Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
(a prologue)
Adia's dress is as red as the blood flowing through her veins. As red as her Charlotte Tilbury lipstick. It's as red as the sweet, fruity liquid in her glass.
Adia likes parties. She's a social butterfly, wings flapping in tune to the beat the of music pumping from speakers hidden in the corners of the room and words tumbling drunkenly out of her mouth as she talked to the person in front of her, twirling a piece of the girl's golden brown hair around her mocha coloured pointer finger.
Adia thought the girl before her looked beautiful, with her translucent blue eyes and long, wavy hair that Adia liked to run her hands through on lazy Sunday nights in front of the fireplace.
Whenever Adia thinks back on that night, bile burns her throat and her fingernails dig into her palms. Adia doesn't trust beautiful girls anymore. They have ways with words and make you believe that the acid dripping from their mouths is honey. Adia is smarter than that now and she refuses to be fooled by doey-eyes and cupid's bow lips.
