The Puppeteer

1. Crimson Tears

Chapter 1

Blood.

"Ms. Wells."

Blood everywhere.

"Ms. Wells!"

I jerked my head up, my lips trembling, eyes soar and puffy. "Ms.Wells, can you please tell us what happened?"

I wanted to answer, but the words wouldn't come out. I was speechless. I was paralyzed.

Wrapping the wool blanket further around my stiffened shoulder, I bowed my head, the salty tears flowing around the apples of my cold cheeks. My breath came out as vaporized puffs into the cool winter air.

"Did you see anyone else?" The policeman ducked his head, peering through the curtain of dark curls fallen over my face. "Ms. Wells, it is important you tell us these details. We know you've been through a traumatic event tonight, but please focus."

I began to sob, my breathing ragged and heavy. Thinking back to the events of just an hour ago, I squeezed my eyes shut tightly together.

I got out of my car, not bothering to close the  drivers door behind me. I quickly made my way towards the man on his knees, his head tilted down, in the middle of the winding road. The streetlight to my left flickered softly, my lips trembling slightly from the cold.

"Sir, are you okay?" 

He didn't answer, a gush of cold air filling the eery silence. "Should I call for help?"

The man looked to be about in his mid to late forties or fifties with ruffled thin hair brushing the edge of his brown weathered jacket. He lifted his head up slowly, revealing tears the color of crimson red rolling down his cheeks, the whites of his eyes clouding with bloody veins. His face paled, lips moving softly as if to mumble something. 

All of a sudden, he got up to his feet and continued to drag them awkwardly against the paved road, as if the joints of his knees and ankles were no longer intact. One clumsy step after another, he rasped out a silent scream. 

I took a few cautious steps backwards, until I felt the bumper of my old Sedan press into the back of my legs.

Before I could scramble back into my car, too afraid to turn my back against the stranger, he started to run. His quick steps were sloppy, seeming almost mechanical. The man had enough time to grab my arm with a intense grip, and I screamed.

His bloodied eyes and face a mere inches from mine, he whispered. "They will find you. I have marked you." 

The moment I was about to open my mouth to let out another scream as his hand started to twist his grip on my arm, a figure came sprinting from the woods. It made its way towards my attacker, slashing the air above the man with what looked like a small pointed, dagger. The man fell instantly to the ground, a throaty croak leaving his pale lips before his arms and legs went limp.

 I blinked back tears as the figure, now realizing it wore a hooded cloak to mask its identity, turned its head slightly to the side, back still facing me. I could place some features to my rescuer's face: a sharp and angled jaw and a straight, strong nose. The rest was covered well by the shadow of its hood.

Then the figure fled the scene, leaving myself and the limp body of a man on the darkened paved road. I looked down at my arm, where the man had grabbed me. There, a small swelling scar in the shape of an oval or the letter O, carved itself into my skin as if a nail had been dragged against the soft surface of my inner forearm. I blinked, and the wound began to melt away, absorbing into my skin. It was completely gone.