DEATH WISH

PART I: ABIGAIL WALKS

1
Abigail white walked down – limped – down the long honeycomb road, away from her house. The night was cold, and the sky was starry.
The moon sat high like a king and the clouds had almost disappeared for the night, barely visible. Abigail's red hair was stained, saturated in blood.
She was as white as a ghost, her eyes half-closed, half-open, her right cheek burnt and blisters grew, and rotting flesh was showing. Her face was covered in blood, big, thick slogs of the red stuff. Her arm was cut, severely injured, deep cuts, smashed up bones – probably never being mended back up. Her eyes were swollen with tears, and she had reason to cry, she had just watched each and every one of her friends be slaughtered in front of her by an evil force. Her white shirt and denim jeans ripped, showing her kneecaps, thigh, and some of her ankle. Her white shirt, stained with blood, big stains, never coming off. Her right ankle was nearly broken, sprained from falling down the stairs, large stairs, of her home, of which she would never go back to, never again, but it would find her, the spirit, it would come for her, and she knew that. The spirit was going to kill her, like it had killed her friends. Slaughtered them right in front of her. That was something she would never get out of her head. Never. She was crying still, her arm hurt, just hanging like a loose shoelace on any pair of Nike or Adidas brand. She was scared that a long, moaning whisper would follow her, then that's when she would know it was coming, so she had to act fast, getting far away was her only option right now, and was her priority.
She looked over her shoulder, flicking her thick red hair out of her eyes, trying to wipe her tears onto her shoulder, rubbing her sore, red eyes against her white tee.
She walked again, her feet, bare, felt like they were about to split. The skin felt delicate, very thing, like paper. She walked past the woods, as fast as she could, flicking her hair out of her eyes when she needed to. She wiped the tears out of her eyes, and kept walking.
She limped faster when she heard another whisper. It was coming for her now, faster.

2
She got to the end of Holland/Kenneth street, panting. A Street filled with houses and apartments. A long street it was, and every light in only one house was on.
An old woman was sitting up late – the time was 10:00 – eating ice-cream and watching the late cartoons and the occasional news reports. A road runner cartoon played, the volume low so no other person in the whole of Kenneth Street heard her watching cartoons. Her name was Ursula Pool, and she did care what other people thought of her. She thought that the other old people in the street – or maybe the young adults – would think she was special, like she had turrets or something. She took another spoonful of her ice-cream and dripped some onto her purple nightshirt. 'Oh, no' she tisked. 'not again', this was the second nightshirt she had worn that night, because she had to change after spilling her dinner onto her first pale blue nightshirt. She looked back up, her vision being blurry without her glasses. She scratched her head, and ruffled her old, bony fingers through her grey – with some black streaks in it – hair.
She grabbed the glasses off the brown table next to her, which she put the ice-cream bowl onto. She slipped them up her long, old, wrinkly nose and stared through them, squinting to see well. A girl, red-headed, covered in blood.
Her arm hanging down like a noodle, her red hair drenched in blood.
She walked up to the window and got a better look at the girl. A young girl limping, like a blurred shadow on the wet, rain covered road. Her thick red hair gleamed in the moonlight, just like the road. Ursula walked to the front door, passing by the old, aged photos, slowly turning yellow of her mother and her father, with little her in the middle, back in 1950, when she was eight. She is seventy-eight now, and she lives quietly. The old photos meant something to her, like the last bit of her mother and father before they died in 1984, and 1989.
They lived long lives, they were healthy, but Ursula wasn't.
She walked to the door, admiring the wallpaper that looked posh. She opened the door, and then rain started to fall down from the sky, clouds started to slowly drift into view, and the stars disappeared. 'EXCUSE ME?!' Ursula called, her hands cupped over her mouth, squinting still through her round, black rimmed glasses that hung on the end of her nose. Abigail saw her as soon as she called to her. Help, she thought, she limped to her as fast as she could. Ursula saw her wounds, her ankle, her arm, her cheek, and she saw the ripped clothes, painted with blood. Thick blood.