Malachai Parker wasn't the only person to massacre his family. Along with him was Isabelle Martin, a witch who held his hand along the way, letting him siphon painlessly.
You could say she was as crazy as he. Unable to see the destruction he truly...
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Out of mercy -a thing I considered very little- I plunged a knife into a thin form. Her body was practically deflating and the coffin stunk of the rotten aroma of man.
The look in her eye barely communicated anything, but her words were simple, nothing I would think she would say.
Thank you.
No longer could she haunt me. Because, she was right there, beautiful even if she was just hanging onto hope. After contemplating my toxic regrets, I pulled her from the coffin and returned her home. While blood stained her chest like rust, I carefully scrubbed her body, making the aroma of rose to plague her pale skin.
How would she even forgive me?
Her ribs were prominent and her veins visbale against her thin skin. Every bone clung to her flesh. And thankfully, it grew peach in colour as the blood returned to colour her corpse.
Isabelle Martin, my immortal witch.
While she laid soundly in our bed, I caressed her hand which was tightly held in my grip. Unconsciously, my thumb ran over her knuckles and my other hand found its way through her chestnut hair.
It felt like eternity until she finally woke. Her long lashes fluttered open, her blue orbs were expected to witness a new beginning once again. Her body returned to its seductive, plump shape and her rosey cheeks coloured my life, just like they did before.
However, she didn't smile, she didn't blink, Isabelle breathed in shallow breaths. The witch came awake and was born as nothing.
A shell of his girlfriend came to life, not his Isabelle Martin.
