Lena walked around the room, swishing the bottle of red wine. The liquid splashed out of the bottle and onto her purple skirt, and she ignored it as it soaked into her velvety purple skirt. She straightened out her matching deep purple corset and tipped the bottle again, bringing it to her lips.
She plopped down across the room at the white marble table, and she sighed deeply, taking another swig. She sat there for hours on end, the black bun in her hair slopped up, black curls cascading around her face, that collided with her white skin. At least it matched her black lips and deep brown eyes.
She looked around. She was the only one that lived in that godforsaken mansion, ever since her parents died. But she just wasted the money on wine. She hadn't been outside since they'd passed, and her skin was white, their bedroom untouched. Dust was collecting everywhere.
She looked at the window, squinting her blurry eyes, when she saw a white dove tapping the window. She shook her head, pushing back the wired black chair and getting up from the marble table only made for one person, and she slowly made her way to the window, opening it and letting the bird inside.
She stroked down its forehead before stepping onto the small, round balcony and gripping the banister. Roots and vines were creeping up on the marble, dried leaves of fall blowing in the wind. Blurs of brown, red, and yellow flew past her vision.
She looked around before finally she looked back down at the bird, and she noticed something around its throat, and she puzzled, taking another swig of her wine before pulling out a note around its neck, and she unrolled it, the dove still perching over her shoulder as she looked down at the neat, carefully swooped writing.
She carefully followed the page, reading;
I don't have any meaning for life anymore. Something's wrong with me. I need to die. Just like my brothers and sisters. By a rope around the neck. Except I'll be the one to hang this time. I don't know if anyone will ever find this, but if they do, I want them to know that you should never make the mistakes I made of living on a bottle.
Sincerely yours,
Jonathan.
She panicked, reading it over and over until her hands were trembling, a knot in her stomach. She'd known no one other than herself and the empty bottles surrounding her, and the black cat that was somewhere in this old house.
She felt the wine threatening to make a reappearance, but she pushed it back down and dashed inside, before she ran out of the room, the bird following her until she ran around the corner, the empty mansion echoing easily, a sound escaped her. One of a person deprived of oxygen under the water for ages.
She heard a hiss and was racing down one of the sets of spiraled marble stairs to the ground floor, looking at the black front doors when she saw the cat, arching its back at the bird, looking at her sorrowfully.
She ran around another corridor and into the kitchen, looking in several drawers and cupboards that were filled with empty wine bottles, dusty and used, until she found a quill and a ink cartridge and she immediately went to the white marble counter, scratching words down as fast as she dare, with drunk, shaking hands.
As soon as it wad done, she raced back the same way she came, and she gave the bird the note she'd written and threw it out the window, yelling for him to find Jonathan.
She slammed the window shut and widened her eyes, staring forward as she sunk to her heels, and she took another swig of wine, right before she fell into a sea of black.
Jonathan sat in his study, twirling the rope between his fingers. There were bags under his bright blue eyes, his black hair tousled. He was looking around at all the books in the study, wondering where he'd hang himself. His butler, Alfred Newman, was downstairs preparing dinner for the two or something.
