time. The shards she gave him, and he never gave back. The sharp edges he cut her with and the pieces he used to stitch her back up. Still, time after time she gave them back to him. Because it was him hurting her. And as much as she hated him, she loved him. She despised that part of her. The rotted, corraded part of her that loved the pain. The part of her that loved him.
She stood shakily on her foot. She felt the damp puddle of blood slide off her skin, the silk material of her shirt scraped against her stomach feeling like a knife on wood. Carving her and reshaping the structure of her body. Rebuilding her mind, focusing on the one thing she could get a hold of. Revenge.
Revenge for the stolen kisses, the smell of cinnamon against her skin, the silk that scratched her bare arms and torso. Revenge for her family, their warm hugs, and reverberating memories. She was going to get it and no one was going to stand in her way. It may not be right now, but he'll know it was her. When he rises again, her anger will slip through the cracks in his exterior and destroy him from the inside out. Just like he did with her, and so many more innocent families.
Everything catches up to you eventually, it just depends on how long you can run.
authors note i dont hate this yet. writing dark is so much eaiser so maybe i should just stick to what im good at. also this took WAY to long to get out and I sincerely apologize.
