Gunshot of the Heart

Nostalgic

Blood. A dripping painful effect. Tied along with fault, agony, and death. It does not hesitate to linger, and I'm bathed in it. My hands are clenched in a puddle of the deadly liquid. The stain it shall leave will never fade away. The only thing I truly wonder though is, who's blood is this? Puddles surround me, and the stench is strong. It fills the black room I'm in so perfectly. The spots become larger, and an object lies a few yards away. It must be the bleeding item that has dispersed the traumatizing liquid around me. My body can not help but shake in its reaction. Movement is slow and unsteady. I crawl my way over to what appears to be a body. They are limp and lifeless, but I move their shoulder as if their face would give me a definite answer that I already know. It would be a sad moment in reality, but this is not a normal human. For they are faceless. No sign of expression because no facial features are present. Yet a thousand images of people flash through my eyes like cards in a game. Scrolling through at lighting speed the images stop on one particular person. A tear is trickling down my cheek at the image of the face, but it suddenly appears on the corpse. I want to speak their name. Just once.

*Fade*

I release a sudden gasp as I sit up straight in bed. Sweat is dripping off my brow and down my neck. My blanket is thrown to the floor, and my bed is in disarray. That was possibly the most terrifying dream I have ever encountered. You could almost classify the dreadful appearance as a nightmare. That person though, I can not possibly believe it. I fear the fairies missed me this night, or simply could not come for some very important reason. I am however, still shaking. Just as I was in my dream that is now only a small memory my mind is holding in a damp place. I want to forget it, but that faceless man. A burned image on my mind that I shall never forget. It will only cause me confusion at this point in time, might as well develop something different to ponder about. The Letter.

I immediately stumble to my window. The sky is still dark with looming clouds of burnt smoke. Thank heavens I awoke before the sun even thought about rising again. Perhaps it could just not today? Possibly drown in the smoldering air? To just take a break and allow me to fully develop a plan, or it could never rise again. That is very unlikely though, and I should not place too much hope in that inspiring yet idiotic idea.

"Plan A it is then." I say proudly to myself.

It's a plan I was tearfully looking forward too. Not the most responsible idea for a young lady, but definitely one that shall allow me to be of use. I stride over to my mothers old dresser she handed down to me. A mirror surrounded with lace hangs above with my comb just below it. Though one important object lies missing. With a hesitant hand I open the top drawer. Shears sharpened for the annual hair trimming glimmer in my eye with the light of a candle being reflected so delicately. They are a fear of mine, due to the lightness I get when cutting something is involved. Yet, I grasp them ever so gently fearing they could cut me on their own. Black and smooth the shears carry much weight. Mother always made them look so light and graceful when she would cut Delly's hair. Beautiful, but not here.

I quietly smooth over my hair, and pet my hair with my comb. Making sure it is all even and containing no knots of any sort. Choosing a red hair tie I place all of my hair evenly in a small pony tail. This is it. The black shears now extremely heavy are carried by my fingers and opened in front of the clump of hair I've parted together. Loudly they cut away. Memories of time fall with strands of my hair. All the way to the floor, I watch them closely. So closely it triggers a longing tear to slip past the cold barriers in my eye.

The mirror though, is what I fear the most. People have always complimented me on my long flowing hair, and how raw the color was. Now, it's gone. My gaze casts up going against what I wanted. Seeing is it something I must do. It's precisely mid ear length, or a bit longer than Bren's.  It is short enough for me to pass as a male. I can't help but smile at the mirror, even if my hair gives me a deep anxiety about myself. I'm still me.