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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Then
Can you remember the cold morning of a weekday? When the sun was just filtering through and the duvets felt softer than the night before. You'll be tucked in a fetal position, oblivious to the world around you, even if it's for only moments.
I once feared to move on such mornings, like the protection and warmth my bed gave me would suddenly disappear at a single action. However, I couldn't move, maybe I didn't want to.
While I drowned in silence, my mind buzzed with thoughts and the haunting memories of that coffin. The stench even filtered through the scent of roses, they were the flowers Mal never failed to gift me with every three days. The white contrasted with the dark interior of the room. With the May wind, the curtains fluttered and acted as the only entertainment I could tolerate.
"Isabelle..." his voice was a soft whisper. Yet, I still flinched, only slightly though. I hadn't moved for weeks. Despite the reaction, I could tell he was happy to get something.
I didn't need to look in the mirror to know what I appeared as. I was only slightly propped up while I held a knitted blanket close to my chest. My hair was parted down the middle instead of to the side and I only wore one of Mal's old shirts.
I watched through fog glazed eyes as he sat beside me in his usual place. And carefully did he take my hand in his, somehow managing to uncurl my fingers from around the fabric of the bedding.
"Are you gonna go out today?" He asked, his voice almost inaudible as he raised a spare hand to caress my cheek in his palm.
Silence was his reply, just as always.
"Come on, let's hear that voice of yours" he continued to smile.
I could tell it was forced, a strain on his fatigued features, those that used to look so full of adolescence.
