Author Games: Red Room

Task One: Hunters of Artemis

Angela Belmont

Lively was the color green and livelier was the girl who bestowed it. It's effervescent hues put to shame all others. Such was this that Angela Belmont knew and loved. Loved, for the past is now all that can be told of such a woman. Angela, at the time a thriving girl in her second year of university, only a mere nineteen years old, held herself with regality despite her common status in life. She grew up middle-class, her family a working one, and stood at the crossroads between joining the workforce or running away forever.

That, as nice as it sounds, is only metaphoric--there was no road, nor was there a forever that could be found. Instead, there was a gritty bar that served the local university students. The dance floor flashed with rave lights, a Tuesday tradition, and she settled herself at the edge of it, twisting her body ever so slightly but not truly joining the roaring crowd. Her dress, made of one-hundred percent cotton, twisted with her.

There, green was a symbol of life. Of innocence. Of the kind of nature that set one's soul on fire and engulfed them in the seafoam flames of a world that was slowly disappearing under the ashes.

The ruffles on Angela Belmont's dress were a light green. In comparison, her cheapo-box-of-green-hair-dye color seemed too bright, too open, too revealing. Still, she relished in the light waves she'd created and the pastel flowers added a touch of gentleness to the shade that almost made it fit the dress she wore. White tulle lined the edges of the A-lined outfit, fluffing out the bottom half, and her corset remained tight despite her lung's wishes. The large white bow on the side tied the whole outfit together and served as a nice rest for her arms as she dwadled through the nightclub.

Green was the envy upon the faces of rebellious woman who wore tight dresses and showed off as much skin as they owned. Angela was not like them. She was a pure soul. One that wore lolita dresses when she partied, drank only the purest of fruit smoothies, and would never, ever, come close to a penis until after she'd married. The closest she'd ever gotten was that night, where she danced with her arms up, pale skin flashing the different colors of the nightclub, and had an aged man hold her waist and grind against her with a passion that rivaled all she'd seen before. He had a smooth voice, was clean-shaven, and had eyes that entranced her soul. One hand lifted from her hips--a girl rolled her eyes and turned away when she saw the spectacle--and gently placed it against her face as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ears.

Shivers ran through her as he whispered, "Meet me outside in ten minutes."

Then, like a midsummer ghost, he let go of her. There was a coldness where his body had resided, one that her body had not known it had been missing until his touch had faded into the night.

She could see the looks in the others at the club; Angela knew their thoughts as though they had all spoken aloud. It was in their eyes, their hateful eyes, that scorned her despite knowing nothing. They never knew anything. Still, their thoughts...

A whore!

She's a dirty slut, that's what she is.

Dressed like that? What the fuck is wrong with her?

Her cheeks burned, but she didn't let it get to her. Some people would never understand. Angela herself hardly did.

Innocence, just like the color green, came in many shades.

An ebullient energy overcame her, seeming to take up her whole chest, and she felt as though she might burst at the seems. Quickly, she ambled to the bar, ordered herself a rather tall glass of water, and drank it fast enough that her mind spun as the liquid coursed through her esophagus.