Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✯☾✯
1998
𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒌, 𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒔 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 agreement, blotting out the moon and stars, shrouding the world in inky black.
The air was heavy with anticipation, as the distant rumble of thunder grew steadily closer, like a heartbeat echoing through the atmosphere.
Rain drew in from the west, a cacophony of drumming and splattering as the teardrops poured down in torrents.
Bright, misshapen bolts lacerated the ominous sky, lighting up the world for just a split second before plunging it back into everlasting darkness.
A small shack stood uncertainly on a hill, withstanding the storm's fury. The howling wind rattled windows and doors, as if trying to gain entry into the safety of the sheltered space.
Inside, the atmosphere was haunting. The glow of candles and occasional flickers of power outages casted eerie shadows on the walls, adding to the strange ambiance of the night.
The shack's roof was patchy and uncared for, and the rainwater seeped through the cracks, forming puddles on the uneven wooden floorboards.
Puddles formed into streams that dipped in and out of the crevices, tangling with a second substance. A substance of crimson colour bright enough to be visible in the dim light.
A body.
A body lifeless but still alive.
The woman's face was pale, her clothes soaked and torn. A deep gash settled along her chest oozing blood, staining the floor beneath her. She clutched her wound, grimacing with pain as each raindrop seemed to accentuate her agony. Her breathing was laboured, the blood loss edging her body to shut down.
Warm, auburn hair contrasted with the full tones of the decor. It was matted and greasy, sprawled around the woman's unsupported head.
This was where she lay to rest.
Her gaze wandered around the bare room, her eyes reflecting a mix of pain and resignation. Memories of better times, perhaps, or the burden of her many sins and the lives she ruined.
Her impending death came as no shock to her, she had it coming.
Yet, what she had not expected was the brutal and coldness behind the woman she loved's eyes as she struck her with her knife.
In Catalina Ignis' mind, her moral compass was in perfect condition, her conscience was clean and she had done nothing wrong.
But, for, Amelia Brown, Catalina had ruined her life. She'd been stripped of her light, her joy, her happiness. Her life had been controlled by the paranoia and nausea that came from whenever she had thought of the dying woman.
