Ink

Stroke 1

It was a quiet night,

The animals were sleeping,

Fireflies dancing,

And I had to slay the demon disturbing this peace.

I snapped the paintbrush in my hand, changing it into a broomstick. Sitting on top, I fled away from the city. Some may call me a witch, but I knew too well I was more than that.

I am, and always will be.... Ink.

I reached into my pocket for some pens. None.

I cursed under my breath, as the demon howled into the night. I floated towards the beach. Luring the beast into the cool sand.

"Didn't think I'd have to use this" I mumbled as I pulled out a long needle. The item was at least four inches long. Sharper than a X-acto knife splitting through human flesh. Which I should have brought but this was closest thing near me at the time. Ironic, is it not?

Taking a deep breath, I began to carve the word "sword" into my wrist. Right then did the object rise before me, a blood stone studded sword.  A literal blood stone. My blood.

How do I know you ask?

I can smell it.

Color has no meaning for me. I've never experienced it before. For me, it would be a dream, dream of floating bubbles and sugary, cotton candy, clouds.

Pretty, but is it strong? I thought as I grabbed the handle and swung at the vicious monster towering before me. The beast was sixty feet tall, scales covered its grotesque figure, and his jaws contained none other than the sharpest teeth I have ever seen. He lunged at me, using the crocodile like claws he had.

Right before letting it attack, I slice through his arms, legs and throat swiftly with no problem. Only a scratch was left on my hoodie's right sleeve.

The remains turn to dust and vanish into thin air.

A throb pounds in my chest. I wince as the pain flows through me.

This happens every time.

A ink bottle shaped like a beating heart is left in the shallow water of the lake. It's veiny features gave off an eerie feel. It was about the size no bigger than my palm.

I drop my sword and it slowly drips away. Black, inky, darkness seeps into the sand and gets sucked back into the hell it came from.

I am only left with the pain running off my arm. I lick the metal scented blood off my arm and wrist. It tasted like iron.

The remaining blood crusted along my arm, down to my palm, dripping from my fingertips.

I grabbed Brush (That's what I call it) and sat on the middle, after grabbing the bottle. I shoved it in my pocket and flew off into the clouds. The breeze tangled my long thick hair. My parents told me I had black hair but I already knew what black was like.
I was also told I have beautiful red lips. I wanted to know what red was for a long time, but I no longer cared for color.
I can't have it anymore. Never could.

My name is coincidentally, Ink. My parents wanted Pink, but my older brother however decided it would be funny to remove the 'P' in Pink. It would be ironic anyway. I'm colorblind. So thank you Grey for making my life a little easier to deal with.
Indeed sir, I enjoy having small children calling me "Pen Head" when I cross the street, or having people think my parents are idiots for naming me after excess melanin for octopi. How lovely indeed.
I couldn't be named Sarah, or Mary, or Alice, even Beth would be okay. I was stuck with the very liquid that not only comes out of squids, but is used to write on paper, and scarred in skin for body art.