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WATKINS wakes up to the sound of static in a dark room.
The problem is that he doesn't know where it's coming from — he got rid of the busted TV in his bedroom two weeks ago. Lazily, he pulls his blankets off his body and sits up in his bed, dainty left hand reaching up to wipe away the sleep from his eyes. He can still hear the faint crackling sound and it fills his thoughts and his ears; Watkins will never go back to sleep if he doesn't do something about it. Inferring that the sound is coming from the upstairs den (his nanny always forgets to turn it off when she goes to sleep), he sits up, not bothering to reach up and turn on a light; he knows his house like the back of his hands.
His eyes adjusts to the dim lighting as the young man walks down the narrowing hallway, eyes squinting at the outline of a person sitting in a chair with their back turned towards him. Watkins walks closer, the static becomes exponentially louder, and his world becomes a blur. All he sees is what is in front of him.
He shuffles closer to the figure and weakly says, "Hey, Kendra, you could at least turn it down for me. I know Wife Swap is important to your well-being and all but—"
Watkins isn't talking to Kendra.
His jaw snaps shut and words dissipate when he doesn't recognize the head of hair in front of him. It's not the brown, short curls he's grown to love; instead, it's thin, long hair that's black as tar. Taking slow steps back, his bones shake at the blood-curdling chuckle the woman gives. "Maybe I was a Kendra, in a dream I had once, or a different life." Her voice is soft yet commands his attention the moment the volume enters the atmosphere, and the buzz in his ears from the static is long forgotten. Her voice is sensual and smooth like soft newly spun silk, gliding against his eardrums like music. Watkins' ears hear nothing but the sound of her voice, lulling him into a sleepless trance.
She is a siren, and he is her sailor, walking towards his death.
"Yeah, that sounds nice. I could've been a Kendra once," she says, dreamily yet distant. "But names don't matter anymore where I dwell. What is a name, after all, when you've been dead?" He knows he should run — he wants to run— but at this point, his mind and body are two separate entities. His mind runs, but his body stays put.
"Who are you?"
The woman wastes no time. "I think the better question is ... who was I?"
Watkins asks nothing else.
Watching as the chair slowly creaks around, he forgets how to breathe when he looks at her for the first time. The first thing he sees isn't her beauty, nor is it the way her ancient hazel eyes study him. Green eyes slowly drift down and sees that her throat is slit from ear to ear, but there is no blood spilling. However, he can see the way that her vocal chords tremble and quake with every word she speaks. Hypnotized, bewildered, and frightened, Watkins is paralyzed where he stands — the young man has turned to stone. She stands up and raises her arm. He can't even move out the way as her cold fingers reach out to touch him, lips parting and body quivering as her hand caresses his cheek. He feels repulsed — her fingers smell like blood.
She begins, "Mhm, I think I can answer that question for you. First ... I was a daughter, I think. Then I was a sister, a friend, an aunt, and a confidant. I was a lover, about to be someone's bride, but now?" She gives out another slow, agonizing laugh, the kind of humorless laugh that lets him know that nothing about this is funny. It makes his blood chill. "But now I'm nothing more than a ghost, a lifeless corpse.
"My last identity was sealed into an unmarked grave." Her glassy eyes threaten to let tears fall down her face, but they never get to that point. Watkins grows uneasy, nervous and restless as her cold hands trail from his structured face to his fragile collarbones. The woman traces gentle shapes and patterns into his skin like he's her canvas. However, whenever her fingers leave a piece of him, a trail of fire follows in its wake.
